Notes from the Red Bird House

I  want to not be "perfect". Oh, by no means do I believe I'm perfect. I'm decidedly imperfect, flawed even. I'm human. I do human things. I make mistakes, say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I fail quite often, more often than average. So, if I'm not perfect why do I not want to be "perfect"? After all, aren't I already there? Check it out - an unexpected success.  Not quite. The difference lies within the quotation marks. You see, they say I'm "perfect", insist on it actually. Regardless what I do or how much I stress the inverse, they cannot be swayed. Stacee Harris is "perfect". Perfect for them? I always ask. No, "perfect" period. And that's when the gray clouds begin forming and I pull out the egg timer. I can assure you with the absolute greatest certainty that my "perfect" is not perfect for them. How do I know? The egg timer. Once I am deemed "perfect" I have the half life o...

The Sounds of Silence People ask me why I'm not writing. I have several reasons. First of all, it's winter break and I spend enough time writing during the semester. Secondly, my computer has been sucking lately. Above all, though, I just don't like what I'd write. And I'm sure the ones asking after it wouldn't like it much either. I'm not in a bad place. I'm in a place. It's a familiar one. One that has me asking friends to remind me that I'm a survivor. Deep inside, I know I am. But in this place, I need the reminder. I need to hear it or read it in a text. I need someone to tell me that I've made it through before and I will again. Love is fickle. Not my love. My love is solid, sure, and unwavering. Until it has to become less solid, less sure, and waver a little. Mind you, it's never by my choice, the wavering. I do it for sanity. And to not seem overly pathetic. They make the choice, they become fickle and I am left with one ch...

I have been lucky enough to have two beautiful women call me 'the love of their life'. I have been unlucky enough that both chose other paths, paths that did not include me. I ask myself over and over again. Why? Why? Why? Why? Most people kill themselves trying to find great love and when they do, they grab on with both hands so it doesn't get away. And yet these two women, who said they couldn't live without me, are. I'm a forty-four year old realist and I know with the greatest certainty that there are only a few things a human being can't live without and none of them are another human being. Oxygen, warmth, food, water... These are the keys to survival. All that aside, I did (errantly) have the expectation that they would want to be with me. After all, doesn't everyone want to spend the rest of their life with the love of their life? I know I do. I'm a serial non-dater, so much so that I generally tell people that I don't date. It cuts nicely ...

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.