Tag Archives: free spirit

“A Man Gets Tied Up to The Ground — He Gives The World Its Saddest Sound.”

(Continued from November 26th, 2011.)

“Make a wish,” he said.  “If you wish for something good — it WILL come true.”

I held the ring he gave me in the middle of my palm, and I stared at the open space caught in the center of its beaded circle.  It was made out of a tightly wound spiral of a single metallic line, as thin as a single hair on a horse’s mane.  I thought of my grandmother’s cuckoo clock whose pendulum she had stopped winding-up, suddenly one night.

Her husband, a retired fisherman, had gained himself a habit in his old age:  He’d climb up to the roof above their attic to watch the sunset every night.  There, he would witness the reunion of two unlikely lovers:  The sun would give up the ambition of its skies and melt into the waters of the Ocean beneath; and every such reunion would illuminate the old man’s eyes with colors of every precious stone in the world.

There, up on the rooftop, my grandmother would find him, when she returned home from work.

“My little darling boy!” she’d gosh.  “You’re too old for this game.”

She was eleven years his junior; but after a lifetime of waiting for the Ocean to return her lover, she hadn’t managed to forget her worries.  And even with his now aged body radiating heat in their mutual bed each night, she would dream up the nightmares of his untimely deaths.

“I’ve died so many times in your sleep, my baby lark,” he joked in the mornings, “I should be invincible by now.”

Still, the woman’s worrisome wrath turned her into a wild creature he preferred to never witness:  They were unlikely lovers, after all.  So, he’d smirk upon her scolding, obey and lithely descend.  Then, he would chase my grandmother into the corner bedroom of their modest hut.  And she would laugh.  Oh, how she would laugh!

One day, after she scolded him again, he slipped; and as she watched each grasp betray him, she suddenly expected that her lover could unfold his hidden wings and slowly swing downward, in a pattern of her cuckoo clock’s pendulum, or a child’s swing.  But he was an injured bird:  That’s why he could no longer go out to sea.

Upon the permanently wet ground, he crashed.  And on that night, she stopped winding-up the spiral inner workings of her clock.

“Well?  Did you make a wish?” the old Indian merchant asked me after I slipped his gift onto the ring finger of my left hand.

The beads rolled on the axis of the spiral and slid onto my finger like a perfect fit.  On its front, four silver colored beads made up a pattern of a four-petalled flower, or possibly a cross.  I bent the fingers of my hand to feel its form against my skin.  Under the light, the beads immediately shimmered.

“Well?  Did you?” the old, tiny man persisted.

Instead of answering him, I pressed the now ringed hand against my heart and nodded.

“See.  It is already coming true,” he said.

He was by now sitting in a lotus position on top of a lavender cloud.  It had earlier slipped out from behind the room with bamboo curtains, in the doorway, and it snuggled against his leg like a canine creature.  Before I knew it, the old man got a hold of the scruff of the cloud’s neck, and he reached down below — to help me up.

His hand was missing a ring finger.  How had I not noticed that before?  I studied his face for remnants of that story.  But it was not its time yet, so I got lost in between the wrinkles of his brown skin and followed them up to his eyes:

His eyes were two small suns, with amber colored rays.  The center of each iris was just a tiny purple dot, too narrow to fit in my reflection.  I looked for it though until the suns began to spin — each ray being a spoke on a wheel — faster and faster.

The spirals of the old man’s watch began unwinding, and we floated up through the layered clouds of time, up to the sunroof.  With a single gesture of his arm, the man unlatched the windowed frames.  He sat back down, shifted until his sit bones found their former markings in the lavender cloud; and when he turned to face me, I realized he had become a young lover of my own:  with jet black hair and a pair of smirking lips of that old fisherman who had stopped the spiral of the clock inside my grandma’s hut.

“I had a feeling about you,” he said and buried his four-fingered hand inside my loosened hair.  “You are the type to always wish — for good.”

“We Were Born Before the Wind.”

It seemed like she was waiting for someone.  By the bench, at the top of a hilly lawn, the bottom of which met with the narrow gravelly passage occupied by the late morning joggers, she stood there, barely noticed by others.  An iron railing stretched on the other side of the path, and the bright blue waters of Monterey Bay seemed calm.  A forest of boat masts kept swaying in their metronome rhythm.  They clanked against each other with the hollow sound of empty water buckets or rusty church bells.  The shallow waters by the shore were navigated by a couple of paddle boarders and glossy baby seals.

