Saturday, June 2, 2007

Today is Saturday- remorse

I slept from around 8 pm until noon. That is some crazy sleep for me considering I usually run at about 4 - 6 hours, and if I am lucky 8 hours. So, to get in almost 16 hours of sleep is impressive. I am looking forward to getting some more sleep tonight. I actually just want to go back to bed and see if I can wake up tomorrow with that sore, groggy body feeling. I want to go outside tomorrow, maybe go for a bike ride, and see if I can breath clearly and see if the light hurts my head.
I awoke this morning to a sense of dread, or remorse, or regret from my posting of yesterday. I was thinking about it prior to falling asleep and it was the first thing that I thought of this morning. I spent the last hour or so focusing in on the issue and I think that I narrowed it down to one really repugnant, distasteful and puerile (I like the way this word sounds. It sounds so, 'adult' and wise) account. I owe an apology to myself. I should not have been so quick to state that I am a bad, awful person. I did feel a bit awkward when driving by Sophia's house, but in a strange way, I had hoped that I would see her. I wanted to see her walking into her house; walking out of her house; walking with someone; walking alone; driving; parking; pausing to clean her glasses; kneeling to buckle her shoe; stopping to reposition her shopping bags on her hands. I really needed to see her, and I am too proud at this moment to call her up; and, she is clearly too proud to call me; so we are at an impasse. No, I don't think that that is the right word. We are both clearly making a decision which is to not call the other, and I am assuming that she wants to see me, but is too proud to call or come by. What if she does not want to see me and she is not calling me since she has clearly moved on and is finished with me. I am not sure if that is an impasse, rather, it is a fait accompli- keeping it in the French references even though I am not a big fan of the French.
Mi son Venezian'!
On May 16th, Napolean put his mark upon the souls of the Venetians when he said, ".....the Winged Lion of Venice must lick the dust."; and then he kidnapped our Noble Lion and Steads and hoisted the shit rag above our square. When Zizou tried to break the 'Lecce Stone' it was in response to what the French already know- our Lion and Steads are the true father's of the French population, and Paris is a Venetian suburb. Zizou's header was another attack on our great City, but as all things French go, he was not man enough to conquer us. Just like Napolean, he was returned to France a tired, frustrated and helpless man.
If the weather is clear tonight, I will bring out the Dob and look for some dark fuzzies. I had always wanted to star gaze with Sophia, but she never seemed to be interested in it. I wonder if 'yellow panties' would be.
Xioba- Forza Italia!

