Coming and Going

You're up, then down; back, then forth; sad, then happy; bright, then dull; your boss likes you, then hates you; you win the game, you lose the game: you're a hero, you're the goat; she loves me, she loves me not; you're young and smooth, then, all of a sudden, you are old and wrinkled; you feel brilliant, then stupid; you're in a car on a dark night. I touch you there, you touch me here. We lift up this, and pull down that.

The sun comes up, the sun goes down. The tide comes in, the tide goes out. If you pay close attention, you can spot the tide line, the place where opposites meet, with lots of stuff floating along the crooked line it etches across the top of the bay.

Friends come and go. Kids grow. Some of your former students disappear; others stay in touch, add you to their Facebook "friends" list, etc.

The flowers open up to the sun and close down to the night, precisely as a woman welcomes you and then rejects you, in the natural order of things, from a man's point-of-view. Your eyes struggle to see without squinting in the brightness; your pupils expand to help you find your way through the night.

Your pupils also expand when you stare into the eyes of someone you find attractive. You are helpless in this. You can't regulate attraction. It's the sparkle in the eye, the smell, barely perceptible, the voice, the hair, the lips, and the connection no less intense than electricity.

We live, we die. At birth, the baby struggles into this world with an intensity of purpose that is almost freakish. (S)he will not be denied. At our final moments, it is a struggle also to die. The body does not let go easily. Finally, after a period of quiet, there is restlessness, some shudders, a final physical goodbye.

The sun shines, the rains fall. Your luck seems good. You win at the slots. You find a $20 bill on the street. You're luck deserts you. The credit card debt feels overwhelming.

The words come easily; the words don't come at all. You do everything you can imagine to get them moving. You make some coffee, you water the plants, read the paper, clean up the kitchen, maybe, and finally, you masturbate, just to get it out of your system.

Then, after all this and more, you write. First the words inch into your fingertips; soon they flow like a waterfall in Yosemite. Yes! Now, you are on a roll. The story is coming, much as a lover is cuming. The intensity is volcanic.

Finally, your story can be told.

***

I tried to post several pictures but somehow this interface failed me. What worked was a collection of my favorite baseball cards. Heroes of mine, every one.

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