Dear Leandra,
It was great hearing your voice today, it felt so familiar yet totally you.  Apparently, I am writing you love letters on Sundays, this being the second.  I had to choke back my tears again knowing we would not speak again soon.  I hope it is not too long before we share laughs, flirting, silence and comments about white bikinis. OK, really only one white bikini.

I have to say, I was a bit jealous of the mention of your unwillingly admitting your affection to another man. I know have no right to you or your feelings but it us what I felt, it I still lingering in the back of my mind while writing you.  The knowledge that you will not follow through does not alter the aftertaste. 

You are amazing. I think you should know this.  They, the women of Brazil have nothing on you- no humps or bumps, you have it all and more.  You really are the whole package and truly what we want most: a strong, fun, playful, intelligent woman with guts and OK to look at if there is nothing around to keep our attention:)

I am grateful we are staying in touch and that we will see each other before you leave Korea in June.  I am completely armed and ready to make sure I do produce full tears this time.  Nothing strokes a man’s ego more than having an incredible woman cry against her will at the thought of not seeing him again. I will accomplish this mission.

I look forward to the next time I hear you laugh and get quiet when you do not know what to say.

Peace and Love,
michael
PS- I will get to all lengths to achieve my mission. I might even be nice to you.

Go Ask the Mountain

It’s just a simple three-kilometer hike, nothing of great proportions.  I do it almost daily, well, really nightly.  It is a mountain, like but not like every other mountain in Korea, with one bug except. It is the mountain I will miss when I leave here.  Tang San is my best friend in Korea.

Tonight while climbing up the side by the Golden Buddha of the Temple I sit at on occasion, it occurred to me I would leave this mountain, soon.  I was sad for a moment and then felt my heart twitch with joy. I have lived and learned on this mountain.  I meditate every morning in my room but Tang San is where I ask the questions that I need and often do not want the answers.  Tonight the question was simple while slowly stepping on the bed of fallen pine needles with the refl3tio of the almost full moon shining a light for me over the branches and stumps.  “What do I need to learn to tonight about myself, us or how I can be of better service or become of better man?”  A simple question.

What struck me as I came to one of the side paths which I took a left around the family trying to coax their little dog with a red light blinking around its neck is this; why do I always ask to be a better man?  Why not a better person?

I passed the dog and headed toward the bench I spent Saturday afternoon in the slight drizzle on Buddha’s Birthday sitting and reflecting. It one of my favorite spots on the mountain. Yesterday late afternoon I had an energizing experience of standing Qi Gong in front of the bench while sensing the curious Koreans passing by looking at the strange Foreigner.  Strange indeed but not because I was standing and meditating. Tonight I kept walking.  I wanted to stay focused and present. There is something here I need to learn.

Then another question slid into my consciousness.  Why do I get irritated when women speak of themselves as something separate and, therefore, special and seem totally fine with making that distinction myself?  Hummm good question. Maybe someday I will have the answer.  I was not able to let go of a nagging feeling in my belly.  It was initially stirred yesterday afternoon during a Skype session with a friend discussing our departures from Korea.  What have I done here?  How is it that a mountain in a city of a half million people is my best friend? Maybe my only close friend?   How did I spend this much time here and really only make a few semi-strong relationships and they were predominantly with Koreans?  Why have I avoided non-Koreans with such commitment?

Well, I have done some things! I have done the rough drafts of a novel, a book of essays and memoirs and the foundation of a cultural and social book about Korea and Koreans.  That is something.  And I learned about non-verbal communication, especially energetic exchanges between people.  I leaned that sex is not a given.  Good friendships can be formed with folks I have never seen or heard online. That writing is important to me, no, essential at this point in my life.  That I could fly 8,000 miles but still miss my dead family members.  I still don’t have a clue about much, not a surprise.  That going months between ANY physical contact with humans above grade six is challenging, very challenging.  Koreans do not share physical affection with other that are not family except for women who walk with their hands or arms wrapped around each other as a matter of course.  Hugging matters, even to a semi-cold distant man like myself. 

Tang San is my friend. It is hard for me to visualize my experience here in Korea without my time on this mountain.  Like all good friends, Tang San lets me come to my own conclusions but rarely leaves me without something new to chew on.  Tonight, while reaching the base of the mountain and walking down the staircase in front of the Church with large red cross in the sky and the larger painting of Jesus n front of the building I realized where I am headed next has many mountains. They are larger and dry with little else but rock. Deserts are like that. This particular desert is without sand, just rocks, mountains and space.  I will try to make friends with those mountains like I have been fortunate enough to with this one.  And hopefully that will not give me the answers without forcing me to search and claw a bit first too.  Tonight I was thinking of Gurdjieff while walking- a Teacher, a model and haunting face with intense expressions of locked eyes, forceful cheeks and a forehead that tells stories of many miles.  I will walk some of those same miles soon enough.