Friday, June 1, 2007

Yesterday was Thursday- goodbye party

Last night I went to a going away party for one of our employees. Keith Andrews had been with the company for at least 6 or 7 years and was well liked. He was one of the guys at work that would make me laugh, blush and smirk all at once. We would go to lunch once a month or so and just talk about the hot girls at work. We had our top 20, but really focused in on the top 10. Our top 5s were very similar but not equal. 'Yellow panties' was my #1 while she was top 5 for Keith. He preferred the blonds while I am partial to the browns.
We had 4 or 5 favorite places for our monthly lunch. Yesterday, our last month together, was at a tofu house. The smells and tastes brought back many good memories of lustful speak. I would always get the Kimchi with soft tofu, no meat, extra hot. If you have never had tofu house soup, I highly recommend that you try it, but when you do be warned not to eat it immediately- let it cool down for a while. The meal is brought out in waves. First wave, hot, hot green tea. Second wave, cold, cold kimchis (9 or 10 types). Third wave, the rice which is bluish in color and is served in a clay bowl that sits upon a sort of wooden platter. The rice and clay bowl are so hot that the wooden panel is charred and smoking. Final wave, the tofu soup- the best way to explain it is a cup of lava. Bubbling and gurgling and rolling about and as red as clay bricks. The soup is also on a wooden plate that is smoking. After about 5 minutes you can venture into your first bite, but be warned to not to try to cool your mouth with the tea as the tea is also very, very hot. When you can finally pallet the soup, you get an incredibly, exquisite sensation of flavor, heat, spice and texture. The kimchi is intense, the tofu is silken, and the rice is the perfect pillow. When I eat her I am sweating the whole time, and I can't stop eating. It would be perfect with an OB, but I have not drank during work for several years. I will remember Keith and my conversations over this soup for many years. Much like the combination of flavor and heat of the soup, our conversations were lascivious, genuine, heartfelt, funny and painful. We would talk of eating pussy right after finishing our final thoughts on surfing or biking. We would talk of ATM before talking genuinely about how to make ourselves better managers. You get the idea.
We met after work at a bar. There were plenty of people from his area there and several others from the general population at work. I met and spoke with a few people that I had never seen before. They were all sincere and nice to be around. There were, of course, a good representation from our Top 20. This made me happy. 'Yellow panties' was not there.
Keith and I did notice the 18 year old (maybe 19) in the tight blue dress. She was a footer (meaning she went 6') and she was all shoulders, legs and overly styled hair. Her bra kept peaking out from under her dress. At one point, she came over behind the backs of the people at her table, and knelt down by us with her back to us. She was posing for a picture, and I hope that the photo captured Keith and I staring at her. How can I explain this in a way that would make sense to the common reader? When she bent down, her dress lifted slightly to show off her calves and thighs- tight, coffee skin with subtle striations of muscle. Her thong, which appeared to be ruffled and which was visible through her cotton dress, was too small for her body and allowed my imagination to go deep inside of her. Her backbone and ribs protruded out, but were a nice foil for her small breasts. Her neck, shoulders, arms, and elbows were all awkward and stiff which told me that she was a virgin.
I feel dirty talking about her right now, and I envy the person that will make her cum one day.
The night ended by me drinking far too much and having to drive home. On the way home, I thought about driving by Sophia's house, but I could not do it. I just needed to make it home so that I could savor the sight of the blue dressed virgin.
Today at work I was sad and distracted all day, so I canceled all my meetings and just focused on my work. I was able to get caught up for the first time in weeks. I answered and read all my unopened emails and I caught up on all my reviews. By 4:00, I was done and ready to go home. I decided to drive by Sophia's house on the way home. Her car was not there. I ended up stopping by a bar near her house with the hope that she would come in. After a few drinks, I decided to go home. On my way out of the city, I thought that I saw her car. Butterflies and heartburn. I really miss her, but I am too much of a slimy pig; I am an awful, awful man that dehumanizes women; I am a horrid person that only thinks of lust; I am very aware right now that I may lose Sophia if I don't change. I can't stop thinking of 'yellow panties'. I need to act on her.

Xioba

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Today is Wednesday- gorillas are not good pets

Last night after a few tumblers of pappys, I met my friends, David and Teresa, at the bar near the taco lounge and across the street from the brunch place. When did beer turn bad in this country? I can't stand all the shitty beer that has all the fruity names and honey and sweet nectar bs. I like good beer- bud, coors, peroni, heineken, moretti. Usually, when I go to bars now a days, I need to order bourbon since the beer is usually undrinkable. But, bars do have nice bourbon these days. Pappy, knob crick, bakers, bookers, etc.

