Things Best Left Forgotten... or not.

[Editor's Note: This post began on Thursday, Sept. 4, 2008, and has morphed since. Posting the end result now.]

I'd almost forgotten how the soft touch of a woman in a darkened theater can be so arousing. When her fingers graze your arm and then return for another pass. Lingering against you. Maybe she's just enjoying the feel of your micro-suede jacket against her skin. But her touch is just controlled enough that it's flirting with you. And you shift in your seat, one, to move closer and let her feel your weight move towards her, and two, to adjust the hard-on now visible through your well-fitted jeans.

It felt good.

A man shouldn't almost forget such things.

But that can happen when you exorcise your demons. Sometimes the familiar takes a hit.

Recently, Keaton posted a blog that got me thinking. Rather than sum it up or offer you some commentary on the piece, why don't I just wait, while you read his post. If you'd rather not, that's fine too. His is not a prerequisite to mine, but might offer you a baseline from whence this posting came.

All right? Are we are set and ready to move on. Good.... lesson one: Ghosts

I don't believe in ghosts. Up until recently, I would've defended that statement. No, I'm not speaking of the kind that haunt buildings. Those I believe in, ironically... or perhaps hypocritically of me. The ghosts I don't believe in (supposedly) are those fragments from our pasts. The memories that haunt. Intimate friends long forgotten. Lovers, once a vibrant force, now shadows, if that.

I make myself forget.

And lately I've been wondering why. Why push it all away? Because it's painful? Because I don't want to relive the pain of breaking again? Because that's what I do, says my brain. Logic dictates, thus it must be so. But we're not logical creatures. Not by nature. Logic, reason, order... it's forced. It's artificial.

Before anything there was chaos. Something to that.

Impulses not taken. Actions thought, but pulled back. Sometimes that can be a blessing. How many times do you experience a moment where a part of you thinks it would be fun and another part of you (with more weight to its voice) shouts No, that's not a smart idea!?

And I do not sit and pretend to think that an orderless world, where impulse become action without pause, is the way to go. But every so often, we need to be who we are. Say what we think. Do what we want. While sometimes we just imagine a life so... free.

I took all my clothes off in public the other day. But no one saw it. So... if a man gets naked in public and no one is there to witness it, is he really naked? You think I'm joking. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just frakking with you. Doesn't matter. Is anyone ever truly naked? There are always layers somewhere. Maybe we don't see them. But they're there. And we're... hidden. From each other.

These online journals... self-published commentary... they make us think we maybe have a better understanding of the person writing them. But do we? How much do we not say? And when is too much, well... too much? Depends on the poster, I suppose. But then, even offline, most people only get a fraction of each other.

So many thoughts, pulling in various directions. An episode of Coupling filters in. Jane's epiphany that she might be a fraud. Lines from The Guys, "...public shadow." The playful mew of a cat that bites at my foot. Get off the computer and play, human.

I'm digressing. It's all the thoughts. The pace of it all. There's a massive attempt going on... trying to stabilize. Get my footing. Because this post began, in earnest, to address the issue of ghosts. And why I don't like them. And how in ignoring them and banishing them, I have forgotten some things.

Who are my ghosts? A valid question. And one not easily answered.

I tend to be the type that deals with heartbreak in the most expedient and calculated of ways. There's a grieving period, which usually is defined by an outburst of emotion. Yes, I can be moved to tears. Try not to faint. But it's often an intense moment and I never share it with other people, not directly, though some good friends have been within the blast radius and I thank them for standing tall in those moments. But most never see it. So when it comes and goes, unobserved by the world, there are those who would accuse me of never loving in the first place because they don't witness the fall.

And that will rankle me. Yep. I can get pissed too. Very much so. Again... rare and you have to really cross me to ignite that spark. And presuming to know how I feel, or felt, about something or some one, is a top notch way to incur my quiet fury.