“No. It is not but I get scared. I know we don’t talk about it, at least not directly, but we are almost finished. You know it and I know it.  Why don’t we just admit it out loud it so we can finally deal with it?”

“Is that what this is about for you? Us ending it?  Do you really think that we can’t find a way to fix this?  Are you really that unforgiving?”

“Unforgiving?  You made out with my secretary and then grabbed her ass at the annual staff luncheon!  Give me a break Lisa! Its one thing if you danced with her, even close and stuff but you made out with her. Her tongue was halfway down your throat and my whole staff watched you.  Tony was rubbing himself over his grey suit pants for god’s sake!  At least if it was a man, I would know what to do but I cant contend with a blonde sexpot temp who hasn’t worn a bra since she was in high school.  How would you feel if I grouped and grabbed the ass of Ferdinand from your home office in front of Stella, Johnnie and everyone?  Would you be so forgiving or would you have some trouble being ‘unforgiving’?”

“Stop it already Jude! That’s enough! I made a mistake now lets move on. I didn’t sleep with her and Tony’s a pervert anyhow.”

“This isn’t about Tony and you know it. And do not try to pretend like everything is perfect and all we have to do is love each other.  That works for you but it is a little harder for me. I need time.  I need to let things settle and shake around in my belly and see where it lands. I can’t just act like it is Ok when it is not for me Lisa.” Jude stops and lets the tears flow without holding back any longer.  He wants to tell her he loves her and wants it to be OK again.  Lisa is beginning to lose her composure as well.  She tries to take his hands but again he recoils, this time quicker.  He keep seeing images of Tatiana, his secretary moving up against Lisa and then Lisa returning it back just as much.  Lisa forgot where she was or what she was doing that night. She doesn’t drink and Jude kept urging her to ‘Just have a few for once’, she did and two hours later she had her tongue down Tatiana’s throat and holding her left butt cheek like it was a life preserver over that very tight red dress Tatiana wears when she is on the prowl. “I am sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about that night and the two of you.  When we cook dinner and you lift up the frying pan with the red and white oven mitt, I think of you grabbing her red dress.  When you lean against me from behind I wonder if you wished you were leaning against her red dress and that body of hers instead of mine.  When we kiss, I question who you liked better me or her.  It doesn’t stop Lisa. I run this tape all day and night. Can’t you see what my eyes and veins look these days? I haven’t slept well in weeks.  Can you give me some time to let some of this work out or at least decide if I am willing to figure it out? Is that too much too ask?”

Alone staring at the empty page. What does it have to say to me tonight? What can I learn from this bright white emptiness?

I am a man. I can start there. I am a good man, with soft features and strong textures.  I am soft but hard, gentle but rough, honest but mostly full of it.  I cry when I allow myself, mostly for attention but sometimes because I have no choice.  Maybe tonight is one of those nights.  Leaking, that’s what tears feel like to me, leaking.  Stuff that breaks the seal and just cant be contained any longer.  I hate crying but like the way I feel afterwards.  Men do not cry. My father didn’t and neither did my brother. He called me sprinklepot when I was little.  Then he called Michael Excuseloff. A spin off of my last name because I had an excuse for everything, no responsibility, just excuses. 

I remember crying in the dining room of the apartment I shared with my father and brother after we moved out from my mom. It was done through the courts due to me agreeing to a lie my brother told about my mom. I never quite was able to look her in the face again the same from that day forward. At least not till I made amends 25 years later.  The dining room consisted of an ugly brown veneer table, no not even veneer, just a plastic top with a ‘wood grain’. It was round.  The chairs were green with rollers. We had pizza that night from an Italian pizza joint not far away.  My brother caught me lying about something and I made up some crap about blah blah blah. He said, “Your new name is Michael Excuseloff, that is your name. Michael Excuseloff.”  It stuck but only with the two of them.  He teased me ruthlessly, “Sprinklepot, Sprinklepot, Michael Excuseloff is a Sprinklepot”.  I cried more and ran to my room to turn up my Kenwood amp and Accoustic Research speakers till the shelves shook. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the echoing words and intention behind them. I hated him that night.

How can I hate the person that took care of me when everything went bad.  My savior, protector and god all wrapped up in an Italian looking Burt Reynolds package.  I hated him that night, and many other nights and days. I do not hate him any more. Time and death will provide that opportunity. I still hated him for a few years after he passed. Even more for leaving me behind with all this hate and nowhere to direct it.  What good is hating a dead man?  But a real life human, I can have fun with that.