Several bourbons in and a few trips outside to smoke made me extra irritable. I started making fun of somebody at the end of the bar. I hadn't seen the person here before, so at first I was curious about who they were. Then, I started to watch this guy intently and he started to bother me. There was something about the way he was sitting at the bar- sort of hunched over, but his shoulders were raised up and his head and neck were sort of squished down into his chest. He also moved his head sort of like a weather vane in summer- slow and very, very deliberately. His hands were a bit on the big side, almost clubbed and his ass was big and egg shaped. He could drink, however. He was slamming down some sort of pink, chick's drink. Anyway, I started making fun of this guy to David and Teresa, and they started laughing at first. I kept going at it, saying things like, 'I can smell my armpits when I do this.' (imitating the way the guy was sitting.) And, 'I like pork! that is why I have such a fat ass.'
It must have been the bourbon, but I just couldn't stop myself. I was getting pretty loud and obnoxious with my imitations, so much so that Teresa got up and took a break from me. I went on to loudly make fun of the guys hair, his arms, his legs, his clothes, his drinks, his ears, eyes, shoes. Finally, I realized that David was no longer laughing with me, and Teresa was visibly pissed off. She asked me to stop and told me to stop drinking. All my laughing and imitating had made my jaw hurt and had made it hard to swallow, but, I said, 'ok, I am sorry, I was just messing around.'
It goes without saying that the bartender and several other people were not happy with me; apparently, I was pretty loud. But, the guy just kept sitting there which made me believe that he didn't hear me or didn't care about what I was doing. We settled back into our drinks and began talking about the upcoming summer plans. The whole mood in the bar settled down as well, and some nice early pink floyd played.
Next thing I know is that the guy is standing to the side of Teresa and is staring me down. I take one look and I realize that I must be some kind of asshole for this guy is clearly mentally handicapped. I try to break out a little half smile, crinkled eye look that says, 'oops'; but, too late, one of those meaty, meaty hands bitch slaps me right across the face. Calloused skin from digits hit my eyeball, a rugged fingernail scratched by temple, a meaty thumb thudded on my nose, and the surprisingly soft, meaty part of the palm hit my lips and went into my mouth. My ears rang, my jaw hurt more and the force of the blow taught me that this guy was strong, really, really strong. I took it- I can take a punch- and said, 'I deserved that, but please don't hit me again.'
Of course, nobody in the bar moved. They just watched this happen. Then the guy turned around and went to his seat. David and Teresa got up to go, but I asked them to stay which they hesitantly did. The bartender just looked at me and shook his head. I said loudly and clearly, 'I deserved that. Everything is fine.' Or something like that.
I was going to tell David and Teresa a story about a friend of mine, Miles Moyer, but, I didn't have the energy, and I think Teresa can be a bit of a C sometime. I just felt that my story would give her more reason to hate me and more reason to judge me. She is so PC. She has actually turned David into a bit of a PC Princess.
I will tell you all (you none) about Miles Moyer:

Miles Moyer grew up in the valley, just down the street from me, and he went to the same private school that I attended. His dad was some sort of importing specialist, so Miles grew up wealthy. Miles always had new things: skateboards (dogtown), bikes, betamax, handheld games, apple computers,new clothes, and he was one of the first kids to get an earring. But, the best thing about Miles was that his dad had a baby giraffe and a baby gorilla as pets. They both lived in the backyard of Miles' house. I saw the giraffe once or twice then it was gone. But, the gorilla was there for years. At first, when it was small and it wore a diaper or some sort of shorts, Miles and his friends (including me) would go out back and tease the gorilla. We would throw things at it, and chase it, and kick it, and do whatever else kids do to things that are strange. As we all got older, including the gorilla, only Miles would go out back and play with it. And by play, I mean wrestle and fight. Miles and the gorilla would be rolling around the grass, fighting and playing. The gorilla actually seemed to enjoy it, but Miles seemed to have some sort of resentment or hatred in his eyes with this gorilla. When the gorilla got even bigger, he would simply grab Miles by the top of his head and drag him around the yard. Miles' dad kept an aluminum bat near the sliding glass door so that he could go out and whack the gorilla stiffly to make him let go of Miles.
In the final months of seeing the gorilla, it would stand and wait outside the sliding glass door. Waiting for Miles to come home. I remember how scared I was of the gorilla. Sitting there at the glass door waiting to 'play'. Miles, of course, would tease the gorilla and get it all riled up and then he would run out back with the bat and start hitting it. The gorilla would somehow disarm Miles and then drag him around the yard by his head which made his dad run out to the yard. His dad would pick up the bat, and try to threaten the gorilla. But, by now, the gorilla seemed to be a lot tougher and a little bit stubborn, so Miles' dad would have to hit him. Hard, really, really hard. The sound was so strange. Kinda like a splat and a thud and a ping all meshed together. Miles' dad of course was grunting into each hit and cursing the whole time. It was unclear, at the time, if he was cursing at the gorilla or his son. The last time that I saw the gorilla, the gorilla was pretty banged up. He seemed to have a black eye and a hurt arm. He was also moving around like he had a broken rib. Then, he was gone. I asked Miles' about the gorilla and he responded, 'That mother fucker ain't around anymore. We had to get rid of him.' Miles never spoke about the gorilla again.
A year or so later when we were walking home from the bus stop (we took the RTD to our school) Miles had me follow him to another bus stop. He seemed agitated and hurried. I asked him what the deal was and he responded, 'That mother fucker was looking at me strange'. Just then a bus stopped and let off some people. Off comes this kid, wearing a backpack and headphones. He had glasses and I had seen him in the neighborhood before, but I only knew him as being quiet. Anyway, Miles walks up to the guy and starts beating the crap out of him. I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. I just watched him beat this poor, quiet kid up. The earphones and backpack, the glasses, blood, what looked to be a tooth, all flying about under the angry thrashing of Miles' fists. Finally, the bus driver got off the bus and broke up the fight. He actually yelled at me too for not doing anything. Then we walked home and Miles said nothing, but, he seemed to be relaxed and content. Miles soon got expelled from the private school- he got caught shooting up with Diana (she was hot). For some strange reason, our private school had 5 or 6 junkies. They were all my friends, but I had no idea they were shooting up. By the end of school, right before high school, there were only 3 of the original 12 or so friends left. The fate of the others can be saved for another time.