Was it her beloved heading home?  Or was this just a mid-stop where she’d regroup for the next glorious flight of her freedom loving soul?  She stood like she belonged to no one — but the call of her nature, immune to the voices of fear or doubt.

The Northbound wind frolicked with her straight white hair.  I didn’t expect to see that texture on her body, but when I saw the handful of silky strands fly up on the side of her head, I stopped.  She remained motionless:  still and proud, slowly scanning the horizon with her focused eyes.

Just a few meters down, I myself had rested by a statue of a woman.  I couldn’t tell how long ago I had left my room without having a preplanned route through this small town by the Bay; for I myself had come here to rest in the unlikely lack of my own expectations — my fears, worries and doubts — and I had let the movements of the sun determine my activities that day.  So in its highest zenith, I departed from the four walls of my inn after the laughter of children — hyper way too early and fearlessly attacking the nearby pool — woke me up.

I began to run slowly at first, crossing through the traffic of drivers used to the unpredictable characters of pedestrians.  Not once did I resort to my city habits of negotiation by scowls or passive-aggressive gestures.  I bypassed the elders slowly walking, in groups, along the streets of boutique stores with hand-written signs for Christmas sales.  The smell of caffeine and caramel popcorn would trail behind young couples on their romantic getaways.  The joggers of the town were few and far between; so when I reached the narrow passage of the tree alley along the shoreline, I picked up my pace.

The wind kept playing with my fly-aways and untangling my tight hair bun.  A couple of times I turned my head in the direction of its flow and saw the mirage outlines of my most favorite Northern City.

“By the time I get there, I shall be free of fear,” I always think but then return to the predetermined pacing of my dreams.

I noticed the statue’s back at first:  A colonial dress peaked out from underneath a cape, and both were captured in the midst of their obedience to the same Northbound wind.

“A statue of a woman.  That’s a rarity.”

And I walked up to her.

It seemed like she was waiting for someone. Up from the pedestal, she focused her gaze on the horizon.  Her face was calm but gripped by prayer.  I knew that face:  It belonged to a lover who trusted that the wind would bring him back to her, unscathed.  And even if he were injured on his odyssey or tempted by another woman’s feasts, she trusted he would learn and be all the better for it, in the end.  Against her shoulder, she was leaning a wooden cross made of tree branches.

Santa Rosalia:  The Italian saint of fishermen.  She froze, in stone, in a perpetual state of beholding for other women’s men.  Throughout centuries, so many freedom-loving souls must have departed under her watch, and I could only hope that most of them returned.  But when the sea would claim them, did other women come here to confront her or to collect the final tales of their men dying fear-free?

I walked while thinking of her face.  And then, I saw the other awaiting creature.

When she began to walk downhill, she’d test the ground with each step.  With a balletic grace she’d stop at times, and study the horizon.  The wind began to tease her silky hair.  It took figure eight routes in between her legs, and taunted her to fly.

And so she did:  On a single rougher swoosh of the wind, she stretched her giant stork-white wings, gained height and began to soar, Northbound and fear-free.

“… And Our Way Is: On The Road Again.”

Which way?

Northward.  Onward.

I leap up.  I must’ve drifted off.

I’m pretty sure I was just dreaming, redefining my stories in my resting state.  Redefining memories of my family, understanding the departures of those who were supposed to stand in — for my loves.  Remembering, memorizing, redefining my journeys.  Maybe it was a bump in the road or my road partner’s drumming on the steering wheel, but I wake up.

“Ventura?” I recognize it immediately.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye:  “Yep.”

Seaward.

The Ocean over his shoulder is blending with the sky.  The glorious giant is calm today.  In shallow spots, it shimmers with emeralds.  A single pier jots out.  At the end of it, there sits a seafood joint that emits the smell of overcooked frying oil.  I wonder if it can be smelled under the pier, where flocks of homeless teenagers and aging hippies reconvene before the rain.

There is that white metal bridge of the railroad that runs through the town and always hums throughout the night instead of the roaring Ocean.  I should take a train up here, sometimes, for an adventure.  The traffic of LA has been long surpassed, but the cluster fuck of that two-lane Santa Barbara stretch is coming up, right around the bend.

