Bent Words

Bent Words

June 27, 2011

There's a woman, probably drunk, singing outside on the street. She's not great but she doesn't altogether suck.

She sounds like me.

In Amsterdam.

The night I flew from this end of the world to the other. At least it was like that in my eyes.

She's happy.

Despite the rain. Despite the cold. Despite the distance and the worry. She can put that all aside to allow a few fine notes to fly from her lips.

She doesn't care what she sounds like as long as she's making great sound.

She doesn't care for the cars honking her out of their way.

She only cares for this moment.

And, after all, isn't that all we have? This moment?

I love this moment. The moment just after I've written a story and SO WHAT if it sucked? It's mine. I made it. I conquered my thoughts with pure expulsion and even managed to garner a few laughs in the process. What more could I ask for?

This life that's mine. All mine. My moment. My journey. My struggle. My joy.

I love every second.

I love knowing there's someone out there as silly as me, taking the night by the horns and running with it. I love knowing that she doesn't care what I think and that makes me not care what she thinks -- as long as I'm having fun.

And I am having fun.

I love sitting up for hours talking, despite the fatigue that settles into the next day. I love that he listens and asks and holds onto things. I love that I'm all mixed up but still loved and cherished. I love that no one is telling me, for now at least, about all the things I do wrong but rather praising me for the few things I do right. I love that no one has been able to instill such perfect unity in me before because otherwise I know I wouldn't appreciate this as much as I do and because, otherwise, it wouldn't be him. I love that I laugh and that he laughs, too. I love that he's pissed me right the fuck off and that we've been able to tackle that mole hill as quickly as it was built, bludgeoning it down as quickly as it cropped up.

I love that I spelled "bludgeon" correctly the first time.

I love this man. And this man loves me. The unconditional aspect of it, both ways, is exhilarating. It doesn't matter what we're doing. As long as we're together. And as long as we're honest.

As Cary Grant said, he's "the perfect playmate."

And he is.

We might get mad at each other and we might disagree but, as far as I have seen, there is nothing that, together, we cannot get through. He makes me feel as though I don't have to hold back. I don't have to bend my thoughts or re-think my words. I can stumble through them and be imperfect and yet he still wants to get it, to understand, to know. He doesn't want to give up -- and isn't that half the battle? If not 75 percent of the battle? He is not a throw-the-towel-in sort of guy. He does not take love lightly. He is not just enamored with the glamour -- he sees each tree in the forest.

What he is is part of who I hope to become.

More understanding. More willing to walk out upon that limb. More capable of stopping to talk. More attentive and inquiring. More able to assist. More silly without an ounce lost of sincerity.

And isn't that just beautiful?

Well, it is.

There's genuine happiness wrapped up in our coupling. Strangers comment on it, loved ones know it for a fact, acquaintances cannot help but to be aware of it. It's tangible. It's strong. It exceeds potential.

It just is.

That silliness you feel when you're fumbling through Wal-Mart.

That confidence you feel when you're not quite lost in the crowd.

It's the moment you wake up not wanting to be anywhere else.

That hope you feel for the rest of your days.

The light you see when you're walking through the rain.

It's that song in the street that you just have to sing.

When you know it's not perfect (because you are realistic and know nothing can be) but, still, it FEELS more perfect than any other song you've sung.

Well, that's us.

In this moment.

And I am so blessed to have that.

Written at 9:06 p.m.