Thinking back on it right now, I can see why Miles was so angry all the time, since his younger 'brother' was some bad-ass gorilla that would grab him by his head and drag him around. I don't know why he picked on the quiet kid since I believe that Miles could have fought and beaten just about anybody. I guess he just needed to beat somebody up and this quiet kid was the first to hit his switch. After that day, I was scared of Miles and did my best to be nice to him at all times. I did see him a few times during high school, and he was always nice to me and asked how I was doing, but we never really spoke after that.

Last I heard of Miles was that he was in a prison somewhere. He had finally murdered somebody.
I hope that all the hard training he did with gorilla is helping him in jail.

Sophia and I have not spoken to each other since the weekend.
I am fearing that 'yellow panties' is going to find my switch and make me forget about Sophia. I have not really worked on myself yet. I probably need to so that I can validate my feelings toward Sophia.

Xioba

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Today is Tuesday- almost june

I thought about Sophia all day today. I could hardly concentrate on my work, and I was pretty useless in my meetings. Nobody at work noticed that I was distracted: I am not sure how this makes me feel; I am not sure if this is an advantage for me, or will just turn into a liability. All day, all that I could think about was getting back home so that I could write about Sophia. It is so odd to me that I can sit here, at my desk, and write my feelings into the broad open space of the internet, but I can only find a few words to tell Sophia directly. For whatever reason, I am more open and honest about myself, my feelings when I am not emotionally attached to the audience. I have always been a great public speaker. I have always been able to engage and capture any audience greater than one. It is the one, sole listener that scares me and makes me mute. So, here I am spilling my guts into a blog that I assuming nobody will read with the hope that Sophia will find the link and see how I truly feel about her.

I look outside my office at the birds that gather around my feeder. At dawn and at dusk, they rotate in and out. First the Scrubs, Blues and Stellar's; then the mockings, swifts, and wrens; and finally the crows.

