An Ode to My Shoes

An Ode to My Shoes:

It's impossible to say whether or not you still loved me or not when you gave me them two Christmases ago.

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.. until a misplaced, 

  ill-timed,  

    poorly put-together joke fell flat on the sidewalk as we strolled

-- fast-paced and sure-footed --

down the steep street that led us away from my home.

My mind traced through the memories.. 

Slithering snakes through a maze of thick-thatched, barred and barricaded half-remembered truths.

Your gifts -- masquerades attempting to pass off as some sort of affection.

Guilt-laden apologies for the lack thereof.

It was my fault for not noticing sooner.

For taking gifts at face value.

For not understanding that the hugs were hollow.

Words were wanting.

Kisses like corpses --

Cold.

Lifeless.

Waiting for a breath of fresh air to stimulate the skin,

  reanimate the soul,

    and remind you of that feeling you thought you felt so long ago.

An Ode to My Two Feet:

Carrying me swiftly, sweetly from one universe to another.

Fast-paced,

Sure-footed,

Callous-strong.

Clad in these two solid shoes.

A gift of a ghost of loves past

and the promise of a destination to come.

What Does Your Body Remember?

The touch of your skin, for one.

The humidity of the night.

The sweat caught between the fold in the back of my knee and warmth of your thigh.

The tangle of arms and legs and miscellaneous us.

When we woke, we could feel the change in the air.

The breeze.

The promise of cool and the sweet smell of moisture.

As I motioned to grab something to cover up with, your hand stopped mine.

Our fingers intertwined and you motioned toward the ladder.

We scrambled down from the loft.

The wind was stronger outside.

Blanketing.

Wild.

The sky swirled black and grey.

A rumble of thunder shook the bare souls of our feet.

The tickle of grass between my toes.

A flicker of lightning in the distance.

We could feel the storm coming.

The warmth of your arms wrapped around me from behind.

Your head laid atop my own.

The clouds, the rains, the storm. ..

Approaching.. 

Approaching.

The first soft droplets of precipitation on my arms.

Thin sporadic tears.

On my legs. My bare belly.

Then harder, faster, fatter.

The wet, the warm and the cool all at the same time.

My hair clinging to my face.

Your laugh ringing in my ears.

Your laugh shaking my body with yours.

And we waited in the rain.

Until it felt as if our skin was soaked through and through.

Until we ran laughing for the shelter of the shed.

My Body Remembers.

Commute

My street is quiet. Rows of houses empty in the afternoon lull. Birds sing along the tree-lined road. The sun basks down and I realize it's already too warm for the light sweater I donned earlier.

I shed my hoodie in front of the local comic book store. I tuck it in my messenger bag as I pass the beekeeping store on my block. Two unique chickens roam outside its door. One, speckled white and black with an impressive mane, pecks at the leavings from the coffeshop next door. The other, caramel and beige with showy fluffy feathers covering its claws like fancy fur boots, clucks at me as I pass.

I turn right onto Mission and the avenue is already bustling with people. A familiar aroma hits me but is not immediately recognizable. My stomach rumbles, even though I already fed it mere moments before. As I continue my route, the smell intensifies. Oil and crispy fried chicken.

Outside Popeye's, a woman sells large over-ripe avocados. She sits on this corner every day with her basket full of produce. "Dos dólares por cinco!" she cries. A man on the opposite corner eats one of her avocados whole, biting at the bright green flesh.

In front of the Wells Fargo, a man strums his guitar and sings about Buddah. He tries to entice us with fresh orange slices in the hot heat. They look like they've been sitting for hours.

At the corner of 24th and Mission a man with a microphone and a small amp shouts at passerbys. "Somos pecadores!" he shouts. The crowd moves blissfully unaware. "Dios es nuestro Salvador!"

I get caught at the light on 24th and South Van Ness. A customer waits patiently a few people ahead of me. When the walk-man appears, I hang back and change my gait to be a bit slower. I savor the last five minutes of quiet before I get thrown into a fervor that is Philz Coffee.

