love letter to bacon

Dear Bacon,

You know I love you. I love how you're there for me every morning, crispy and ruffled so pretty. You're in my thoughts when we're apart.. and there's nothing quite like when I see you sitting there, waiting for me....

But I have to tell you... I have been unfaithful.

It didn't mean anything, I promise! And I thought of you the entire time... mostly.

It's just I had a need; you weren't there. I don't mean that as blaming you, dear, salty Bacon, only that I was... weak. And needy.

I... gosh, this is so hard to say. I only ate the vegan enchilada.. and the rice and beans. (It brought friends! I couldn't be rude and not spend time with them, too!) It's not like what you and I share. Really. Yes, it was spicy and... different. Exciting, really...

But it was only once. And I thought of you.. towards the end (after the clean-up, but let's not dwell).

It's just that, well, Bacon, I can't have you all the time, you see. So as much as I love you (and I do!), I just can't have only you... any more than you can only have me.

See, I know that you let others eat you, and hot, delicious Bacon.... that's ok. I understand, I really do. And I want you to make others happy, if that's what makes you sizzle.

I do so, so love you, Bacon, and I think this could be really lovely for both of us. Maybe tomorrow morning, you could invite your friend, Eggs, to join us. And I'd *love* see you in a sandwich, all slathered and stuffed, hot and salty.

Please, strips of goodness, know that I didn't mean for it to happen this way between us... but I do love you, and hope you'll understand.

Me

flying overhead

clouds and birds
and hope and dreams
stars and planets 
and really big things
air and sky
and rain to be
flit and fly
linger over me

thunderstorms
and fireflies
fireworks
oh, me, oh, my!
puffy, fluffy clouds
and pots of gold
drift and draft
above my home

leaves and breeze
and wishes for things
ghosts and goblins
and creepy crawlies
campfire smoke
starlight gleam
glide, wander
waft beyond me

stars and snow
frosty, cold
beginning, end
and possibility
really very big things
countdowns and
hopes, dreams
flying overhead

jagged edges

i feel myself untangle
soft and subtle
just around the edges

it should bother me more
and i should find needle, thread
but time lingers
caressing, welcoming like a lover

and i'd rather just... season

once upon a time
there was more of me
lines clearly defined

but like velveteen

i was rubbed, softened
jagged edges blurred
joints loosened

now my ears flop
my mind changes
and slowly
surely

i untangle

post modernist romance novel

I’ve read romance novels to the point of gluttony. And I’ve learned a few things, universal truths about men in possession of fortunes, and women in want of men.

First, boy and girl have to meet. Boys see and want, girls fluster and flirt. Rarely do girls relish the nerves; they wait, as if they know the steps to the game, and the boys pursue.

Then the girl puts her foot down. Or life gets in the way. The girl grows up, earns some scars. Her body changes, her mind settles into itself. The woman reconsiders the boy she thought she knew.

The man watches, reconsiders, plots. They always end up together.

It’s romantic and usually I can eat it up with a proverbial spoon. It’s candy. Pretty, insubstantial, overly sweet candy. And I, like the women from the stories, lose out on the point.

See, somewhere between the first rush of nerves and the happily-ever-after, the insidious idea that all women are just waiting for the right man to come knock ‘em into bed still permeates romance novels.

And I hate the reason it does is because we all – men, women, injured, scared and fabulous – just want to be loved.

A new, could-be-amazing someone found me recently. He gets my weird and makes me think. We talk politics, and life choices. We geek out together. I know he likes his coffee, he knows why brown leather belts make me twitch. The nerves and excitement slides along so easily around and about everything, it’s hard to focus on anything not aligning with the magic.

It’s hard to keep my foot down when I’d so love to swept off my feet.

But there’s this thing I keep bumping into. Something not found in romance novels, and something I don’t always know what to do with.

I want to do the whole boy-meets-girl, girl-gets-flustered, boy-and-girl make out thing. I really do. Years have passed since my last long relationship; I’m due. Have broom, should sweep!

But nerves and needs happily ever after do not make. And reactions in passionate moments are great to read about, but suck to live with. Fabio doesn’t do windows, and my life? Honestly, I’d be sad if it read smooth and easy as a romance novel.

Three months ago, this girl waited for a boy to come around, to set her all aflutter and twitterpated. And then… her story changed. Somehow she got shuffled from a bodice-ripping, mind-candy-feasting intellectual into some weird post-modernist essay featuring a broken life with grace twittering around the edges.

Talk about your jarring transitions. But it’s working into a seriously cool story, something worth setting aside fantasy for; something matured and reconsidered. Kind of makes me wonder what happens after the girl falls in love with her own life.

last letter

Dear Jordan,

Our official time grows short as your birthday draws closer.

There’s so much I wanted to show you and tell you, so much that feels unfinished. It’s like I’m in college again, trying to cram information into a limited brain in even more limited time. Only, it’s not my head, and you don’t know the end of the year looms.

I’ve tried to write these letters as you are now. But sensing the end of our time, it feels as if more time passed than actually has. So, I’ll write you all the things I wish I’d known when I was facing hard decisions; in those times when life seems greyer, curiously with sharper edges.

First and always, doubt your doubts. You, as you are now, mistrust everything. Life started rough. And because of that, you expect people to be rough with you. You expect life, all of it, always, to be rough. Doubt that. Doubt that every day, every time you think it. Because you are worth being pursued as someone graceful and strong, some being fine and beautiful.

Doubt any doubt telling you otherwise. Because they are lies.

Fight to own your life. Because your life? It’s yours – the good, the bad, the rough, the all of it. You were given what you were given. But you can hold on to it… or you can not. Every day, you can choose to act, or not. You choose who to cling to, and who to disregard. Because you were given choice as part of this life you have. If you are faced with a choice, and one limits your life, makes you feel small – or makes you treat someone else as small, doubt that choice. Know this: even not acting is a choice.

Choose life.

Growing up sucks. It's hard. Anyone telling you otherwise lies, even if they think they’re granting a kindness. Living, maturing, being who you always could be hurts. The world fills to overflowing with people not brave enough to not deal with this fact. You can choose to be one of them. Or... you can choose not.

Good, worthy decisions challenge. They shave off fear from you. I wish it felt differently when it happens, but I promise it’s better afterwards. Do what scares you. Fear will be sacrificed, and life, beauty will bloom where darkness fractured.

Chase what draws you for no reason you can explain. Because in that place, all the really cool stuff happens. There, humans become noble creatures. There, souls glimpse a far, good country. There,  is life.

Never, never, never, ever fear to run the worthy race.

Scarred, scared, sacred Jordan. Doubt. Choose. Chase.

This is my soul’s prayer for you, since the day we met, until we meet again, every day between, every day after:

Hope lead you. Peace haunt you. Love confound you.

Your friend Amber