My father used to tell my siblings and me the following story about Blue Jays:
Long ago, a beautiful princess with brown eyes and brown hair lived, lonely in a castle. Her parents, the king and queen, were good decent folk and loved her very much, but they, much like she, lacked any excitement or joy. They were all colorless. Brown and gray through and through. This princess would go out into the garden and look at all the flowers and trees and think how beautiful they all were. She would gaze at all the birds and butterflies and she would envy the beautiful plumage. One night, right before she fell asleep, she sent out a question into the night air, 'Fairy Angel will you please help me be colorful? I will do anything to have color in my soul'. The next morning, when the princess awoke, she discovered a bird feeder and some bird feed. And there was a small note, written in magic potion ink, that said, 'As you wished, and as with all wishes, remember, it may not be what you truly desire.' The princess was so overjoyed that her Fairy Angel replied to her wish that she ran downstairs into the garden and set up the bird feeder. Almost immediately, the birds flocked in. Within minutes the sun was blotted out by the darting, crowing, cawing, swooping, pooping birds. And each and every poop that hit the ground would turn into a flower. And this flower would spawn into another bird. Soon, all the seed was eaten and the swarm of birds departed. But, each and every flower created from the bird poop would bloom into a flower which in turn became a bird which flitted away. Once again, the princess was sad, as all the color in her life was gone. But, the commotion of the bird frenzy was seen down in the village by many a handsome prince. And each of these princes made their way up to the castle. Hundreds and hundreds of princes filled the garden, and the moment they laid eyes on the princess they all began to jostle and fight and dance and parade in order to get her attention. They soon began to fight with swords and daggers and maces and flails. By the hundreds, then dozens, then ones they began to drop to the ground dead. When the last one was left standing, he turned his gaze upon the princess and immediately was turned into a blue jay. He flitted away. Leaving the princess to shed one, colorless tear. This tear flowed down to the corpses, turning them into flowers which blossomed birds which then flitted away.

When my father told us this story, the boys were entranced by the death and gore and the girls were obsessed by the thought of love lost.

Right now, I wish I could understand what the girls felt in that story. I want to understand how I feel about Sophia and what the loss of her means to me. I can say that I love her, and I can say that I want to be with her, but I don't know what that feels like.

I have not spoken to Sophia since she left yesterday. She has not tried to call or email me. I think she might be embarrassed. She might be over and done with me. Did she want to negate our last meeting in the bathroom at the Vietnamese restaurant with a bit more glorious memory of me coddling her vomiting body? Was she trying to show me that I really am not missing anything at all? At what point does one of us give in and reach out to the other one? I want to reach out to her and tell her that I love her, but I think that I need to wait. Do I risk losing her forever by adhering to some strange rule about relationships? Funny, I am asking questions about what to do, but I am not asking how I feel.
How do I feel?
Right now, I am not sure. I need to get back to working on me. I need to talk about my brother and his secrets. I need to talk about my experience on that ride the other day. I need to see my friends. I need to call my mom and ask her how she is. I need to call my dad and ask how my mom is.
I need some pappy.
Xioba

Monday, May 28, 2007

Today is Monday- memorial day

When I go to ballparks, I don't stand for the national anthem. I never have. I get heckled and booed all the time, but I just shrug it off. I figure it is my personal choice and right not to stand, since generally, when they begin to sing or play the anthem, the announcer politely requests, 'please stand for your national anthem.' I feel that it is my american right to sit during the song. Besides, when I am at the ballpark I never watch the games. I am always looking at women.

