Cages and Animals

Walking outside to get the mail this morning, hoping to find a letter from Rhode Island, I came to an interesting conclusion about instinct and nature.  Skirting past the dogs who I had put out just a moment ago and were already tongue lolling and tail wagging to get back inside, I approached the gate, unlatched, and stepped out of, nudged out of the way suddenly by Spooner - MJ and Anth's six year old overweight spaniel mix, as he made a break for freedom.  Luckily, the husky little brown-grey sausage is easy to grab.  Luckier, my Seth is an obedient little mischief maker when he sees that I'm serious, or panicked, and he stayed where he was within the fenced yard as I pushed the pup back where he belonged, safe.  I breathed a sigh of relief before opening the mailbox, seeing that Rhode Island hadn't arrived, closing the now empty box, and moving back to the gate.  It's Monday morning.  I'll check again later.  Walking back inside and delivering the mail to the kitchen, the commonplace of all of us, it occurs to me that there are several different kinds of "animal," and I return to my fresh cup of coffee to muse over which I am. 
Opening the cage door, gate latch, partitioning veil, there is the one who will run for freedom, not caring what is beyond or what dangers lurk in wait.  I have been this animal before.  Briefly, I wondered if this was the animal I am now, but no - this is not me.  
There is the animal who waits patiently, excited for the possibility of another creature sharing its cage.  I can say with a laugh when I look at today's date and past journals, currently stacked and spread open about my desk, that I have, much to my embarrassment and pity, been this anima

There is the animal who cowers in fear in the back of the cage.  
There is the animal who growls at the intruder.
There is the animal that leaves the cage for a time, but wanders back to it, repeatedly insisting that the name of its cage is "home".  

Most of us are this last one, I think.  We like containers, naturally.  It feels wrong to link myself to that particular metal fence known as "we".  I'm not one who likes containers.  But, the cage is safe.  Maybe the dogs and I will take a walk today.  Maybe I'll have a third cup of coffee, do some laundry, and try to decide if I'm the kind of animal that should be caged.

The City of Bridges

Only a year ago I was asking myself what direction I should take my life, where I should go and by what means I would get there.  A year ago, I told myself that I wasn't ready to jump off the cliff into the ocean.  I was still cautious, still unsure.  That went out the window pretty quickly when Anth and MJ reminded me I'd always have a home with them and I realized I was ready for some spontaneity.  I was ready to make something of myself, apart from what I had maintained myself to be in the place I had grown to adulthood.  Is this adulthood?  A digression for another time.

A two weeks notice to my part-time-barely-making-it-job, a quick and hastily scheduled goodbye to my closest friends, bags packed and truck loaded, and before I knew it I was on the same road I had trekked in July of 2008, the first time I believed dreams could come true.  I was wrong then, and I'm likely wrong now, but I'm a bit proud of my insistence on trying, my temporary insanity.
The getting here was a story within itself, a nightmare of toll booths conspiratorially planned by Mapquest or Siri as soon as they were sure that I did not in fact, have any money on my person.  Traveling with a Tree, it should be noted with a sigh, is a breath of fresh air, no matter how frustrated he may have become.  I was relieved that it did not feel like goodbye.  And frightened.  But, relieved, mostly.  Cross that bridge when I come to it, I thought with windows down.  Let's forget temporarily that we were on our way to the city of.

A little more than a month ago, I wasn't aware I had any sense of adventure.  I did not know that I had it in me to run away.  I hadn't a clue that my survival instincts were about to be kicked into fight and flight.  That was, until Anthony asked me if anything was keeping me in Ohio.  Ohio, my lazy lover.  No, nothing was keeping me.  Especially not in my "nothing will keep me" crisis of twenty-four.  I'm not sure we ever consummated the relationship, anyway.  A clean break, full of tiny what-ifs that I'd prefer to ignore for now.  I am loving Pittsburgh in a very dreamlike - ah, deja-vu chills - sort of way.  Every moment feels right.  Wrong.  Right.  Wrong.  Mostly, right.  I've found, through various inquiries by strangers wondering about my impression of their beloved city, that it's hitting me in the same way that some people become interested in that person who is all wrong for them.  Pittsburgh is that guy with tattoos and ear gadges who rides his motorcycle without a helmet much too fast, and for some reason - I love the way he wears his jeans and that he never really smiles at me. 
On the other hand, there's a fair chance that Pittsburgh is trying to seduce me slow and gentle.  Storms have been regular.  Coffee has been delicious.  Bookstores are frequent.  My first Saturday alone I was in two different bookstores and three different coffee shops. Lawrenceville. Downtown Pittsburgh. Mt. Lebanon. I'm very happy overall, I tell myself and others, because after every adventure - my feet hurt, my legs are tired, and I'm content.  It's wonderful. 
Terrible, and worse. 
I am very afraid.  A hermit existing in a city.
Anthony told me once, several years ago now, that happiness was not something I wore well.  It's an itchy sweater in a cold room.
Ask anyone, they'll tell you, I'd rather shiver.