I am done with hate. It does nothing for me.  I need more. More from myself and what I really feel, not hiding behind anger and rage so I don’t have to feel or know or admit. Anger is great for hiding. Men have been doing this for millenniums, I guess women to but just differently. They hide their hiding better, more skilled.  I need more. It must be love. What else could I need? If anger isn’t the answer, it must be love? No?  What else is there?  I read all the self-help books in the early nineties; if it is not hate it must be love. MLK said, “You cannot drive out hate with hate, only love can do that”.  I need more love. Bang. That is it. I need more love.

Life situation resolved. Check.

I stayed home from school one day five years earlier with a slight stomachache. Really, I just didn’t feel like going.  I can assure you Karma took care of that lie big time. The early 70’s were not kind to my family. This was the day that triggered the traumatic series of events known in my family as ‘When the crap began’.

I was lying in bed half awake, half asleep. It was just after 10:a.m., I think it was 10:15.  I faintly heard my mother and father arguing downstairs in what sounded like the living room that we never used. “It was for company”.  Except that we never invited anyone to our house that hadn’t been there many times before.  But the living room with the green carpet and triangular glass coffee table in the middle of the room had my favorite lamp. Yes, lamp. I was a ten-year-old-boy with a favorite lamp. This lamp had a normal boring lampshade but the base was made of quartz. There must have been nearly a hundred crystals on the lamp and I touched and slid my finger across every one of them more times than I could count. We were not allowed in the living room but I would sneak in just to touch the crystals.  It sounded like they were standing at the base of the steps that lead up to the bedrooms across from the kitchen door that had no door.  I cold tell by how close they were but they were not upstairs. I put the pillow over my head but it did little.

My mom’s yelling voice was unmistakable in force and volume when she was mad, this time she was enraged.  “Byron, you will never sleep in my bed again!  I caught you finally. I can’t believe it took me so long but I caught you.  How stupid are you to call her in Chicago and think I would not notice a charge on the phone bill for $8.42? What do you think I am an idiot?  Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have thought you could get away with this all this time. Twenty-seven years! I cannot believe I am such a fool. Twenty-seven years. Everybody tried to tell me but I didn’t listen.  I am such a fool.  Never again will you sleep in my bed!”

“Gladys. Just relax and calm down. We’ll figure this whole thing out.”

“What the hell is there to figure out?”

“Let’s talk about it and see what we can work out like civilized people”.

“Civilized people? Aw go Fuck Yourself and your little bimbo in Chicago! Get the hell out of here! This is my home and you need to get the hell out of here now!”

He never put up a fight- not for her, our family or us.  He simply left and on Sunday night my parents sat us down in the den and told us they were getting separated.  We did not know what that meant; America was not home of the separated and divorced yet. I had to ask my friends what separated meant and none of them knew.  Eventually I figured out by the fact that he got an apartment down in Elizabeth that separated meant your father moves out. 

The next year they got divorced, another word I had to ask my friends what it meant with the same result. Then my father had a series of heart attacks while I was away at summer camp for the first time in sixth grade. One killed him and they brought him back to life.  This was also new back then. We played chess a lot that summer. Bobby fisher was winning the World Championship from a Russian guy. I was told I had to be nice to him so he wouldn’t have another heart attack and die. I remembered this for the rest of his life every time I was angry with him.  He lived another twenty years. 

Then my mother had breast cancer, another new word to America and me. She went to the hospital for something called ‘chemo’. It was many years later that I figured out chemo was short for chemotherapy meaning chemical therapy. I never could figure out why they didn’t call it chemical therapy.  She lived another thirty years.  Anthony, my older brother started getting in trouble, big trouble.  We had to keep switching what school he went to after his fights. “He was hurting too many people”, they all said. He wa; including me.  When the crap began, he was my caretaker. He mad sure I was OK and nobody hurt me except him.

I remember that winter I was playing in the snow in front of our home making a snowman by myself. Then Kenny Mitchell who was three years older than me threw a snowball at me playfully. It hit me in the head and my glasses were all messed up. I got mad and threw one back at him, I missed his head but just barely. He made a big one and came over and stuffed it in my face. About twenty seconds later my brother came running out of the house in his gym shorts without a shirt and beat the hell out of Kenny Mitchell in the snow. The blood left an eerie feeling in my belly that I both leered and loved.  There was great power in having an older brother who was an all-state football player and wrestler with a ruthless temper. It was a power I used throughout my teens well into my twenties.  Kenny never bothered me again, nor anyone else in the neighborhood.

I got suspended for the first time in seventh grade for sticking a chocolate ice cream stick in Joey Meyers face and punching him.  It was the first of three suspensions that year for me. And that was only the beginning. Drugs and Blackjack had not entered the picture yet for me.

I wrote a juicy love letter to a new friend, friend being the key word here. It is a little out of character for me expressing affection, intimacy and open-ness of this sort to new friends. It was fun but may have created some distance between us:)

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine.  Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved.  Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest.  Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?” 