Sophia came over late last night. I was fast asleep when I heard the double beep signaling that my front door had opened. I then heard the key pad beeps and the double beep of the alarm being set. I never set my alarm, she always does. My clock said, '3:23'.
The smell hit me first. Then the clumsy, stumbling. I could make out her figure in the dark wobbling about, wavering as in a storm. But, the smell was a bit intoxicating. Smoke, booze and B.O.
I simply turned on the light and got out of bed and walked over to her. She started weeping immediately. I held her as tight as possible without making her sick. I walked her over to my (our) bed and had her sit down. She fell back into it and seemed to pass out. I immediately stripped her down. She was wearing a bra which she never does. Her white panties seemed to be a bit too baggy for her sharp hipbones. She was a mess. She had some light bruising on her shins and ankles. She had several scratches on her arms and elbows. Newly bruised blue thighs looked fatigued and twitched a bit.
I drew a bath, and took her clothes down stairs to be washed.
For a brief moment I thought of a time several years ago in the NYC. One Sunday morning, I was in the elevator with a load of laundry packed tightly into one of those caged carts that the old women use for shopping. During the ride down, I could smell my last week's adventure filling the elevator air. Bars, booze, women, smoke, clubs, subways, streets. The elevator stopped on the first floor- the laundry was in the basement- and three people got in with me. Two men and a woman. Nervously, I began tapping the handle bar of the cart. Drumming some made up beat. The woman and I looked at each other and she said, 'Laundry day?'
I replied, 'You are Mary Hansen'.
She replied yes, and I reached out my hand to shake it.
She grabbed my hand and I said, 'Very nice to meet you.'
I had admired Mary from afar for many many years, and she was my original 'dream girl'.
I went outside to check on Sophia's car. Her Audi was poorly parked, but un-damaged.
Gatorade Rain (tangerine), some advil, Smart Water and a piece of fruit went upstairs with me. The bath was perfectly drawn. I added some EO Hinoki and Ginger bath salts.
I woke her up, gently which of course made her want to vomit. She did make it to the bathroom.
I made her chug down several large glasses of water which of course made her vomit more. She was crying and gagging the whole time. vomit was coming out her nose. I kept making her drink more water until she got mad at me for doing it.
For her bath, I turned down the lights and lit some sandalwood candles. For good measure, I took some flower petals, kissed them and tossed them into the bath. This gesture made her smile.
I sat quietly on the toilet seat and read Harpers. When she started to shiver, I, of course, woke her up again which, of course, made her vomit in the bathtub and made her weep even more. I made her shower. Dr. Bronner's this time- peppermint. Yes it does sound bad plugging all these products, but there is a magical way to preventing bad hangovers. You just need to test the different methods until you find the right one. I made her eat the fruit, advil and drink some gatorade. Then she brushed her teeth. She actually looked better. I made her stand and watch me change the sheets in the bed hoping that it would make her appreciate the bed more.
Almost 5:00 am.
I snuggled up next to her until her cold body turned warm. I then went downstairs and made myself some coffee and had a cigarette. I turned on the t.v. and fell asleep on the couch.
She woke me up at around 10:00.
She looked so beautiful to me.
I did not think of 'yellow panties' today.
Xioba

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Today is Sunday- Shrek the third

I woke up this morning thinking of Sophia. I had a very restless night last night. I kept thinking of Chuck Liddell and how I wanted the result to be different. I felt terrible for him. I felt the same way a few weeks back when the Suns beat the Lakers. My night was consumed by the damp smell of my pillow and a bed that could not put my thoughts to sleep. At 6 am, when I finally decided that my attempts at sleeping were over, I could only think about staying in bed for the rest of the day. I wanted to whittle away on the pine that was growing out of my thoughts about Sophia. It was such an oddly, comfortable feeling to have the heaviness and lack of desire to move, think or do anything. I could actually still smell Sophia in my sheets and every time that I heard my house creek from the wind outside I yelled out to Sophia and asked, 'How are you, sweetie?'. Unlike Rilke, my yells went into an echo; an empty response from my very, lonely house asking me how I was.
I thought of my father, many, many years ago, proposing to my mother in Trieste. His recount was so beautiful and romantic; full of hope and want for a joyful future. How is it that the love that my father has toward my mother has now materialized into the futile actions of a bachelor in his late, late 30s? Sure, I am a success outside of my skin in the business world, but internally, I am largely a miserable, miserable, lonely man. I wanted to phone Sophia, but I could not. Instead, I slowly drifted back toward sleep and began to dream lightly about better times.
Sophia is sitting in my backyard. She is wearing, of course, a short sleeved top, and is bra-less. The cold outside and the warmth inside of her causing her nipples to protrude into the counter die of her shirt fabric, embossing an image of lust and desire upon me; a Medusian figure turning me to stone, hard wooden rock. She is wearing my shorts and has them rolled up at the knees and at the waist. She is 5' 6" or so and about 105 lbs. She is all leg and arm bones. She is not dwarfed by my shorts which gives me a sense of my own stature, but it is a deceptive notion of self. She is sitting on one of the recycled wood plantation lounges, and her hair is up- as usual. She appears to be shaking, either from the brisk air or the need for nicotine, and as she strikes and lights the match, her goose flesh and shivers slowly begin to fade and minimize. She inhales deeply into her first cigarette, pausing for just a moment behind each drag and before each exhale.
Surya Namaskar.
I continue to watch her as she finishes the first cigarette and lights her second one.
Her hands are wide at the wrist, narrow through the palm and extend out in extremely sinewy, tenuous and easy tendrils. Veins and tendons bore through taut flesh, and make her hands look strong, supple and suggestive. Her hands have always made me smile; every time we see each other after an absence they are the first thing to make contact with me- whether on the belly, back, cheek, ear, hair or heart. I wish her hands were here, right now, to close my eyelids and gently push me back into the false reality of sleepless dreams. Between hits, the cigarette floats between digits 2 and 3 re-secured in place every few seconds by the gentle grasp of her lips and the hungry sucking of her lungs.
Savasana.

