Days pass with hours mixed in, sometimes I think you’ll step in and stop it all. Progressive drum beats provide the soundtrack to you being a part of me and the days we swayed together in the sunlight.

There are times when I think of nothing but the joy; making giraffes out of cardboard and glue, mixing drinks, being each other’s DJ, and laughing all the while. It all seems so fantastical now, as though then we were able to shoot rainbow beams around restaurants and bars and make our joys contagious. There was laughter everywhere, except in the silence. In the silence there rested a nice warm hug wrapped around us just tight enough that it protected from the chill of reality without suffocating life.

Events are a time-line laced around my brain, unpeeling, slowly and randomly. I have been struck with a particular moment since the glory of our flying days: at the sound of a glass of wine spilling your voice echoes in my head. As I follow my instinct to grab a towel, the mauve spreads along the tiles and refuses to be contained, and I see you shrug your shoulders with a grin saying “fuck it, leave it, it’ll be there later”.

Then I hear the words I said to myself over and over as it was all happening “this is what you wished for.” Before I know it I am balancing through the spinning carousel of reality taking in the freshness of it all and preserving these new moments in the finest detail.

The day is poking me. Going hey, hey, you. You can’t escape me. Even if you think you have, I will be back tomorrow, with a different name, sure, but my soul will be the same as it has ever been, and ever will be. 

You can run to another block, flee to another country, launch yourself into space, and float along with the sparkling stars. But I will be there, in your mind, swimming around, whistling, poking your wrinkled brain, waiting for you to get it, to do it; connect your heart to me and let your choices click like the snap of a twig.

They’d known each other for over ten years. Yet, she could never bring herself to admitting to liking that band he hated. Their music only played in the background of their relationship randomly on the radio; and when it did she didn’t have it in her to tell him: I really like their music, I know it is kitchy, and terrible, and based on catchy melodies that don’t have much merit, but that is what makes it good, so fuck it, I like’em.

They still talked regularly, and although there was substance to it all, it was never the same as their glory days. The ones full of whiskey and laughing and grilled meat and more whiskey and more laughing, and eventually tears over the whole state of humanity and whether or not there was even a point in going on.

Lately she had fevered dreams full of people from the past and he played a main character. They’d be in a grocery store examining tomatoes, wondering how far the farm they were picked from was, and that band would come on. He would shake his head in disgust, as she secretly tapped her pinky on the edge of their shopping cart with a hidden smile.

They had a reunion eventually. It happened over sandwiches and beer, with sunshine peeking through the clouds, and a slight breeze smelling of seaweed. Reflection on shenanigans from high school was the main topic. Drunken dance parties were discussed, and in the middle of it all, that band he hated so much echoed through the patio. She began singing along and dancing. She never danced, other than those fabled drunk-induced parties. He stopped eating his ham on rye and looked at her, as though he’d been sprayed by a skunk.

Suddenly and with intention, she smiled at him bigger than when they had had their happiest moments, feeling the release of melatonin and meditation that happens when you are are truly yourself. Her wacky dance stopped and she let the beat of her heart bounce around as laughter filled her lungs.

She said to him, in a bubbly voice full of no regret, this is one band I love and I know you hate, and that kind of makes me love them even more. We were always so honest with each other about everything possible, and this was my little secret. Like I made you a cake you wanted to hate, and I knew once I brought it out you’d change your mind. You just wait, next time you hear this band you’ll love it, and you will always smile. And that will be that. 

Write it down they say. Okay, I always reply. 

Taco Bell is where I went for lunch today. When my order was ready the employee who called out my order asked if I would like any sauce, I said yes and asked for some fiery along with the green. Georgianna said “getting the green?” and I told her it was because of this very person handing me my food that I was even asking for it, that he had introduced it to me when I said no to salsa my last visit (this being due to my having ordered the limited edition Double Decker Taco that had two foods as the glue between the hard and soft shell; the limited “glue” being cheese sauce. I didn’t want any salsa added because it was already messy enough and had so much delicious flavor, salsa would overkill it). So I said no to his offer of sauce, and he was apparently so used to everyone taking as much salsa as possible, he assumed I did not care for the flavor. He decided to test this theory by offering me the salsa verde packets instead, which I could not pass up the instant the words came out of his mouth. Once I knew this existed I had to have it, and so I said sure. 

