I have this pair of boots that remind me of him. Every zip up and down the side of them draws me to his face. I really can't help it. Admittedly, I bought the boots in his city; in that northern place, in Alaska.
Alaska still holds some magic for me. All that happened there: his hands his beard, his boots, his scruffy jeans. Not just him, though, the others there too. That man that reminded me so much of the Uncle who loved me - so much that I thought he might be the bastard son of my grandfather. Talk about embarrassment. There were others as well, but I don't remember their specifics so much.
Outside of the people, the place itself has that feel, like Hawaii, that it is one of those rare places where heaven and hell meet on earth and the spirits walk freely between the three worlds. It didn't shock me this time, when I saw it, but it draws me and pushes me away simultaneously. I am never comfortable, but at home in a frightful way. The way that is too right, so right that something must be wrong.
He is Alaska in so many ways. He is right and wrong in that same way, as if heaven and hell met in humanity and created him. There will be a day when I understand, much the way I now understand with Doug, but that day is not today, and I am still waiting for the moment of recognition. That moment will dawn and I will know why he is not right - and again I will begin the quest for one that is wrong in all the right ways.
Searching for a perfect imperfection is like searching for a missing sock. You know it exists, because somewhere in your memory you can see it, but you have no idea where it has been since the last time you wore it. I look at all of the forms of love I have known, both romantic and not, and search for patterns of soul. I want to find that weaving mountain road, the mysterious one, high above the clouds, invisible from the base of the mountain, that ends not at the mountain peak but somewhere beyond the next valley in a land of ranges yet unexplored.
The metaphors could go on forever, each more beautiful, soulful, lifting than the last, but because I am determined for reality, for sorrow, I should not remain in them. Rather, I think I should choose to find that place where I am me. I always feel that I have lost that place, and I think it is because that place is always changing as I continue to age. Home ceased to exist so long ago, and yet I am still adjusting to the idea that when life fails me, or I cannot find the next step, the way in front of me, that there is no place to return to, at least no place outside of myself. Once, not so long ago, there was still a space to return to, like the fog in front of me was indeed only in front of me. Behind me was a room in which I could sit, arms that would hold me, and a refrigerator full of food. Either that room no longer exists or I just can't see it. The fog has filtered in and surrounds me in every way so that the only solace I can find when I think I've lost my way is in me, or in this small circle of light cast around me before the wall of moisture condenses in on my ability to see.
I often wonder if it is fear that keeps me from finding what I seek, or worse, that it is fear that keeps me from beginning the search at all. I believe that there is something in that, but also I must believe that is not all of it. Mostly because I have discovered that without hope and determination I really am the smallest of small people. I once thought that made me weak, but now I do not think it makes me anything but hopeful. Foolish sure, idealist for certain, but it is what it is, and I don't want to live a life where I am not destined for hope. Sorrow cannot be unless Joy has been before it. Sorrow begets hope. And when hope is fulfilled, the joy is that much greater. So I hope for greater joy. I hope to see hope fulfilled, to make sorrow worth it. Otherwise sorrow is just whining or apathy, both of which I hate.
Whining and apathy are where I find hell in him. He whines and becomes apathetic with the best of them. Seriously he could win awards. If moodiness were a race, he would most certainly be the tortoise. Slow and steady. Never rushing forth in joy and slowing down to gloat, but slow and steady whining and apathy to win the race of life with the blue ribbon in hellish ordeals. It wouldn't bother me so much if I weren't such a hare. The hopeful hare. Rush forth, lag back to gloat and fail. It's amazing. After losing so many races you would think I would change tactics, but I trained well for my first race and can't seem to break those tried and true techniques that have brought me so far.
Heaven lies in his sweet nature, his compassion, and admittedly in those finer points of physicality. His touch, his beard, his clean smell, his voice, and most certainly his little smirk, if you could really call it that. It's more like a grumpy pout, but its endearing and I love it no matter the name it is given. I adore his little belly and the way he struts it. It reminds me of Cody and his swagger. I love his lovely steely eyes matched so well with his dark thick hair. I wonder some days if it really isn't anything more that a desire to know his kiss. Maybe if I knew the physicality would drain away, and the remaining soul wouldn't be enough to hold me. Or possibly if he shaved his beard, maybe that would be a better way to find out, but I doubt it. I worry only that if he kissed me it would all be that much worse.
Back to the topic at hand, him, he, Alaska. I feel the least of myself when I feel rebuffed by him, or as if he did not have enough time for me. I feel so small and insignificant from just a moment of apathy toward my attentions that I know I am in too deep. It is this that makes me question the validity of the love. JDBman has never been so. I have never felt anything but the honest situation with JDBman, but with him I ask all sorts of ridiculous questions, until I no longer remember the source of my discomfort.
I'm at the ocean, and ocean means thoughts of men. This old man in the sea always asks the question, "who is he?" I still don't have an answer...