Yep, here we go:  The perfectly manicured golf courses to the right of me and the Spanish villas flocking the greenery of the mountains gives away the higher expectations of the locals on their standards of living.  Time moves slower here, more obediently.  That’s one of the biggest expectations that money can buy.

Where to?

Northward.  Forward.

Past Seaward.

After a few more miles north, we hit the land of ranches.  Brown wooden signs with names of farms and modest advertisements for their produce begin to mark our mileage.  The mountains seem more arid here, yet somehow the land seems more prosperous.  After the yet another dry summer, the greenery is starting to come back.  It will never look like the East Coast out here.  But neither will my adventures be the same.

I keep on moving, dreaming, redefining.  I draw up maps of future trajectories, but even I know better:  That when it comes to dreams, I’ve gotta roll with it.  

A few more miles up and the wondering cattle starts to punctuate the more even greenery.  They are like commas in black ink.  The ellipses.  The horses here are more red, and they match the clay colored rocks protruding in between the green.

Were we to take the 1 Northward, the terrain would have been much prettier.  But the 101 is slightly more efficient.  Besides, if offers up a thrill of weaving in between the mountains, where the eye can easily miss all signs of rising elevation, but the ears can’t help it and plug up.  I get that same sensation when taking off in steel birds from the giant airports of Moscow, San Francisco and New York.  In those moments, whereI’ve come from seems to give room to where I’m heading.  And I continue to redefine the journey.

Lompoc comes and stays behind.  I’ve once leapt out of a steel bird here; and the fear of falling did not get to live in me, for long.  After enough falls, it would become a way of being.  Free falling was just another form of flying.

Which way?

Not downward, but onward.

Onward and free.

In fifty more miles, we reach the vineyards.  They cling to the sides of these heels like patches of cotton upon a corduroy or velvet jacket with thinning material on its elbow.  Some patches are golden.  They look harvested and ready to retire.  Others are garnet red and brown.  Above the ones that are bright green I notice thin hairs of silver tinsel in the air.

“Is that to ward off the birds?” I ask my road partner.

He answers indirectly:  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it is.

It is quite beautiful up here, and I am tempted to pull off the road and temporarily forget about my general direction.  Perhaps, it matters little:  As to where I’m heading and how fast.  But the way (as in the manner, and my manner is always grateful) must make the only difference in the end.

“I Fly Like Paper, Get High Like Planes. If You Catch Me at the Border — I Got Visas in My Name!”

I am at a rehearsal last night, and I’m thinking:

“I don’t want to be heavy anymore.”

Now, I don’t mean my physicality here:  I’ve got a pretty compact bod on me — always have had — and I’ve always been light on my feet.

I seem to have inherited the smallest features from both sides of the family:  My motha’s people run quite low to the ground in their height; and dad’s tribe, although quite tall, is nearly transparently thin.

And then, my head’s rarely in the right place:  It’s always wanting to be elsewhere.  So, the restlessness of the mind adds to the activeness of the bod, adds to the shedding of the weight.  I’ve come to think that perhaps it’s all for the better, anyway:  My size fits best into airplane seats and packed buses, New York subways and Moscow bread lines — and wherever else the mind urges the bod to fit itself in.

So, when I thought, “I don’t want to be heavy anymore,” I think I meant:

I don’t want to be dark.

Now, I don’t mean the color of my skin here:  I’ve got a pretty dark complexion on me.  Motha’s people — are fucking gypsies, so they are really more like Russian blacks.  In my childhood, motha would have to keep me out of the sun — just so I would still resemble my father’s child a little bit more.  Because his tribe — is quite light (although they’re quite heavy in their footsteps).  And they’re nearly transparently thin.

It’s bad enough I traded in my father’s blue eyes over the course of the first year of my life.  He came back from his military training in some bleak lands of Motha Russia to meet me at the hospital.  I was only a couple days old.

“He’s got my eyes!” he said before the doctor had a chance to explain to him that I was actually born a girl.

(So sorry!)

Whether or not ultrasound existed back then in Motha Russia, motha chose to rely on the old school witchcraft of her people when predicting my future sex.  Surprise, surprise:  That shit didn’t work, and dad was now cradling a blue-eyed brunette of a nearly black complexion in his arms.

“Well…  At least she’s got my eyes.”

With quite a blow to his dreams of the first son, dad left again for some other bleak lands of Motha Russia:  He was always light enough to move.  (But we, Russians, often tend to have heavy footsteps:  We love to step on others’ toes; so if we aren’t playing war — we seem to be always training for it.)