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me.  I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair.  I faired well in that department.  The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand.  When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point!  I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers!  Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic.  Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts.  Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas.  Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs.  If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry!  Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind.  But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie.  Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now.  At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin.  My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing.  In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

A Night Fear: A Bedtime Story

It is 1:52a.m.  I cannot hold out much longer. I need sleep. My eyes are barely open; they are dry and weak.  My breathing is beginning to get shallow, maybe reaching the top if my chest while I gasp for a solid breath.  Another minute passes, still can’t make it to the far side if the room where the bed is waiting for me. It knows.  It always knows.

The bed knows that I am afraid, no afraid is not the truth, I am terrified of letting myself spend another night in there wrapped in sage sheets and the brown comforter on top of layer upon layer of thick, dense terror that drenches the inner corners of this shredded mind and body.  My feet are stiff from avoiding this bed they way they press across the wood paneling holding me here at the typewriter where I am safe.  I can keep my eyes open forever as long as I keep typing. One word at a time it will be morning and the first beams of sunlight will streak the large open window that is letting in the uneven footsteps of the drunk men and women stumbling out of the bar/’men’s club’ across the narrow street.  I can hear their muffled laughter at themselves and each other.  They will sleep fine tonight.  When they close their eyes they will only see the bed swirling till they become unconscious. Me, I will stay with my eyes closed till dawn.  I will see what I have left beyond and dragged with me.  I watch them slither and slink as they approach me with drool escaping down their chins just waiting for the moment I forget to pay attention.  I see them though, perched on the sill of the window.  Can hear their breath even while mine is wheezing from night after night without reparation from this cave I have created of a life. 

When will it end?  Can I end it? Or do I have to just wait till they seize the moment and me.  Their triumph is actually a relief for me. At least it will be over. I can then sleep knowing I am owned and there is nothing left to fear.  What is there to fear when you are the fear itself?

I smell the garbage from the Korean Kimchi Soup place down the alley.  It has that day old food odor that penetrates the chest and sticks to the ribs like the moonlight to the crow’s feet under my eyes.  I smell them too.  It has that metallic scent of death still living.  I know it too well.  It has been with me since the night I said “Yes” to the man at the door of the bar/‘men’s club across the street. I do not know which is worse, whatever lies beneath this darkness or the impending knowledge that I will be eaten alive by it. 

2:07a.m.  Maybe I can write one more page to put it off just a little longer. I know they are out there waiting.  I can hear the scratching on the outer walls against the white cement.  They are sharpening their nails. Little do they know that they will not need their nails, one r two more nights I will just give in.  I just can’t do it anymore.

I wonder if my blood will change to a different color? Green or maybe just a darker red.  Shit. Will I still have blood?  Blood means life and they do not feel like the living.  Metal does not have blood or warmth or tears or joy. Metal is hard, well, like metal. 

I hate cleaning up their goo left on the windowsill every morning. It sticks to the silver metal frame and takes bleach, hot water and lavender just to get the stench out.  I finally figured out that leaving the window all day helps. Besides, I need the fresh air while trying to catch a few hours of sleep while it is daylight.

My plants have died. Even the cactus that survived the flight from New Mexico.  It is too much work to clean the=m out and get rid if the pots. So they just sit there; dead, staring at e while it is daytime.

2:41a.m. I can’t type anymore. I will not make it tonight till morning.  I am a little dizzy.  When I move quickly, my head swoops down and I almost tip over.  I can smell my own breath. Stale with grimy and gritty teeth.  The BBQ potato chips from eight hours ago still inhaled with every breath.

2:52a.m. These are my last words beefier I lean over on my typewriter and close me eyes. I will not get in that bed but I do not think it matters.  I could be on Mt. Everest and they would be there waiting for nightfall and the moment I submit to sleep. Maybe it won’t be so bad.  Maybe not having blood move through these veins is not such a bad thing. Anything to get a decent night sleep, just three hours would be such a relief. If this is the way it is going to end, I should have at least wiped off this old Remington first.

2:56a.m. I give in, nothing left in me to fight anymo

Dear Leandra,

After finding out we will spend next weekend together for my birthday, I woke this morning differently.  I know it is Saturday but I cannot wait till Sunday to write you again, especially after knowledge of your disappointment at the absence of a letter last week. I am sorry that the depth of my shyness kept me from you.

    As my eyes were starting to force themselves open from the wind blowing the long bone-colored blinds that cover my large picture window and the sound of strong raindrops landing on the cement of the alley below my room, I noticed something firmly pressing against my shorts. 