Crossing bridges, I wonder if I'm meant to burn any of them.  If so, where do I start?

A Tree whispered to me that I was free.  I think we both knew that wasn't true, for different reasons and some the same.  I wish I could explain to him my why.  Here's a start.  I woke up in a house alone, today.  Seth gave me a kiss on my cheek and stared at me a while.  I picked up my phone and noted two messages to respond to.  I thought of writing.  I thought of coffee.  But, before that, I noticed today.  Gray day, June the 30th.  Three years ago yesterday I bought the garment that hangs like an albatross in the basement.  "A love meant only for gods and angels.  And fairy tales," someone else wrote.  Crow caw.  Memory.  Remember.  Let go.

I have a second meeting scheduled with a tattooed young professional who's promised me a motorcycle ride.  His name means "battlefield."  This is significant.  Several days ago I met someone ten years older than I who told me I resembled a friend of his named "Morgan".  This is significant.  I have made one friend in this place, and have not ruined it, yet.  A reminder pops up on his phone as we're having lunch in a pizza shop in Dormont, "Is this a dream?"  This is significant.  As significant as the spaces and lines I have placed between myself and others.  I will not be building more bridges until I've crossed a few.  
Oh, hello, Pittsburgh, you're still here I see.  Second cup of coffee has grown a bit cold.  Let's see if we can use this smile I've been practicing.
 

Planting Trees

Cuyahoga Valley National Park; The Outlook

Running through side streets and across the town plaza behind the high school, there's a certain tree I nearly pass that reminds me of where I am, an "ah-ha" moment that gives me pause and makes me turn my body to the right, reach, and fondle a leaf between my fingertips.  I know the mountain on which my house is perched, the earth beneath my feet announces it no matter how distracted I am by the woods, the sky, or the howling of wolves, not far off. I know it, even though two nights ago when I approached the ascending ground, it was covered in rough foliage I could not pass.  Sure, I see the significance here, I know I haven't been caring for this space as I should, but there's a part of me that says - let's not clear the ground. I say, let the forest grow. Shield the house. At least I still know it's there. I do not need to see it, and I may forget the shape, the color, or size, but I'll know it exists.  No one else needs to.  If, by some chance, they see a glimpse and consider climbing, they may or may not be deterred by the overgrowth.  Of course, there is also the possibility that someone will realize in simple passing that with a mountain such as this, there must be something at the peak.  They too may climb.  Perhaps this is the significance of my recurrent meeting of rock-climbers.  I do love a man who at least acknowledges he climbs just because he can, because he wants to, for the climb.  Maybe those men will turn away when they find the house.  I would be relieved to know that, at least.  But, there's safety in these thorns.

Reverie is an island.  Not quite in the center of this island, farther to the West, there is a mountain.  On top of the mountain, there is a house.  There are several floors, walls, ceilings.  On the top floor, there is a bed in which I could sleep.  It's unmade, and boxes still fill the room.  I'll sort through it all one day.  If you move to where you'd think there should be a closet, to the right of the bed, you will find glass doors.  Behind glass doors, there is a patio with potted plants and furniture that needs a proper washing.  The chairs are stacked and gritty.  An outdoor area rug might make the concrete more inviting.  There are a couple cracks, but I don't want to look and see how deep the damage goes, not right now.  There are more stairs, to a raised picnic area.  There is no umbrella.  No one has sat at the picnic table.  When first I saw this patio and the sky above, it was storming.  The second time, I stepped out of behind the doors and I stood in a gentle rain.  One day, I will sit alone on this roof and I will gaze across the horizon.  If only I can make my feet move.  I might even patch some cracks.  For now, it's easier to walk the forests below and glance up now and then to be sure the house is hidden from view. 
What's that there?  A corner of the empty/full house, on the mountain, on the island?
I suppose I should plant another tree.

