Whisper to a scream

At first this site was about discovery, fun, photos of Cheyenne. Then for the longest time this little spot of mine was about loss. Fear of loss, dancing with loss, arm wrestling loss, daring it, burying it, bleeding it. Fucking facing it and taking it down. I think I've always been afraid to lose. Not a race but a person, a heart, love, scent, laughter, familiarity, patterns, meaning. I've never once trusted the present so much so that I could see its colors taking me into the future.

We'll put aside my faith in sunrises and sunsets, in wet sliding colors and hope. For now.

My favorite words for clarity? "It is what it is." You can't argue with that. You could try but you really cannot argue with that. I like those words because they remind me to keep perspective. 

When I was in college, three people challenged me: Two teachers and one contemporary. I was terrified of his intelligence, his resistance. I was hungry to learn from him, to be ripped open and exposed by him. I was hurt by his challenges, his laughter. I was inspired by his heart, when he cared to show it. Not once was I in love with him, but every single minute I loved him.

At 21, I brought him to my apartment after a night at the bar. We were both drunk. I made him scrambled eggs in a large soup pot (the only pot or even pan I had at the time). He stood across from me in the kitchen, one eyebrow raised. My goodness he was handsome. I thought he was appreciative, or at least intrigued. He was not.

It became a joke to him, to his friends, that effort I made, something thrown at me as if my gesture of cooking were a failure. It hurt me, his laughter. I had thin skin back then; I did not stand up for myself.

He was smarter than me, more clever to be sure, tricky, at times cruel. He was independent, knew his politics, his history, his fight. I was just off the bloom, struggling to define myself outside of my family. He often left me in tears as he made me question every single thing that I was because he demanded that I know not only what I felt or thought, but why.  Always I had to defend myself to him. Always it was painful and tiring.

He challenged me and he exhausted me, and I feared, loved and hated him for that. Yet today I smile. I wonder if he knows that his challenges prepared me for my life. I wonder if he knows that he made me strong. I don't think he set out to mentor me but that is what he did.

Some battles he did lose. I still believe that hope and optimism are powerful tools.

The other day, someone commented here. Someone commented anonymously and mentioned Lubbock. I looked at the words, allruntogetherlikethis, and I wondered. Could it be him? Who knows? If it was though, I wonder if he'll come back and read this as well. If so? I say hello old friend, you with the same initials as me.

I now cook eggs in an appropriate pan. Though with no less enthusiasm.