Anyway.  When dad returned home, half a year later, he found his newborn with eyes so black, he could see his own reflection in them.

“He… she — don’t got my eyes no more!”

(So sorry!)

So, when I said, “I don’t want to be dark anymore,” I think I meant:  

I don’t want to be perpetually difficult on my loves.  

Now, I do seem to be easier on my friends:  Over the course of our loves, they’ve gotten used to the restlessness of my mind that adds to the activeness of my dark, compact bod (that adds to the weightlessness of my footsteps).  From all the distant corners of the world, however bleak or perfectly civilized, my loves receive messages of my journeys:  The messages of wanting to belong — if only I would stop moving for long enough. 

But then again:  My friends don’t have to live with me.  They don’t see me pacing my living quarters at night, as if needing more room.  They don’t witness my restlessness accumulate as surely as the hours in each day — until I finally decide to move again, to whatever bleak or perfectly civilized corner of the world.

My loves, however:  My loves are constantly subjected to the restlessness of the mind that adds to the activeness of the bod, that adds to the shedding of the weight, that adds to the weightlessness of the footsteps.

Just ask my family:

My motha’s people — are fucking gypsies.  Yet, for at least two generations before mine, they’ve given up on moving, only following the call of some bleak lands.  Over a century ago, they’ve settled on the East Coast of Motha Russia, much less civilized, unconquered:  The lands that were waiting to be discovered by the more unsettled hearts.  Over the course of the last few centuries, it was populated by the subversive many and the courageous few.  There, the Russian blacks of my motha’s people found their home.

That’s, of course, until I came along:  A blue-eyed brunette that swapped her father’s eyes for a pair of those, black enough to serve as mirrors for her loves.  And as soon as I was old enough to obey the restlessness of the mind, I would follow the call of my gypsy complexion.

(So sorry!)

Because my motha’s people may have given up on moving, but they haven’t settled, I decided.  Not yet.  Perhaps, not until I myself birth a child in some bleak or perfect civilized corner of the world — and I see my own reflection in his or her black eyes.

So, when the other night, I thought, “I don’t want to be heavy anymore,” I think I meant:

I don’t want to negate myself the joy of freedom.

Courage!

Only courage should elate my heart, from now on:  the courage of following my gypsy complexion and the heart that never settles for anything less than love.

And when I do love, I don’t want to deny my loves — the utter joy of my freer self. 

“But It’s Hard to Come Down — When You’re Up in the Air.”

“Where are you going?” P asked me on the phone during my monthly calls to Motha Russia, after I announced that I was busy packing.

“Eh.  A little bit here and there,” I answered while measuring the contents of my closet against the mouth of my giant suitcase, gaping open on the floor.  “Here and there.  You know.”

I haven’t really finalized my travel plans yet.  I mean:  I knew I was heading back to Motha Russia — eventually.  That explained the uproar currently happening in the family:  They haven’t seen me in sixteen years, so the homecoming trip promised to be loaded.

But I wasn’t making that daunting trip for another couple of months.  In the mean time, I was giving up my apartment and packing up my giant suitcase.

Apparently there was nothing out of the norm about the vagueness of my plans, because P was agreeing with me, quite enthusiastically:

“Da, da, da!” he said.  “I’m listening.”

Dad had always been on my side.  He had to be; because I never left him much of a choice but to get used to the nomadic habits of mine.  I mean:  All I ask for — is my freedom.  Is that so hard?

Penelope Cruz

But apparently, in order to accept my antsy temperament and the life-long addiction to wanderlust, I also ask for a lot of trust.  Trust was exactly what I relied on when I announced my initial decision — sixteen years ago — to leave Motha Russia in pursuit of my education abroad.  Trust was demanded when I later moved to New York, for the same reason; or when I committed the daunting trip back to Cali after my share of victories and defeats on the East Coast.

All along, my relocations were telegraphed to my folk back in Motha Russia on a monthly basis.  Considering the homeland chaos, I took it upon myself to keep the connection alive; and I would call, from wherever I landed.

“I’m here, for a little bit.  Here and there.  You know,” I’d say, while unpacking another giant suitcase.

As far as I was concerned, I was fulfilling my daughterly obligations beautifully.  So, whenever P would voice as much as a hesitation or a worry, I’d go bonkers:

“I mean…  All I’m asking for — is my freedom!  Is that so hard?”