Masks

So it is, like some Sparrow's "so it goes," just as you said it would be.  Life, ha, it goes pretty easy on me, most of the time, but I still can't take my eyes off of you.  There's a shorter story, but the longer one is shared in a glance between us, or in a friend who watches us, remembering too.  It's almost a shame that your lover does not know about our Lakota summer.  I see sunshine golden brown pancakes on the stove and you smiling at the kitchen table, no doubt glad you're sitting with the ceiling as low as it was in that green house.  The wind came through the window, and there was something so very timeless about our moments, then.  Did I say that I loved you?  I can't remember the words coming out of my mouth.  Forward.  I see you on that hill, by my grandma's house, the one that is today in the final stages of selling.  Have I told you?  About $15,000 for each of the six daughters.  No one likes to talk about what we take from a settlement.  No one likes to talk about this:  I see you watching children play with their father, a cousin of mine.  I see you dreaming, and I knew then that I wanted children.  Yours.  You destroyed me for anyone else's dream.  Maybe nothing goes as planned.  Maybe people just say goodbye (in their own special way).  It's funny, I think we were still holding hands, then, when we were told that some things just stay in your veins.  Did I say that I loved you?  Do you remember the whisper of breath between us, your chest to my back, our bodies trembling because of the steps we were not taking?  This is still in my veins.  Oh, you run away.  No.  You got me there.  I was the one who ran.  I ran past Venice fountains.  They were empty, if you'll recall.  And we, we bought masks to hide truth.

Gypsy Soul

"What is it you think you're waiting for?" a stranger asked me, the other day, eleven minutes past midnight.  An echo of Rachel's voice in a minute hand of a clock.  No one will understand but her, and she'll never know.  She's somewhere else, a text message away, one that will remain "delivered," but never actually reach her.  It's better this way.  Better this way.  I'll nod to that and pretend I believe it.  Most of the time, I actually do.
I'm waiting for something to shake me, I told the stranger. I think, with a degree of knowing, that I'm going to lose my footing, maybe stumble, maybe fall.  These things are coming for me.  Hunting me.  These are all good things.  There may be elation, there might as easily be despair, but there will definitely be inspiration. I think it'll come like one of those storms you're not sure whether it'd be better to dance in or run from, and I think I'll dance.
He told to me to make sure that I did dance, and I added another tally in the column for freedom.

I feel like I'm sitting in a dark, silent room, and the thing is, I'm not brave enough for the words I want to say to fill that silence or to acknowledge to the awareness of others that I am present.  I'm not strong enough for the adventures I want to have, or even to look at them or for the possibility of them.  But, I have become, by some grace, reckless enough to jump as if in order to see what I do when I haven't a choice in the matter.

Coconut coffee and vanilla creamer flavors my tongue and my feet are still tingling and grass stained from mowing the lawn barefoot around two this afternoon.  I feel these things.  I may not feel anything else for a while, but these are tangible.
My mother and I discussed shame this morning as I sipped hazelnut coffee, black, in Ohio and she gulped down her cream and sugar in Georgia.  She hides, she told me, beneath covers, and she hates herself during - or after.  And I love her for the fact that she can at least get farther than I can.  This gives me hope.  I don't understand why we hide from the expression of our physicality.  I do understand.  I don't understand.  I have a tree I'd like to ask, but I don't have the energy to sort through another's thoughts.  Or to sort through why it is I'm so much more distant, now.  He said I'd be a fool if I refused him.  Please don't give me the chance to show you that I am a fool, sweetheart.  If you'd ask, I'd run, and we'd both write.  Let's save the pain for another day, I think we're good for now.  I have plenty on reserve, and he's not a storm.  He's a tree that sways, as if dancing, somewhere else.  I like it that way.

Meanwhile, it's storming in Georgia and my little sister is getting married.
  
Orion has turned twenty-seven, and I make a wish silently that it's a good one, visualizing a juxtaposition of another morning, one with him, over the one I spent alone.  The Tree almost scolds a, "You still actively miss Austin?"  I laugh to myself.  Darling, I couldn't begin to explain it to you.  I miss the man for who he was, apart from me.  I enjoyed him, constantly.  We may not have fit, but I still smile when I picture him dancing in his kitchen or as we folded laundry together in his living room before he'd tackle my dog or give me a smile that would flip my stomach.  I miss him.  The only reason I do not contact him is for the same reason I do not send a message to Rachel and suggest we see each other once more before I leave.  I'm not sure there are adequate words for it.  But, it's better this way.  Yes, that.  I believe it, too, right now.

It all comes back to you.  This isn't for who you think it's for.  Or maybe it is and I'm slow on the uptake.  Regardless, I'm leaving in ten days.