Is something better than nothing?
...written on 11.09.02, @ 11:12 p.m.
Mon November 4, 2002
She lightly touched her knuckles on the wood of his door, and quickly gulped at the "Hai!" that hailed the almost inaudible knock.
She held the card up in the light and stumbled over some thanking words. The card, beautiful . . . the handmade present . . . a treasure . . . the awkwardness of what to do next . . . strung tautly between them.
He let her in and bade her sit down in the center of his creation space. They worked together to translate the words into words, but the feelings needed no translation. He took his guitar in hand and looking deep into her eyes, sang them out to her. She became lost in many wonders and amazements.
The next day, another temerous knock and an invitation, brought him into her incensed lair alit with twinkling lights under papaya colored textures. Warm drinks, conversations of music and dreams won and lost and . . . the inebriating closeness.
:::insert the Ally McBeal scratching record sound effect:::
Would somebody puh-lease put me out of my MELODRAMATIC MISERY?! Yuck, I'm so disgusted with my writing these days. It's one of the reasons I haven't been updating as much. I just don't know what to do about it. Any suggestions? Get educated perhaps?
Anyway, the above said "creative project" has been brought to an abrupt halt by the initiator himself. It was fun for the three or so days that it lasted, leaving each other notes to find either before work (in my case) or after work (for him).
Maybe I spooked him (so what's new, Kim?), but I was very aware of each step because of the cultural differences and the language difficulties.
One morning on my door he left me a Johann Sebastian Bach cd with a note to enjoy it by candlelight. My next note said it would be even better if he joined me. His next note said he was embarrassed by my message, but "very glad", which I took as a green light, but then I got the note that had one too many "buts" in it with the last line being "Please follow me." So resigning myself to the skidding brakes, I left him the following poem:
Lead Me
Like the tides of the sea that grow with the moon,
Like the falling leaf that rides with the wind,
Like the compass that finds true North,
so will I, follow you.
Since then . . . nothing. The little wooden "bluebird of happiness" that I bought to hold our missives is perched on the rusty milk keg by the side of his door, it's clothespin beak empty.
And I ask, what was so hard? What is there to be afraid of? What did I do wrong?