    I was still trying to figure out where I was and what was going on when I drifted back into the moment before rising.  We were lying in my small mummy sleeping back for one in the spooning position with me in back, my right arm around your waist relaxing on your stomach.  I can smell your fragrance in the cool night air on top of Soeraksan Mountain this late May.  A small batch of your soft black hair is meandering around my neck and tickles me with every movement.  I am grateful your body is warm as we do not have enough sleeping bag to cover both of us and you are my main source of heat.  The curve of your spine fits me like we were made to be lying this way all our lives.  That is with the exception of the forceful protrusion that does not want to stay inside my blue and brown cotton boxers.  I do not know how much of this you can feel or if it is as distracting to you as me.  Your breathing tells me otherwise, as does the way you unconsciously rub against me from time to time. Does Soeraksan know how much you mean to me? Does she laugh at my silence and apprehension?

 I will not break my promise to you. But apparently my subconscious has another vision of what we are to be doing and not doing.  I pray the two find some kind of harmony to further support our connection and not create distance or firm obstacles between us. I believe in Love and trust Love’s miracles and gifts. Until we speak again.

Peace and Love,
michael

Monday morning musing on life, love and Leandra- Goddess of both

Dear Leandra,

I wanted to share with you that I think I have failed
you in a way. By playfully writing and speaking so
frequently and casually about sex, attraction and your
appearance, I may have created something between us
that does not belong- a sense that you are an object
to me and need to look or be a certain way to meet
some kind of standard.

True, I do find you irresistibly attractive BUT that is
because of who you are and what you are made of. The
fact that you are a total babe is just icing on the
cake, not the cake itself. Having a nice set of eyes,
cheeks, lips, humps and bumps is fun to look at and
dream about but it is just part of who you are.

Why am I writing all this to you? Good question, glad
you asked.

I invite you to let go of thinking you need to look a
certain way for me to care about and love you.
Whether you are look or feel 'pretty' or not has no relevance to my
appreciation of you. I will make an effort to slow
down on the comments that support this kind of
scenario between us, maybe let the whole Sunday love
letter thing fall away as well.

Please know I adore you and think you are amazing.
Hope you feel better today and got some rest last
night.

Excited about playing in the mountains and beach this
weekend!

Peace
michael

It was mostly sunny on the beach that day. She was wearing her standard white bikini, the one that shows off her naturally golden brown skin and some other stuff as well.  She was going to wear her hair in a pony tail but at the last minute decoded to let it hang loose and around her shoulders.  Besides, she was not dating Andy anymore and well, why not wear her hair down?

Sally likes the beach in general but ate June when the water in the pacific is just getting warmer is her favorite time.  She had to leave work early just to make the train to the bus.  Her students were very grateful to be rushed out of class so she could leave, “Anything for you Sally Teacher” in that flat tone that people have when learning a foreign language.  Little did they know Sally Teacher would be barely covering her body with her skimpy bikini by morning?

She brought with her the latest reading phase she is going through, spiritual geometry.  She laughs to herself when she thinks about wearing a barely legal but definitely culturally unacceptable bikini, reading about spiritual geometry on the beach of top of her blue and white striped beach towel. Well, at least the Korean version of a beach towel, it is more a standard western bath towel since they don’t use full sized towels in Central Asia.  She bright some SPF 15 sun block just to squash the voices in her head that tell her she is gong to get burnt when she knows from experience that brown-skinned girls rarely get burnt and definitely not in June, maybe a trip to Thailand in February but not June.

Sally steps on to the beach and immediately removes her brown and tan earth-toned sandals with straps in back that took weeks to find since they don’t do that here either.  She pauses to feel the sand tickle her toes and cant help but giggle out loud. Sand has always been a good friend of Sally’s.  She notices two young guys staring out her while she is standing and letting the sand run through her toes.  She almost looked back but remembered she has had enough of young guys and their little minds full of bullshit.  Even if they are built like surfers with their year-round-summer tans.  She laughs at loud again but this time it is not a giggle, more of a chuckle at the thought of college aged guys spending time at the tanning salons and trying to pull of being all manly.

She beds down and picks up her sandals and holds them in her right hand as she scans the beach for the right place to park for the day.  No, not the gawking college boys, no, not the dirty middle aged guy with binoculars staring at her body, definitely not the three fake blonde girls in bright pink bikinis and white plastic, large sunglasses.  Ahhh, open spaces to her left just near the edge of the shoreline- perfect!  She heads there without taking her eyes off the destination and the approaching water.  Her shoulders relax and she takes in a few deep breathes of salt water and the smell of freshness.  She already feels at home on a beach she has never been to before. Growing up in a beach community will do that to a girl.  She places her towel on the sand, lays down her canvas bag full of f goodies like aloe juice, her iPod and phones, two bananas and of course her book on spiritual geometry.  Oh yeah, and her yellow and brown writing pad that she is hoping a few poems may burst on to the pages if her muse decides today is the day. He has been silent lat3ely and one of the reasons she wanted to get the beach to wake his lazy ass up so she can do some writing again.

