Notes from the Red Bird House

The problem is that I don't want my old life back. I want my girlfriend and my most recent life back. I know that may sound shocking given that my old life was good, damn good in fact. I could do what I wanted without ever checking in with anyone else. I only had one work schedule to worry about. My DVR wasn't full of 'Housewives'. I traveled. I watched a lot of tennis. I dreamed my own dreams. I planned my own life. I thought exclusively about me. See? Damn good life. So what's the problem? Why don't I just sidle back over to my old life and hit 'resume'? Yeah well... A strange thing happened. I found a better life. For five months and five days, I had a great life, a damn great life. By my math great beats good every time. Great was great. I have to say. Love, beauty, laughter, togetherness beat all. When they are with the right person, and they were. Time was short but it was perfect, as perfect as I can imagine it being. I loved it, her, and us ...

'Wake me up when it's all over.' When my tears have dried and my soul has found it's way. Right now though I'm not sleeping. Going on two days. I wish I could. I wish I could close my eyes to this nightmare and fall asleep. I wish many things. Above all, I wish I'd been right - that we loved each other enough to love each other through anything; that we were different; that we would survive; that we would do the work; that we would never break up. As jaded as I've been, that's as honest as it can be. I truly believed. Sounds pretty stupid and sunshiny optimistic, doesn't it? I believed in love - our love. Hers. Mine. Ours. And it was beautiful. We were beautiful. She more than me, but yes...beautiful. Now I long for darkness. Escape. Home. Sleep. Not just any sleep. Sleep with my hand touching hers. Sleep knowing that when I wake, she'll be there next to me. It, she, us, though, are no more.

It was game day so that meant pancakes. With the blueberry syrup. “Go Blue”. That's what he would write. With the syrup. On the pancakes. Three of them. Three pancakes. Never more than three. After breakfast, he'd work in the yard for a couple hours. Always in a t-shirt the opposing team's color. Minnesota meant maroon. Ohio State red. Michigan State green. Rake the leaves. Burn the leaves. Burn the t-shirt. Hang the flag. Represent. Shower. Dress in the current year's jersey. Or the old Brady one. That one was his favorite. They'd won a lot of games while he wore that jersey. And maize socks. Maize. It's not just another word for yellow. It's maize. As in Maize and Blue. Left sock and shoe first. He had to, if he wanted the Wolverines to win. He did so he did. With the pregame on the radio, he'd make the half mile trek to the party store. Coors Light for him, a six pack. Cans. Always cans. And never more than six. White wine for her. She couldn...

Sometimes I think maybe she was always there. Just waiting for me. Or maybe I was waiting for her. Maybe it was none of that or all of that. Maybe it was just coincidence. A really happy coincidence. She was there and I was there, so we were there. And because we were, we are. For everything I don't know, I know with certainty that we are. We are. One moment were weren't and then we were. And we still are. This is the miracle. Not that we were. That we still are. Nearly four months later. Four months. For me, but maybe not for her, this is rare, so rare that I can count the times I've been here on one hand. And in reality, I don't know if I've ever been 'here' before. So maybe we aren't a coincidence. Maybe we are what we were supposed to be all along, from the beginning. Our beginning. The beginning that came before we became us, when I was me and she was...well her. Separate. Yet maybe knowing somehow someday that we would be. Us.

I liked today. In fact, I've liked the last several days. Hmm... Let me count. Alright, I've liked the last week. The entire last week. Granted a week isn't a very long time, but I refuse to let that fact diminish my liking of it. A blind curve. I'd wanted one for so long - a change, a super cool, amazingly positive change - but I'd given up waiting for it. I drudged through work, school, writing, and tennis without ever knowing that in one moment, one teeny-tiny moment that nearly didn't happen, my life was going to change. It's nothing I wished for or imagined I could possibly want. Yet.... Suddenly, I found myself drowning in an unexpected and inescapable beauty. And blue. Yes, blue. A haunting, distracting, perfect blue that seemed hell-bent on reaching into my soul. I tried to look away. I did. But found I couldn't. I just couldn't. Beauty and blue. My downfall. And my fear. First instinct - Stay. Second instinct - Run. Decision - Head Fir...

'Judge not, lest ye be judged". I think I got that right. I suck at the Bible and as an atheist, I don't see myself getting any better at it. The phrase came to mind tonight and I'm going with it. If it's a misquote so be it. I don't worry much about being judged. Which is probably a good thing given that I've been judged a lot. A lot. A lot A lot. Because I'm this, I'm that. Because I do this, and shouldn't, I'm this, that, and the other thing. I should like men, accept Jesus Christ as my Savior, stop cursing, eat fewer donuts and more cheeseburgers, drink less or more (depending on one's perspective), live in a better neighborhood, like to read, drive a better car, stop sleeping with married women, be more ambitious, give to charity, blah, blah, blah. Keep in mind that I'm not breaking any laws. No one is saying that I should kill fewer people or steal less. Yet I am consistently and constantly guilty of something. What's the b...

I have a secret and I'm not telling. Not this time. This time it's mine. All mine. Well, I guess it's not all mine. Ok, so half of it's mine. She is free to tell. At least the part of the story that's hers. My story, my part... the part that I'm not telling, that's mine. My secret. I do love a secret. Mine, not other people's. Other people's secrets come with fear and worry and a bunch of what ifs. What if I spill it? What if I forget it's a secret? What if it slips out? What if I tell? What if I suddenly turn into a shitty friend? I don't like those secrets. But my secret... I love it. Because it's mine. My secret has power, it's own subtle yet insistent power. Sometimes it begs me to tell, but then what would I have? Nothing. The sly, denying smile would fade, the butterflies would flutter off. It's power would be gone. It would begin to tarnish. Someone would ruin it. So, I'm holding on. What's mine is mine. And r...