Second hands tick,
the incessant sound of time passing
yet, time seems to stand still.
What feels like a year,
is simply a collection of days,
falling into a pattern of weeks.
The metronome of life
chimes steadily in my head,
gently reminding me
how slowly time can pass.
But time marches on
and, even though it feels like an eternity,
the perpetual movement of time
always pushes forward.
~~
Spelling mistake aside (because it is an inside joke), the subject line of this post refers, in both parts, to a lively conversation I was a part of at the dinner table last night. The age-old debate of whether men and women can really be friends circled around the table and the argument became quite animated. There was a noticeable divide between those who thought men and women could be friends and those who thought the dynamic of sexual, or chemical, energy disrupted any potential of a platonic relationship.
Since I have many cohorts of the male persuasion (sans benefits), I was vehemently arguing the fact that men and women can, indeed, be friends. And now, as I sit in my darkened living room writing this post, it is difficult to have a Star Trek movie in the background talking about “Nebular penetration” as I argue for the chastity of an idealistic friendship. However, it is a fitting continuation of my earlier conversation.
Perhaps I am slightly obtuse when it comes to reading signals, but I am relatively confident that I am able to decipher whether or not a man has intentions beyond a nonphysical affiliation. I have always had male friends and I have never had the slightest doubt that those male friends see me as just that, a friend. But some of my litigious dinner companions made every effort to dissuade me.
Our conversation became heated at times but we continued to volley the notion of platonic friendships back and forth until the strings on our metaphorical racquets unraveled. We eventually had to concede the match and nobody was declared the winner.
I came home with the same point of view I had during our impassioned debate. I truly believe that men and women can be friends – no strings, no ulterior motives, no hidden agendas. Convincing the others involved in that discussion may be a no-win situation but I will continue to maintain my opinion and defend it with all the intensity I can muster.
So now, I have to ask…..where do you stand on this debate? Can men and women just be friends?
My curiosity ignites.
My burning question is nourished
purely by the fuel of my deep desire
to know,
to experience,
to feel the brush of romance
on the canvas that is my skin.
My heart burns
with a yearning
to find you.
~~
The glow burned my eyes but I couldn’t take my gaze from its mesmerizing emanation. It stood like a sentinel, guarding my emotion. Although it was a single flame, that lone candle represented the one person I wished was here with me.
If the pungent stench hadn’t first assaulted my senses, the tiny footprints in the remnants of snow on my deck would have led me to believe that a small feline intruder had been in my entrance way and left its fluidic calling card.
I am no stranger to the repugnant smell of cat pee. I have suffered before and was doing it again as the essence of the foul beast breached the sanctity of my nasal passages and made its way into my throat. Before my morning vision had even the slightest chance of coming into focus the very solemnity of my home, as well as my olfactory nerves, had been violated by my neighbor’s cat.
Now, before you judge me on the basis of these words, I do not dislike cats. I appreciate their ability to be detached yet affectionate. I admire their commitment to their sense of self. And I applaud their propensity to be indifferent and intrigued at the same time.
That being said, I do take offence to a four-legged creature of the non-canine variety befouling a room in which it has no business being present. Cats do not, and will not, live in my home. Allergic reactions aside, I have a colored past with these anciently domesticated beings and, in putting my differences aside, I have come to the realization that we make better strangers than friends.
I have repeatedly admonished my dog for wanting to run into the neighbor’s yard when she sees this territorial interloper, but I have since rethought my initial position. My dog is merely protecting the rightful place that is her shelter. She is simply defending her home against enemies, feral or domestic. And she is attempting to preserve my nose from the offensive fragrance of future feline fearlessness.
I used to be a very patient person. I was never fidgety while waiting in a line. I knew my turn would come eventually and I was okay with that.
As the years have passed, I now understand where my mother was coming from when she used to say “my patience is wearing thin”. Perhaps it is somehow a right of passage that we are less apt to wait today than we may have been a couple of decades ago. My patience these days resembles something like the onion-skin paper we used to trace pictures when we were in high school.