She gets up and stretches before walking the short fifteen feet to the shoreline anticipating that magic moment of the first touch of ocean water of the season.  It is like the first time a guy, no, she decides not to go there today. Today is about her, not men, boys and sex, today o sabot sally.  That was=s great plan till she simultaneously felt that first footstep into the cool but barely wet sand and discovered the dark-skinned, maybe equatorial islander guy swimming like a little kid way out beyond everyone else. Her head spins for a second at the rush of the now very cool water above her ankles, almost at her knees and those same knees forgetting about doing the holding up thing while taking in the upper body of this totally playful man splashing and twirling by himself in the water. He is everything Andy isn’t- dark playful, free and well, not Andy!   Sally stared off into the endless horizon if water and waves and considers a totally new concept; maybe today is about me, and a guy.  Yep, good to be back at the beach again. Home sweet home.  She dives in to the fresh, clean cool water and submerges as long as she can hold her breath and pops up as a wave crushed over her and she falls flat on her back laughing and swallowing a mouthful of salt water.  When she lands back on her feet and stops coughing, a voice from about ten feet away asks in a tone that only a man that is comfortable with being man has, “ are you OK? You took quite a ride there.”

She works hard to gain her senses and balance as she turns knowing exactly whom that voice belongs to by his Filipino accent, “Yes, I am fine. I just swallowed an entire mouthful of water while laughing at myself for forgetting the ocean has waves.”

She finally has gained her composure enough to look at him directly and smiles that her suspicions were right and it is the guy who was playing in his own little world moments ago.  They make eye contact and hold it long enough for both of them to forget that you ate supposed to speak and introduce themselves at some point.  She cannot contain herself again and starts laughing, apparently it is a day for laughing. He reaches out his hand firmly but warmly, “I am Trevor. I am here on holiday for two weeks and missed the sand and water so made my way from Seoul just to play on the beach today.”

“Hi Trevor, I am sally.” 

Yes today is about herself but also seems to include Trevor from The Philippines in her solo trip to the beach.  Funny what sand, sun and salt water can do to a girl, and a guy?

Dear Leandra,
It is now almost twelve hours since we had to unexpectedly part at the bus station.   I had to fight back my urge to see if those tears would fall and accomplish my mission but realized you were saddened enough about having to be called away on such a beautiful day by the beach less than twenty minutes from our spooning marathon.

Gosh those last moments at the bus stop reminded me why I am glad to be alive.  To feel that strongly is evidence life is worth living, even if painful at times. 

You were in fact the perfect birthday present for me.  I am so glad I disregarded your request to not read your card till after you were gone, knowing that I have effected you as you have me brought me closer to you and let me know that love and friendship matter.

My favorite parts of our weekend were of course sharing my birthday with you, Seoraksan, what a mountain range, all three Reiki sessions and our unknowing final moments before the sudden shift from the outside world of spooning quietly and still after our Reiki session together.


After you left and I was able to make my way down to the beach, I secretly had to fight back tears of my own.  Why do we struggle with saying good-bye to each other so fiercely?  While walking on the shoreline with my feet experiencing their first glimpses of naked contact with salt water this season, I noticed a small black and white speckled rock. It was mostly smooth with one little chip along the side. It reminded me of you. I picked it up and rolled it around in my hand before cleaning it in the ocean water. I felt you and your presence right then and there by myself on the beach.  My throat closed slightly and breath became shallow and erratic- we had not said goodbye after all!  I held that rock in my hand the rest of the afternoon, I hope you to felt the connection too that no bus or obstacle the world through between us could wrench apart. I am looking at it sitting on my desk as I write you tonight right next to your card.

It is hard to believe that less than a month ago we had not physically met in this lifetime.  Equally difficult to imagine is that we have six weeks before you leave Korea for good and begin your trip to Europe.  How have you already created a potential void in my life? Are you some kind of magician to do this is quickly and effortlessly?

I look forward to the next time the Universe sees fit for us to share the same space again, maybe as soon as Saturday night.

May Peace and Love be with you,
michael

“Wow! We barely know each other and you are comfortable with me spending the night already?”

Jessica can see Marco’s excited expression on his face that he can barely hold back his geeky enthusiasm. “Sure, why not. You seem safe. You are not some kind of creepy dirty old man are you?”

“Old? I am not that old.” Marco loses the little bit of composure he was able to maintain while looking at Jessica. She is almost half his age, attractive, very attractive. She is the type that works out daily, doesn’t need make-up or anything to highlight her soft skin, red cheeks and big brown eyes. She has been blessed with the full package of necessary bumps and humps to delight any man, especially a man who is knocking on the age of fifty. His face is crunched up and his forehead has a set of train tracks running across from left to right. His bottom lip is now curled under his teeth, still mostly white. “Age is really just a number, it is about how you live your life and how old you feel.”