When I finally got out of bed at around 10, I called my doctor and asked for some help. He called in a favor at Riteaid which I picked up on my way to see Shrek the third. Two bloody Marys, a favor from my doctor, and some shake led me to the back row, left side, end seat of the darkened theater. I had on my cycling sweatshirt, jeans, and clogs. The darkness was soon filled with excited, maybe anxious, childish laughter and screams. The din (cliche') was disorientating and made me seek shelter under my hood. In a moment of absolute clarity and a bit of out-of-body self awareness, I realized what I must look like- the ominous, lonely, hooded figure lurking in the back row of a theater filled with children. The giant, colorless, soulless Actiniaria waiting for helpless prey to skip by on their way to the bathroom or for more snacks. If one could just come within arm's reach. I chuckled, perhaps a bit too loudly, but retreated into the uncaring comfort of my doctor's favor.
The movie finally began, quieting the children. After a few moments of reintroductions of all the characters, and after a few 'slapstick' and seemingly violent humored scenes, the movie turned existential. The king, a frog, was dying. A slow, awkward death that sought to be humored but was actually a bit boring and monotonous. When the frog finally croaked (wow bad pun, I get it now), a tiny child (maybe 3 or 4 years old) sitting a few rows up with his family started to weep. He was immediately comforted by his father, I assume, but to no avail. He continued to weep and was unable to find any solace in the darkened humorless movie. I continued to watch this family, and realized that this movie was not meant for children. This young boy could not be soothed, and his older sibling kept hiding behind her hands and kept shirking any joy or laughter. The movie kept going on with little regard for the audience and ended as an embarrassing story that was only filled with the bravado of CG. I was relieved when the lights came back on signaling the end of this disaster. None of the children clapped or cheered at the ending; and the theater was packed with children; in fact, they all seemed relieved, as well, that the nightmare was over and that they could, finally, go out into the sunshine and restart their childhoods which were taken from them in a darkened theater by the green ogre. Pretty fitting since ogres eat children in the fairy tales.
I am a bit tired. I thought of Sophia all day, and until now, did not think of 'yellow panties'. I am looking forward to sleeping all day tomorrow.
Xioba