There are still moments when I am okay to wait, moments that are fleeting and that I know will pass relatively quickly. But I am currently caught in a circumstance where I feel completely helpless and have no choice but to sit back and wait for information to come to me. I feel horribly powerless and that is not a feeling I am accustomed to experiencing.
It’s hard to let go. It’s difficult to convince myself that things are going well at the other end when my imagination continues to conjure hundreds of possible scenarios. And my lack of patience only fuels the fire of anxiety as I am forced to bide my time until I get some news.
Until then, I shall consume myself with projects to try to keep myself busy enough so I can quell the even more impatient creative writers in my head. My own restlessness is hard enough to deal with….they will make this waiting period intolerable.
I do not consider myself to be a “food snob” but there are certain things that are either right or wrong when it comes to the kitchen and food preparation. Sure, bastardized versions of many dishes have been made popular over the years to appease the increasing number of dietary restrictions, but there is one thing that I find offensive if it is messed with and that is spaghetti.
One of my dear friends shared a story with me (mainly because he knew I would lose sleep over it) about “the incident” that may haunt me for the rest of my days.
We are both twirlers. We take great pride in reaching into that steaming bowl of pasta with a fork and twirling that spaghetti, either on a spoon or in the bowl, until a pleasing mound of pasta is gathered in a beautiful spiral pattern. There is something very fulfilling about the twirling process and the effort to twirl makes the reward of the first bite that much better.
It was a day like any other. He had been out working in his shop and could almost smell the pungent aromas of tomatoes and spices wafting through the air. As he neared the house, the scent of the sauce was accompanied by the fragrance of a fresh baguette, lathered in garlic butter, toasting in the oven.
She was there to greet him with a glass of wine and, as he got cleaned up from his day, she then busied herself getting the table ready for dinner. He was eager to sit down to a heaping bowl of what he thought was going to be a fantastic meal. Once he had seated himself at the table, she presented a bowl that looked very similar to this:
What promised to be a meal fit for a King turned into a meal fit for a toddler. I can only imagine the amount of time that elapsed while he gaped at the bowl in front of him, trying to be appreciative of her efforts but not commenting aloud about the egregious choice she had made. She had sacrificed everything that is good about spaghetti and had broken the noodles into bite-size pieces.
He felt the harness tightening, encasing him in the invisible high chair in which he now felt trapped. He repressed the urge to turn into that toddler and throw the bowl to the floor while he struggled to come to terms with the embarrassment those noodles must have felt. He suffered in silence along with them as he spooned the unrecognizable pasta into his mouth.
Years later, I now suffer, not so much in silence, with him. A law of nature was twisted that day – the day the spaghetti broke.
He put his arm around my waist,
pulled me close,
and whispered the word ‘mine’.
I didn’t feel like an object,
I felt protected, loved.
Locked in his embrace,
I felt I was where I should be.
Unlike who I had been,
I let myself feel vulnerable.
I let him take control.
I let the strength of his embrace
assuage any fear I felt.
I just let him love me on his terms.
I curled into him,
and let everything else go.
Because, in that moment,
nothing else mattered.
People do strange things when they are under stress. In the worst case scenario, their judgement is clouded and their choices are made without the benefit of having time to weigh the pros and cons to be able to formulate an informed decision.
On the odd occasion, people have very good intentions but they have terrible execution. Although they may have a reasonable amount of time to assess a situation, their emotions cloud their abilities to think clearly and they make bad choices. Their objective becomes distorted and they lose sight of the most important part of the predicament with which they are faced. It is a simple human error and one that could be so easily avoided.
Conversation is the backbone of any relationship and honesty is the tissue that protects that backbone. With neither of those things, human affinities will never have the strength to stand on their own. There is much to be said for direct communication. And, even if the exchange of information is uncomfortable, it is a necessary tool to build a strong foundation of trust and understanding.
For the most part, people do mean well. There are moments when they lose themselves in trying desperately to find a solution without first understanding the entirety of the situation. Their concern impairs their objectivity and they believe that they are acting in the best way possible. But sometimes, they just need to take a moment to breathe – to step back and think to themselves “how would I want someone to react if I were in that situation?”. And just maybe that one small step backwards will take them leaps and bounds ahead of where they were.
polysyllabic profundities 