P wouldn’t have much of a choice.  So, he would agree with me, quite enthusiastically:

“Nyet, nyet, nyet,” he’d say.  “I’m listening.”  (Dad had always been on my side.) 

No one knows the responsibility of freedom better — than those of us who vow our lives to its pursuit. 

I mean:  All I am asking for — is my freedom.  And all I am asking of my loves — is trust.

My addiction to wanderlust began in the first years of my life.  Mere months after my birth, P — who devoted his life to building the Soviet Empire as an Army man — was being relocated from the East Coast of Motha Russia into the less populated inlands.  The first couple of our moves would be done by train; and in the beginning of his career, P could track his ascent through the ranks by the route of the Trans-Siberian Railway.

“You’d always sleep easily, on trains,” he’d say any time I told him about the utter calmness I feel these days, when on a railroad.

His bigger promotion would take us into the middle of the country — into much more brutal winters and lands.  For first time in my life, we would have to take a plane ride.

I wouldn’t be older than a year when motha packed me into a tiny suitcase that she kept unzipped on her lap during the 4-hour flight.  She would have to get inventive and make a transient crib out of it, stuffing it with a pillow.  I would be bundled up into a blanket and wrapped with a ribbon:  A tradition taught to Russian mothers by the brutal winters of my Motha’land.

For the duration of the flight, I wouldn’t fuss at all.

“All I could see from my seat — was your button nose peaking out of the tiny suitcase:  You were sleeping,” P would tell me whenever I confessed about the utter peace I always feel these days, when up in the air.

In order to feed my life-long addiction to wanderlust, I’ve had to grow up quite quickly.  Motha Russia wouldn’t leave my generation much of a choice after the collapse of the Soviet Empire that our parents devoted their lives to building.  So, instead of living in ruins, many of us chose to pursue a life — and an education — elsewhere.  So, we packed our tiny suitcases and we left.  We had to give up our childhood — and to grow up.

Because all we asked for — was our freedom.  And for my generation, it was indeed very, very hard.

Because all I’ve asked for — is my freedom.  And as someone who’s vowed her life to the pursuit of it, I’ve paid all the consequences of my choices in full — and they have indeed been very, very hard.

So:

“Da, da, da!  I’m listening!” P is always saying, quite enthusiastically, on the phone.

He — is always on my side.

And after sixteen years of my untimely adulthood, he agrees with my pursuit of that calmness and peace that I always feel when transient; when in pursuit of my self-education — when in pursuit of my freedom.

“‘Cause I’m a Gypsy. Are You Coming WITH Me?”

This shirt, right here — I’ve worn it no more than a couple times.  So, why am I holding onto it?

Why am I holding on?

It was a gift by a New York girlfriend.  She is married by now, and a mother.  The last time we saw each other was on the West Coast, after my divorce, when she came to see her father to tell him she was engaged.  That was the day I got the shirt.  It was Christmastime.  My car would break down on the way back to LA-LA, and I would call my ex, in panic.  He would answer…

Why am I holding onto this shirt?  

Why am I holding on?

I’m going to give it away.  That’s it!  That feels right:  Perhaps, I’ll just give it to the young girl who reminds me of my former self — the one prior to the divorce.  That’s it.  Give it away.  That feels right.  Give it away.

And this sweater:  How long have I had this sweater?  Let me think.  About twenty years?

Twenty years?!

Who in the world holds onto sweaters — for twenty years?!

Someone who is in charge of her own keepsakes and who makes up her memories, as she goes along; because there is no one else to ask for a cross-reference.  

Someone who has no home and no homeland to revisit because neither exists any longer. 

Someone who has spent her childhood on the road, and her womanhood — in a whole different foreign land. 

Come to think of it, that’s a quirky split.  When I try to remember myself as a child, I catch myself thinking in my native language:  My former language, of my former self.  But the language of my womanhood — is my second.  But it is also the language of my love — the language of all my loves — with which I’ve learned to communicate, to hold on and to let go.

“But V makes up her own language,” my last love once told me.

Forever, I am a foreign child but an American woman.  Which one is the most organic, the most relevant self?  Which one do I keep on the forefront the most?  This split is hard to interpret into either language for others trying to comprehend me.  But then, no story of immigration is a simple one.  So, I barely even try anymore.