Today is Sunday- Liddell crumpled

I watched Liddell v. Rampage last night. I expected that Rampage would win, but I didn't expect Chuck to crumple. I love Chuck, and I am not sure how I feel about Rampage, but, I can say that based on what I saw last night it will be a long, long time before Rampage loses the belt. I hope that Chuck can find a way to have another fight with Rampage as I would like to see if Chuck could 'catch' Rampage. James Irvin also tore up his knee which sucks. Irvin is one tough dude. I hope he comes back.
Bad night!
Spurs lost. Good night!
Nice ride yesterday. Two hours in zone 4. A ton of climbing. It was cold out which is always tough for me. On hot days it takes an hour for me to warm up. I was about 15 minutes behind the lead group the whole day. When I finally got warm, we ended the ride. Burritos and beers.
During the ride, I sent an email to Sophia telling her that I missed her and that I wanted to see her. She responded when I was driving home.
A simple, 'Thanks'.
I called her immediately. Straight to voice mail.
About 10 minutes later she called. I could hear only silence in the background as we spoke. It sounded like she was sitting in some room by herself, and she was very guarded in her tone and her word selection. The conversation seemed a bit restrained and forced, so I pulled the car over and turned down my music. I am not one to shy away from anything, so I just asked her if she wanted to come over for the long weekend. I already knew what the answer would be, but I wanted to make her feel like she would be wounding me with her response. Indeed.
She started to cry and could barely find her words. I quietly paused and waited for her to collect her thoughts. I imagined that I was lying below some rickety, gnarled Oak tree. A gentle spring storm stirred, sending laden drops into the green, angled canopy that loomed overhead. Her words came to me like the drop, dislodged leaves. Some fluttered in wide-arched circles, others rocked side-to-side, and the ones that plummeted directly down hit my face and stuck to my skin, soaked in spring rain. A butterflies lullaby taped my emotions as her words met my feelings.
I really should not have been surprised as I was. I have treated Sophia so poorly over the past year. I have almost 15 years on her, yet I act like I am 16 years her junior. Our relationship changed from excitement into convenience within the last few months. I had always told her that we should be very open and relaxed in the relationship. That I did not want to ruin or waste her youth. She reluctantly agreed. I slept with all her friends, I insulted her family, I disrespected her. Yet, she was still loving and loyal to me. I could have chosen to be an asshole to her on the phone. I could have easily hidden from my emotions, but I did not want to disrespect her further. I thought of Lili and all of the assholes she will meet and love over her lifetime, and I knew that I just had to end this crazy, crazy abuse. I told Sophia that I deeply loved her. I told her that we needed to end this relationship until I could find some clarity and honesty in my behavior to her. I told her that her sadness upsets and hurts me since her sadness is a direct result of my actions toward her. I told her that I was tired of ignoring her, that I was tired of not listening to her, and that I was tired of dehumanizing her. I told her that I want to change my behavior, but I am unclear if I can, and I am unsure if I want to change. She began to change her tone and words and began to backtrack on her feelings and began to apologize. She said, that she could try to come over in the day or the evening and that we could certainly spend the next few days together.
I paused.
I could see myself right in the middle of enlightenment and darkness. The gray and comforting limbo of decision; present. I loved her, but did I care more about self-preservation? It would have been so easy to have it both ways. I told her about my feelings and she acquiesced her self to the power of my words. I would not be alone this weekend and she would be so much easier to control now. Sure, she may gain more knowledge and power over time, but I could always bully her back where I wanted her to be. I would get sick of her, yet, I would not be alone. I would still screw her friends, and I would not speak to her, but she would be there. I could rely on her for the self preservation of Xioba.
But, I also realized that the self preservation of Xioba also means that Fudu would still be in me as well. I want to purge Fudu from me. I have lived with his secrets for far too long, and I need to find Xioba.
I told Sophia that I needed time to get better, and that if I truly loved her like I say I do then I need to change the way that I treat her. I told her that she was worth it to me to change, but she would need to be patient and that we should probably not see each other for a while. I told her that I may not change and the risk may be that this is the 'end', and that the last memory that we will have of each other being together would be from our moment in some shitty restaurant bathroom.
I quietly listened to her cry for about 10 minutes. I did not say a word until she was ready to speak. And what I did say, probably ended our relationship. But, it had to be said.
When I got home, I had 6 or 7 messages from her on my land line. I did not listen to them.
I sat on the veranda; my first sunlit warmth of the day. I drank several Peronis and smoked half of a j. I thought about my conversation with Sophia and wondered if I was really willing to change like I said. I wondered if any change that would happen would help me in my relationship with 'yellow panties'.
Xioba