Jessica laughs and smiles, “That is what my dad says too when we call him an old man.”

Marco’s shoulders shrink. What excitement was beaming out just seconds ago is now replaced with hands in the pockets of his faded Levis blue jeans and head facing the orange creamlike colored painted cement floor of Azuma Coffee House. “Your father? How old is your father?”

“Fifty-four I think, something up there like that. You guys both wear the same jeans too! Do you listen to The Beatles like him? Everybody from your generation loves The Beatles. I think Let It Be is such a nice song.”

Marco feels like his life force has just disappeared. As if he is standing in front of her without actually being alive anymore- just a corpse of a man without somewhere stay in downtown San Francisco tonight. His friend that he was supposed to stay with had an unexpected death in the family, as seems to happen more and more these days with his friends. “Marco, I am sorry about your friends brother dieing. I have never really had anyone close to me die except my cat Mittens was I was sixteen and my best friend’s cousin died last year. I went to the funeral. Funerals are really creepy, have you ever been to one?”

“Yes, I have been to many funerals.”

“Oh yeah, I guess that happens at your age, sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Jessica joins Marco with looking at the floor but finds a way to pull herself back to the room and his situation, “I meant it when I said you could stay at my place tonight.”

The subway ride to her large studio apartment on the third floor was quieter than the conversation they had before the age thing entered the picture. Marco could feel all forty-eight years of a full, but sometimes challenging life wearing him down. She was busy texting her friends about getting into law school at Georgetown. When they entered her space, he was shocked by the bright colors of orange and purple that seemed to fill every inch of her room. He notices that she only has one bed; his energy begins to fill his body and mind again. She takes off her white sheer buttoned-down shirt that was covering her tank top. Her young full breasts are popping out both top and sides of the very taut cotton fabric. He is having trouble breathing now as she then takes off her tank top as well to reveal a grey sports bra. She is doing all of this while walking around picking up dirty underwear, sweatpants and hoodie splayed around her place. “Make yourself at home. I just need to take a shower from working out earlier. It will only be ten minutes or so. Do you want some tea, orange juice or Coke? Just help yourself.” She points to the fridge and lets her hair down out of the tight ponytail as she walks toward the bathroom. She stops to open her brown veneer dresser drawers to pull out a skimpy pink tank top and small blue shorts. She opens another drawer and shuffles through her underwear till she finds a black thong, grabs it and enters the bathroom with the door shutting behind her. He feels the erection in his pants growing by the minute. He quickly reflects to see if he brought his new pack of condoms that he picked up at the airport anticipating whatever may happen when traveling. He searches in the second pocket of his backpack and feels around till he can feel the little box wrapped in cellophane that contains three condoms for $6.00 at the airport convenience store.

He hears the shower running in the bathroom and the sounds of the water shifting as it hits her naked young body. He loses sense of time and place and is startled when realizing where he is and what he thinks is about to happen. He focuses on keeping his erection from getting too large too quickly; he is not a young stud anymore. He decides some cold OJ would be the perfect thing at this moment and walks around the mounted table that separates the kitchen from the rest of the room and opens the fridge to see three bottles of wine, one red, a can of beer and a plastic cheese set almost finished before reaching for the cold carton of Orange Juice. The cabinet above the fridge has mostly mugs and plastic stadium cups, he decides a red stadium cup will work best and spills some OJ while pouring it. “Shit!” He grabs a rag off the counter and wipes it up as Jessica opens the bathroom door with a beach towel in her hand drying her hair and all the short, tight clothes she brought in with her including her underwear that she was wearing in the other hand. She puts the underwear in her purple plastic laundry basket and faces him with her nipples pointing through her sheer tank top. He glances away not to seem too eager. She giggles, “Sorry, I guess I should have put on a bra. Is this making you uncomfortable? I can put on a bra if that would be better? It is just what I always wear around my room. I forgot.”

He clears his throat, “No, that is fine, don’t worry about it.”

“OK.” She lays the towel down on her bed and shakes her thick brown, almost black hair out before using the brush on her night table to brush her hair with her nipples still poking through her shirt. “I just want to call my boyfriend real quick to let home know I am home.” She flips open her bright white cell phone and starts to push buttons when Marco moves toward her, “You have a boyfriend? What will he think about me staying here in your room?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He will understand that you are an older guy needing a place to stay. If you were my age or even in your thirties, he may be worried but not a guy my dad’s age.” She lets a little giggle out and then continues, “Actually he is much older than any other guy I have ever dated, he just turned twenty-nine and has his own DJ company. He is one of the biggest DJs in Frisco right now. You do not have to worry about him. I’ll let him know that you are totally safe and it is like having one of my Uncles stay here or something. Once, one of my dad’s friends from high school was visiting Frisco and he stayed here too. Arturo was cool with that and I assume he will be with this. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Well I am a guy.”