And this sweater:  I think I used to run in this sweater, as a child.  And I still do.  All the threads in its seams have now lost their original shade, so it is slightly embarrassing to wear this thing out in public.  But I still run in it.  I run fast enough to camouflage its faults.  My faults.

Perhaps, I’ll just keep it:  This sweater — is the only thing of my childhood that I have left to hold onto.

Here is a couple of white nightgowns.  I don’t even wear nightgowns, so why do I own them?

Why am I holding onto them?

Why am I holding on?

This one:  It’s from Eastern Germany.  I remember it was given to me by my motha after I refused to wear my training bra.

“When you’re older, your underwear gets prettier,” she promised in my native language, when I was still thinking in that language, too.

But at the time, I was breathless:  Mama (or “motha” as I call her here, on the foreign land) used to be a stunning woman.  Her face was bewitching to men:  To them, it promised adventures no other mortal woman was able to provide before.  Because it took them into the very depths of their souls — the depths so terrifying, the two choices they had at the end of the affair were:  to pull out or to hang on for their lives.  Either way, they never came out of it the same.  (And I would know:  Quite a few have pulled themselves out of their souls, in front of me.  What an adventure!)

But at the time, I was breathless:  utterly bewitched by my motha’s face; in love with her, for the rest of my days.  And that nightgown would stay stored inside a drawer when I left home.  Motha had to mail it to me, for keepsakes, as an American woman.

The other nightgown is vintage.  I bought it in Ventura, years after my divorce.  It’s satin, with two shades of handmade lace.  One of the straps is broken.  Broken by a lover’s hand.  He, too, pulled himself out.

So, why am I holding on?

Well, I can’t really give these to another woman — or to the young girl who reminds me of my former self.  It’s bad enough our beds have memories.  Freud said we sleep with our former lovers for the rest of our lives.  We carry them.  We hold on.

But with every woman, there are also memories stored in the drawer with her lingerie.

Perhaps, I’ll just throw them out.  Discard them.

Let them go.

With every move, with every relocation, I am a different woman:  a lighter one, it seems.  Every time, I pack up my possessions, I discard at least a half, as if making room for fresh memories, fresh stories.  New loves.  New selves.

Forever, I am in charge of my own keepsakes.  But with time, I seem to need less of them.

And I learn to let go.

At least, I learn — NOT to hold on.

“Suga, Suga: How You Get So Fly?”

As you can clearly see from the rant blog by yours truly (better tagged by one her readers as “a very pretty cunt”), I have never been at a lack for words.  Also, due to a significant number of years invested in my education (still happening, by the way), I have acquired the skills necessary for choosing those words precisely and, hopefully, with time, quite wisely.

But I shall confess:  My recent break-up — left me utterly speechless Because there we were:  a couple of friends who were slowly — and gracefully — becoming a couple.  The affair had a very natural flow to it.  For the first half of it, we were taking it slowly; cruising along as lovers who enjoyed each other’s company immensely.  Days at a time were spent together, without either one of us acquiring an anxiety or getting on each other’s nerves.  And the best part about this ordeal was that we “chose” to spend time with each other; and in that choice, there was a wonderful amount of freedom and dignity.  No one was making demands.  No one was feeling trapped.  We were in this — willingly.  (Or at least, so I thought.)

Sooner or later, however, there was a turning point; or as I like to call it:  “Time for an Upgrade”.  The lovers began traveling together.  They maintained a daily contact.  Friends were being met.  Questions were being answered to family members (how ever carefully, on my part).  Yet still, the affair was characterized by an certain ease:  Both lovers were still in it, seemingly willingly, and no one was asking for any assurances.  We — were cruising.

Perhaps, it was because this “very pretty cunt” has always been quite independent.  Not since a tumultuous marriage way back when have I treated a relationship as a solution to my personal lacks.  Perfectly complete and competent on my own, I treat a partner as a mere traveling companion:  I choose (here is that word again!) to spend time with him; and that’s just so much better!

Moreover, I don’t believe in making demands from a man; because for the lack of better words (of which, may I remind you, I rarely have a deficit):  Making demands — reeks of despair.  And I just don’t do despair.  Fear causes wrinkles on my face and makes my hair fall out.  Chalk it up to my vanity thing.  So.  Yeah.  I don’t do dat!  Fo’ shiz.