As I near the store, more familiar faces recognize me. We smile politely. I wave.

... And I walk into the busy and bustle of Philz.

Fenway in the Rain

As we arrived at the gate, the clouds draped grey, thin, and ominous above us. A chill hung in the air, biting at the thin cardigan draped over my shoulders.

After the search of our bags and the scan of our tickets, the group split - the boys headed to scour the park for jerseys, hats and other various knick-knacks to bring home, Michelle and I stopped square in the middle of everything, drinking it all in as game-day fans weaved in and out and around us. The allure of the concession stand beckoned, even though our stomachs were still heavy with the local Boston fare eaten just minutes before. Michelle smiled her striking wide smile, showcasing the brilliant white teeth of a dentist’s daughter. “I’ll buy you a beer!” she grinned. With barely a moment’s hesitation, I accepted.

Beers in hand, fingers gripping the thin plastic cups that barely separated our already cold palms from the chilled Miller Lite draft, we perused the red sox memorabilia and souvenir gear from the outside looking in. ‘No food, No drinks’ plastered across every door. With over an hour ‘til the first pitch we decided to check out the field itself. We entered at bleacher 30 and headed straight toward the diamond. ever curious, we bee-lined closer and closer to home plate, dodging ticket checkers with determined looks and self assured gaits. Within feet of the field, we watched mesmerized as the grounds team carefully raked, painted and dusted the diamond in Zen-garden-like fashion.

The clock neared 7 and we navigated towards our seats. back, back further, up and up further until we reached the next to last row where our identically clan companions awaited. Bart, Justin and Kevin all donned bleach-white red sox jerseys and sat expectantly like excited ducks in a row.

Our seats were small and close together. Our view all-encompassing. The vendors traversed the aisles calling out their specialties in their trademark Boston accents: “Peanuts!” “Lemonade!” “Hawt dawgs!” The clouds began to break and sprinkles of rain caused me to throw on my rain slick. Michelle got out her umbrella and covered the both of us in what we started referring to as our “little house.” we cheered for our favorite players. We boo’ed for our least favorite plays.

In the aftermath of a few beers, I started to crave pizza, fries and more beer -- all things not offered by our convenient aisle vendors. About to give up hope, I finally spotted a man with a wide heat-proof pizza box on our stairs crying “Pizza! Pizza!” Excited, Michelle and I chipped in to share a small personal pan which we devoured quickly and absolutely. The melted cheese and tomato sauce pleased my palate. Satiated, we hunkered down in the cold of the rain. Our arms intertwined, we huddled together and shivered in time to keep warm. “We’re like the Cherokee heart beat,” Michelle mused, reminiscing on our visit to the recreated Indian village. “Bum bum. Bum bum. Bum bum.”

In the seventh inning, with the home team down 8 to 2, Michelle and I decided to head for warmer grounds and, accompanied by Kevin, took leave of the ballpark.

The rain misted the tops of our rain hoods as we walked away from the lights, the cheers and the fans of Fenway.

Things

Sometimes I look at pictures of my own apartment, my own things.. and I don't recognize them.  I wonder, did they change while I've been gone?

Have I?

5-hour Blink of an Eye

The alarm rings. 

5:30 AM.  

Pitch black.

The stranger in the bed across the mediocre hotel room shuffles and turns over.  I grab my jeans and contacts and navigate blindly to the bathroom.  

Close the door.

Flip on the lights.

My widely dilated pupils shrink quickly. I shut my eyes for respite.

Brush my teeth.

Wash my face.

Slow zombie movements.

Back in the room, the open bathroom illuminates my things.  Grab my bag.  My laptop.  Wallet.  Keys.  The stranger shuffles again.  Loaded up, I close the door behind me.

Outside, the air still holds the chill of last night.  The sunlight dim over the haze that covers the El Segundo parking lot.  Electricity hums loudly in the wires hung overhead.  Dew lays lightly on the skin of the fellow vehicles  in the lot.  