So where do ghosts come from? From the fall and the fury. If we limit ghosts to the women in my life, most never cross over to that fate. Of course here's the rub.... I haven't been in that many true relationships. That explains a lot. I say true relationship in the context of being in love. I've always been the selective sort and in my youth, I held a romanticized ideal of relationships that pretty much followed the world of fairy tale bullshit to the nines. Don't misunderstand, I like a good happy ending as much as the next person, but in my off-kilter scenario from those days, I was under the guise that to be in love was the end-all-be-all... coming with me on this? To fall in love was to find the one.

And that was terrifying as all get-out to a tall, gangly-fuck such as myself back then. So in looking back... I don't think my ghosts are the women I loved. But those I never did because I was too afraid to take a chance. To risk everything. How many have I let slip by because of fear? How many chances did I blow because I didn't just ask the question? In some misguided attempt to protect myself, I've basically succeeded in putting up a wall around my heart.

This wall is made of glass. It would be easier if it were brick or steel. But no, this wall is translucent. But just blurry enough that when a woman approaches it, I see her, but I don't see her. Her shadowy visage smiles at me through the thick lense of fear and though I may smile back, I don't break through. I don't ... try. I find reasons and excuses that often revolve around a busy schedule or pseudo-plans that won't happen but keep me on a self-imposed leash.

Because the last time I broke the wall... forced it away to give myself the chance to experience something beyond myself... it was amazing. For a while. And then it was heart-wrenching. It killed me. I wonder if she ever truly knew how much it hurt when she gave up. It was actually quite poetic, says the writer. She built her own wall. I watched it happen. Stone by stone. And I couldn't stop it. God knows, I tried. I was always trying. Felt like for most of that relationship, I was dismantling a wall. I pull down a brick and she'd slap down the mortar and have two back in its place. In the weeks after it happens, I think sometimes that I gave up. I'm the one who stopped pulling at the bricks. But I didn't... I never stopped trying. Eventually she put the final brick into place and the wall was solid... strong... and there was nothing left to grab hold to.

But there were good times. So many.

And over time, those memories have been closed out. Hidden away. Making love on the porch of our cabin. The next morning, after breakfast, she stands at the sink, washing dishes. A game, I think. I kiss the nape of her neck. She's not expecting it. A gasp escapes her lips. I don't stop and she doesn't pull away. With each dish cleansed, I remove some clothing. Hers. Mine. My hands caress her. Tease her. She understands the game. Takes her time with the dishes, her body leaning back against mine. The last dish drops into the water. I want you, she purrs in my ear. I take her, there against the counter. It's tender and deliberate and beautiful. The world goes away.

I remember wanting to savor that moment. And I did. For a time. It was one of those moments when you connect in every way possible. It was perfect. Making love is always better when it's unexpected. When you can't control yourself with each other. When you let love take hold and you let everything go. That's when you know you're in it. And it feels good.

A man shouldn't almost forget such things.

Strolling through bookstores. Exploring the world together on road-trips. Standing in front of one of your favorite paintings and realizing how beautiful the woman standing next to you really is. Seducing her in an empty theater because she gave that look when she walked up to and kissed you hello. Walking around a lake in Spring, holding her hand. Being happy just to smell her perfume in the breeze. Napping together before a class...

A man. Shouldn't forget. Such things.

And yet... in my odd little way of protecting myself after a fall, I hide everything away. Somewhere. Because that's what I do. Bull. Because I'm afraid to let myself experience... life. Love. A moment of beauty so intense that you cry from the sheer joy. To relive that, I fear, would be painful. So when I shut out the pain, those moments that made me smile go dormant. And I tip-toe around them as to not awaken the beast that comes with them.

What's the point in that? Why would I want to erase some of the happiest moments in my life?

I should embrace them and welcome them. They are the moments and the lovers that made me the man I am. I don't believe in bad ghosts. Or I don't want to. That's really what this comes down to. But I connect them to the good ones. I guess I hide those ghosts because I'm not prepared for the chance of heartache they may cause. Or because I'm worried that they will hinder me with any new possible lover that I meet? Again. Bull. Each one is a muse in her own right, imprisoned by my fear of what they might teach me about myself.

And that's not anyway to live. If a man lets himself forget the moments that make life worth living, has he ever really lived at all?