Which means that I’m never the broad to demand keys to my guy’s apartment, or a ring; or a notarized contract on the chronology of “where exactly all this is going” — with clearly established deadlines.  I mean, I have NEVER even asked for a relationship update on his fucking Facebook!  (And by the look of it, I will NEVER have that opportunity in the future either, because at this point, my Facebook profile — belongs to my rant blog.  I’m a working girl, you see:  Whomever I may be shagging at the time — that’s irrelevant for my networks.)

“I’ve always seen you as this…  how should I say it?… a free spirit,” one of my witnesses testified over a month ago.  Every bit of a gentle-man, this creature has learned to deal with my radical opinions with admirable tolerance and subdued judgement.  That day, he gently confronted me about my aloofness toward this now obviously significant other.

“Perhaps, you’ve never been in a normal relationship — because it’s YOU who’s avoiding it.  And if this man is important to you, you must tell him that!”

Oh, no!  Oy, nyet!  Have I become too much of a cruiser?  One of those bohemian, universal-love, everything-happens-for-a-reason, Namaste chicks?  Nothing wrong with that, of course; but regardless of my love of freedom — and my respect for my partner’s freedom (AND his choice) — I do aspire to be IN a relationship.  In a LOVE!  So, have I been disrespecting this beloved man of mine with my aloofness?  Have I kept him at bay by “taking it easy” and “just going with it” — just “cruising”?!

“I must correct that!” I thought.  “He needs to know that I love him, that I am — ‘committed’!”

And so I did!  At the very next opportunity for mutually free time, I brought it up.

Cut to:  It was over.

Yep, in that very same talk that was merely meant to communicate my feelings and clarify my intensions, my man’s response was that HE — “just wasn’t ready for a commitment”.

I was speechless. 

And because I was speechless, I turned to the other gentle-men in my life, for their capable and eloquent evaluations.  Here is one testimony:

“So I was reading an article about airline pilots, and they all agree the most comfortable and safest part of the flight is ‘the cruise’… which is the max comfortable cruising altitude.  All blue skies up there.  They can even take a nap legally, eat, and talk about their lives.

On the contrary, the most dangerous part of a flight is take-off and landing. The point: Changes in altitude are dangerous.

Your relationships was in ‘the cruise’.  And your [relationship talk] was a request for a change of altitude.  Higher.  Thinner air.  The plane (your relationship) needs more speed to stay aloft.  Makes ‘pilots’ nervous.”

Um…  Okay.  I hear that!  Trust me, there ain’t another woman I know better equipped for the cruising mode — than me.  And when it came to this particular affair (now, obviously NOT a “relationship”) — I was a fucking co-pilot!  It took other gentle-men — people of my man’s kind — to remind me to treat my partner with the respect, and the recognition, and the acknowledgement that he deserved:  To let him step into my cockpit.

And may I also say:  What is it about the mere word “relationship” that makes so many men so very, very nervous?  Why have there been so many tales of gentle-men treating a commitment like a life sentence?  Or a fucking plane crash?

I cannot speak for other women here, but this “very pretty cunt” was not asking her man for obedience or some materialistic assurances.  Due to the mere fact of my overprotectiveness of my own freedom, I wasn’t asking for the surrender of his. 

No, my gentle-creatures:  This co-pilot was not demanding to take over the control panel of that bloody aircraft.  I was not changing the course of our cruising or contacting the ground station for the coordinates of our final destination.  The very respectful conversation that ended us — in mid-flight! — was merely meant to establish the equality of our titles as “co-pilots”.  I dared to ask for a recognition, just so that to other gentle-men and -women in my life, my relationship didn’t sound like morse code.

But don’t you worry, my gentle-creatures:  This pilot — this “very pretty cunt” — shall be quite alright.  Because she’s never latched onto her man for survival or asked him to pay for her fuel, the return to flight will resume sooner rather than later.  And judging by this rant blog, even her speech is quickly coming back to her.

So, okay:  It’ll be a lil’ while before she regains any communication with the self-dismissed co-traveler (obviously NOT a co-pilot!).  And it will be an even longer while until another fearless pilot steps-up to the plate to co-navigate to higher, unknown, thrilling altitudes.  But until then, she’ll just enjoy this unexpected landing and explore the scenery of self-examination she otherwise would not have gotten a chance to witness.  Because this free spirit — was NEVER afraid of cruising!