Saying yes to this salsa verde was a great decision, one of my most proud. It tastes amazing and makes their ground beef infused with sand, or dirt, or whatever makes it mysteriously delicious and filling, taste better than ever before. 

And today I found myself picking up a bag of tacos and there he was, that wonderful mid 50s, stout, perhaps Mexican, employee calling my name and asking if I would like salsa. This time I knew the answer, better than any test I’d studied for, and firmly stated yes to the fiery and the green. As soon as he (he being Guillermo in the Taco Bell on Polk St.) heard me say to Georgianna that he was the one responsible for me finding out their salsa verde was delicious,  he curved his lip into a warm smile and let his moustache crinkle into his nostrils, while leaning down on the counter. He spoke in a hushed tone, ready to reveal the secret to having a successful life. 

We instinctually leaned in, and the words he spoke will forever live in my mind:

I like to offer the people the green sauce, they don’t know about it until then. You know, when we get the salsa it comes with one box of red and one of green. People didn’t ask for the green for so long, and one day I saw that we had three boxes of green, and only one of red, so I started to offer it to customers (his voice became low and hushed)…and they keep coming back for it. It is so good, like home made. You can put it on anything and it makes it taste wonderful.

Fact: Guillermo is absolutely correct, this salsa verde is amazing. 

And so it happened. Faster than she thought it possible, she was set to be married.

“ENGAGED.” The word scared her.

She decided it was best to not think of it. There was a good year until it happened. Then her sisters began to drop by with samples of fabric, bouquets of flowers, small samples of food.

All she wanted to do was run. Run to somewhere cheap, inefficient, unofficial. Somewhere they could find a closet in which to hide her. Somewhere with no satellite signal. Somewhere that would not result in her walking down “that” aisle. Somewhere where no one would care if she were married or had children. A place she could wear a coat, or tank top, and no matter what the weather, no one would question it, because it always made sense.

Making decisions, FINAL DECISIONS, was never part of the plan. Those ideas were always “out there,” in the very, very, distant future. “All futures are near if you live in the moment,” her friend repeated as the days passed.

Seasons flourished. She went from loving fall to accepting winter, then embracing spring. Spring is when it was to happen; when all these apples were to fall from one tree in a day and fill a basket, then not rot until a good fifty or so years passed. The whole notion was ridiculous to her, yet she was so scared of the unknown that she said yes to it all, and with enthusiasm. Laughs were louder than usual, smiles wider, the sounds of her stereo blared with joy as the day came nearer and nearer. And she sat on that porch, resigned to it all, ready to be eaten by that cheetah hunting her in the brush. She would sway in that chair and stare at the imperfections on the edge of the building across the way, as the clouds danced around it, with no notice.

The day came, it passed. There were clouds full of light, bright air, along with tears full of joy and love, and water. The skies crashed down as the tears fell, and a dance party erupted in the multi-purpose room. Lights strobed, and smiles were held all night.

But she. She ended the night on a bench made of marble, alone. He danced away inside with his relatives at the joy of a new union, sacred and meaningful, as she swung her feet in the shape of infinity.

He was here to write a travel guide. He wanted a good feel for the city. Next, he was to write about Portland, for now, he was here.

I met him while he was “On Assignment,” as he said, oh, so, professionally.

He was taking pictures of seagulls and tourists, that looked like a pile of trash and rummage they MUST own.

We walked. It was sunny, and warm, nearing 70. He said he spent most of his time in “other” countries, as though our own gigantic one was not enough land mass, or variation, for him.

We ended up in a bar. He ordered beer, me vodka soda. He made it clear tomorrow was his last day here, I shook my head in agreement, and joy, while exclaiming ” that is just what I was looking for!”
I NEVER go out alone, because what is happening RIGHT NOW is something I think will NEVER HAPPEN, but it IS happening.