I load up and jump into the driver's seat.

Lights on.

Slide into gear.

Foot to pedal.

Go.

Lovesick for Wanderlust

The itch is back.

It starts in the back recesses of my brain and hides out in the corners of the dreams that I can just barely remember.  You know the kind; the kind you wake up from abruptly, where the trails of places you just were and people you were just speaking to are just out of reach.

Itch.

The thoughts soon start to flicker into my day-to-day.  Looking out a San Francisco bus window, I close my eyes for a second and see the swaying palms and endless fields of sugarcane.  I blink and see dust flying off dirt roads -- Jeepneys to my left, rice spread out and drying on tarps by the side of the road. 

Itch.

I get an IM from an old friend.  “This is going to be the most epic year.” Our first communication in five months. “Details!” I prod, “Do tell!”  And he lays out for me the bare bones of his ambitious travel plans for the year: tour of Mexico, stop-over in Hawaii and an extended exploration of Australia.  The pangs of jealousy pull at my heartstrings.  I can literally feel the strain. I can see the smile in the words he types. 

Itch.

A skinny tall boy with dirty blonde hair invades my dreams when I least expect it.  When I awaken, my heart is heavy with a loss, a yearning.  I used to think, for some reason or another, my subconscious couldn’t let go of that fleeting relationship.  That because it was so short and imperfect, my neurons couldn’t get enough of it.  Only later did I realize that this boy was merely a symbol. His form hinting at a time when I first realized I could drop everything and just go for it. His slight shadow haunts my REM sleep, alluding to everything that’s out there to explore.  Adventure.  The unknown.  I’m not heartbroken for the boy who played with my trust; I am lovesick for wanderlust.

Itch.

           

June 2007 - 24 years young. My fingers wear grooves in the steering wheel of my ’98 Civic as I drive cross-country. The backseat is heavy with what remains of my worldly possessions. Stacks of printed out Google maps occupy the passenger seat, creased from consternation, torn from abuse. I’m bright eyed and ambitious, looking forward to an unknown destination with unknown companions.

August 2007 - Black Rock desert. Accompanied by my CouchSurfer host and friend of 3-days, his campmates and the 2 boys in the camp by the main “road,” I explore a city filled with dreamers and vagrants.  My borrowed duct-taped bike with back-pedal brakes leads me dark into the vast open desert.  Out of nowhere, a looming work of art appears in the distance and I change my heading, pulled like a needle to North.  I sit cross-legged in the dust of the Playa and watch the lights, surrounded by like-minded travelers adorned in costumes and glowsticks.  We glow.

August 2008 - Back of a Tuk Tuk. We ride, our fingers intertwined, in the open-aired, three-wheeled vehicle weaving in and out of traffic. The smog of the city invades my lungs.  To the left, a gold plated temple peaks above thick white walls.  To the right, street-food - vendors with rice noodles, soy sauce, fish on sticks, octopi, and balls of rice.  The swirl of aromas is almost overwhelming.  Josh’s eyes are drinking it all in.  His heart, too, hungry for new. Hungry for next. Hungry for now.

November 2008 - Alone on in a hammock. Overlooking the beach, I lay alone. He is not far in distance, but is still far. “Looking up at the underside of the palm tree,” I’ve said numerous times, “means you must be in paradise.”  And as my hammock sways in the slight tropical breeze of the land of my birth, I am in paradise.  But lost, at the same time.

November 2009 - City by the bay. Here we are carving out a life in San Francisco. Fleeing the Midwest once again and driving cross-country without a home awaiting on the other end.  Without jobs.  Without knowing a soul except each other.  The trees were green when I drove across the California border.  The air was fresh and I drove with the windows down.

Itch.

Now I am sitting at desk. 
I am filling out spreadsheets, I am screening my phone calls, I am counting down the minutes ‘til 5:00PM.

And there’s this itch at the back of my head. 

Buried in the recesses of a dream I can just barely recall.