“Yeah, but when you get to be your age, it is like being neutered or something to girls my age. I am sure it would be different if I were older like a mom or something. You know what I mean?”

“Neutered? Did you say neutered?”

This is a wriritng assigment from the Diving Deeper Group that begins with a reflection on this statement; "Memories of the forgotten moments from which my Soul is constructed"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It was the fourth day of a four-day intensive. We were down to just three of us; one didn’t make it the distance. I practically quit a few times.  Really, I just wanted anything but to have to deal with who I was right at that time and place.  Anything would and could be better than feeling that sense of disconnection from me, The Higher Self, from others and most of all from God. I was alone with the two people I felt most comfortable and safest in the world but very alone.

I had skated through a few years of living in an intentional community and being ‘the spiritual guy’. Labels like this excuse you from actually having to grow because everyone assumed you must be doing whatever asinine thing your was doing because ‘it must have a purpose’. Hah! Funny in retrospect.  It had a purpose all right, and it worked. I completely detached from my self and why I was sent here this time.

The living statue that I had become needed to be broken, crushed or both. I sat like a monk, ate like a monk, spoke like a monk, gardened like a monk, listened like a monk but there were two specific aspects that separated me from ‘monkhood’.  The first being that I did not care about anyone but myself, a major flaw in the whole acts like one,  looks like one, talks like one, eats like and even has a shaved head like one theory.  The other was that I was not a monk! By not being a monk meant that I did not make the vows and commitments necessary to sustain the life of a monk. I could wake as many nights as I wanted at 3:00a.m. to meditate and pray but I was not a monk.

What was I then? A living statue of a man who looked similar to me, similar.  I had no emotions or connection to anybody or anything really. Every now and then I would involuntarily connect to something or somebody but it was rarer and rarer as time went on. Nobody questioned or confronted me about what or why I was doing or not doing. I just got away with it on perception alone. Well, I didn’t really get away with anything; I was miserable. So I sat in my room day after day staring at nothing and ‘just being’.  Trust me, I was full of ‘being’ something all right.

Then came the intensive right after 911, not planned that way, just worked out to be then.  My games and bullshit had run its course. Of course I was not aware of any of it, since I already knew everything.  The that last day during lunch.  I believe we were eating pumpkin soup with sunflower seeds, a vegetable salad and some freshly baked homemade brown bread of some kind. The other two were finished with their meal even though they ate slowly. I was busy eating slower as part of my ‘Messiah Complex’.  The show must go on!

“Douglas”, the facilitator said to me, “Your spirituality seems very external.  You seem to only connect and show interest in external things like food, the environment, and the earth. What about you? Are you ever connected to yourself anymore? When was the last time you actually felt a connection to The Higher Self?”

I slowly placed my fork down on the light blue tablecloth with white along the edges.  I tried to stay in my statue state but it was starting to crumble after four days of the outer layers being chipped away little by little.  “Actually, I do not see them as different. They are all One for me.”

The two of them looked at each and had to restrain themselves from breaking into hysterical laughter.  “Really?” The smiles, no smirks were slicing through the last few layers. I could feel them being cut right in front of my eyes.  “Yes. They are all just manifestations of God. I do not”. And I was cut off promptly and forcefully, “How dare you bring God into this!  What you are connected to does not resemble God in any shape or form! Leave God out of this so you do not have to heap anymore Karmic debts than you already have!  God. You wouldn’t know God if you were standing in God’s Presence!”

And there it was. Bang! Just like that my core crumbled all over the brown bread with raisins and walnuts.  There was nothing left to hide since it was no longer hidden, even from myself. I shook. I trembled. I played with the drawstrings of my cotton pants. I looked down to avoid anything that resembled eye contact.

“Are we done?” she said to the other participant.

“Yes, I thing we are. We certainly can’t do any more work without a connection to The Higher Self present and clearly that will not happen today.”

“I agree.  OK, we are done.  Sorry Douglas but it just isn’t meant to be this time. There is nothing we can do. This is between you and God.  I pray for you and will continue to do so. But this is between you and God.”

One hour later I was walking down the street with my backpack full and the still hot Autumn sun blazing on my body. I was being singed while walking down that street lined with old green pines and country houses. With each heavy step, I could feel the weight and burden of those words, “How dare you bring God into this! What you are connected to does not resemble God in any shape or form.” I didn’t even get to finish my salad or say good-bye to anyone. I was the contagious disease that they did not want to catch.  Harsh as it may have been; it saved my life.  Many years later I realized it was not personal, it was a spiritual Teaching and had nothing to do with me or my personality. The Soul is constructed of much greater fabric than what the personality can stitch together.  Just like these forgotten memories that shook the statue right out of me till I was left naked with just me and my mind of spaghetti twisted and tied together without a spaghetti spoon to pull them apart.