He was tall, skinny, pale, akward. I never would have guessed he was a traveller, let alone a TRAVEL WRITER.

“How do those unofficial folks get those official jobs?” I wondered, as I stared at him. “Is it their gusto, their cockiness? Their undying need to love and see all?”

NO. It is their frivolous attitude, their lack of attachment to family, and the fulfillment of all that.

I wish the unison of the traveler and I ended in a soft love story, but, instead, it ends in annoyances.

There is a sunset, which is lovely, but while it is setting, I am shouting “it is the simple things in life. Get a fill of what is in front of you before you go looking for refills left and right!”

Today a man told me he loved me as he was walking out the door. That made me smile oh-so-nicely, and I found myself saying “I love you, too” before the door closed. He is addicted to sugar and lives next door to my work. My work conveniently houses three, full, dishes of candy (sadly, none contain chocolate). He does not stop by daily but pops-in often enough and has become the highlight of many of my days. He wears a fleece, leopard print hat, maroon shades cover his eyes. He smells of tobacco and calls me honey. His name is Bill, and he is awesome. He is addicted to sugar but only allows himself to eat it so many days a week; the days he abstains he waves and passes by quickly. The days he enters he grabs handfuls of candy and asks for more. No one eats more butterscotch than he, and no one enjoys it more.

When the sugar addict isn’t passing by there is another man who stops and does the robot as he passes. It all began when one day he came in to ask how quickly he could get clothes cleaned and returned (I work at a dry cleaner, next door is senior housing); I explained the rushes possible as he closed his eyes, pointed his index finger at me, lowered his head and said: You know what? Naturally, I said: What?, he raised his gaze to mine and continued pointing, while stating matter-of-factly: You’ve got a singing voice. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, knowing full well, I do not have a singing voice, while he proceeded to do the robot in the middle of the store while repeating: You know…you know. I smiled and guessed, after several seconds it became evident, and shouted: Are you doing the robot? He raised that hand and pointed right at my eyes while widening his gaze, and said “You know!” and then ran out the door before I could react. Since then he passes by every-so-often doing the robot right on the sidewalk with no shame as locals pass by with their fancy bred dogs and expensive designer cups of coffee. He intially passes by like all is normal, when he sees me he stops and arranges himslef into a robotic stance working into a hello-robot-wave, does a robot-jig, then walks away with a giggle so loud I can hear it through the glass.

These brief glimpses make my days and put a smile on my face when I contemplate feeling sad about life and the state of the world.

What is love anyway? It is often too short to be satisfied, and no matter how long you frolic in it never lasts long enough. The one who decides to cut it off is always way ahead in the thought and way ahead in the notion and the whole idea becomes so abstract it is as though neither person were in the same place to begin with. Like two train stations appeared where there used to be one and a couple had agreed to meet at the original but as soon as they get there it is divided into two different stations, in two different states, and their lines will never cross.

But, love is wonderful and fully worth the confusion, mess, torment, and the questions that arise. Even if it doesn’t last it is worth it, and if it does last: Congratulations! You have made it and hopefully you will continue to do so.

The whole problem with love is expectation. When we fall in love we see each other as raw, loving beings and it is hard to see past the objects and hurdles that a day-to-day life involves. We learn to ignore the workspace, the work itself, the annoyances our loved ones go through and make ourselves think that our mere presence will make everything alright, the idea that our being there when they leave and when they get back will make it like “the bad” never happened , when in fact it has and does and does so every day. Life is full of shit, our day-to-day is full of people wanting their way and expecting you to give it to them no matter what line of work you are in.

A large chunk of our daily experiences don’t get shared with those we consider the most important. It is simply impossible to pass on everything, and even if you do it is hard to get anyone to feel what you felt while it was happening. We all see things in our own light and we cannot share all of what happens to us day-to-day, all we can do is try to share what we feel is important. No matter how close we become with someone there is always something they will never know about us. Not necessarily a bad thing, just a thing, an instance, a viewpoint, a something that only you can grasp but can never explain fully.

Bird is the Word