DP Tool Club 19/CD_ASCQ_19_010295.iso/vrac/rune9412.zip/LES4

Text File | 1994-12-01 | 17KB | 342 lines

TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by  Leslie Meek

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An Adventure of Life --
Continues: Part 4
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Travels . . . (6)
August 18, 1993
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  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- When you run up to a wall that stands
between you and your emotions, you can't go around it to find yourself.
You can't dig a tunnel under it without continuing on your path in
darkness. You can only tear it down from the other side, so you gotta'
climb over it to grow and get better.

  So I ran like hell.

  I jumped in my van very early in the morning, before sleep had a
chance to make it seem better, and left my wall standing in tact behind
me. When the sunrise crept up on Tybee Island and neighboring Hilton
Head, I was gone.

  At first, I figured I knew where I was headed. Running seems more
explainable when you've got a destination and this one was only 700
miles away. So I sold myself on the idea I was going somewhere instead
of leaving somewhere as I passed through Georgia and Mississippi. Then
I stopped, changed by mind in a phone booth, and drove another 500
miles knowing I was running.

  Some would say that I am wrong to run from my problems but I will not
plead "guilty" to the charge. It was either this or the bars that line
Main street in Tybee Island -- and this kind of escape is easier on my
liver and those who love me.

  So, my friends, I will enter my plea as "No Contest" and accept the
sentence you and my conscience impose upon me. I just wasn't strong
enough to face the reality behind the nightmares. I was ready to climb
but I was unprepared to face what I might find on the other side of the
wall. This time it was just too much for me. I feel very small and very
weak and very beaten. Perhaps it is a small sign of personal growth to
understand how really small we are when pitted against the jackals that
rip at our heart and bite into our soul.

  All I know for sure is that I am here and the wall is back there.

  I remember, as a little girl, sitting in the kitchen and hearing a
word or two float out of the other room along with the cigar smoke. It
was my task back then to wait unnoticed for my father or one of his
quests to yell out an order for another beer, but I stole what wisdom a
little girl can understand from the muffled conversation I overheard.
"Life is just like poker . . . poker is life."

  Maybe I just didn't have a good enough hand to place an emotional bet
this time around. If you lived the terror of those nightmares maybe you
would be looking over my shoulder and shaking your head. It may take a
full house to win this one.  Maybe, when the stakes are so very high, it
is best to fold and wait for another deal. Maybe life's inner war is a
cycle of battles you win, battles you lose and times you must surrender
before the showdown.

  All I know for sure is that I am here and the wall will always be
back there, waiting for me.

  Maybe there was something to the advice the old guy on the train gave
in exchange for a sip of whiskey and a cigarette:  "You've got to know
when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away -- know
when to run."

  I played Kenny Rogers a lot as I continued on Interstate 10 through
Texas. I began to think that maybe I was being a bit premature to judge
myself a coward right then. It made me feel better to hear, "you never
count your money while you're sitting at the table, there'll be time
enough for countin' when the dealin's done."

  The night was young, I figured as I drove . . . I'm young. There's
lots of cards left in the deck and time enough for a few more hands. I
thought about the lessons learned in my childhood.

  There was one of my dad's friends who sat in that room and played
out every hand. I remember his voice to this day because he's the one
who sent me to the ice box the most. Everybody was glad to see him show
up for the Wednesday night poker games but after he left I would hear
laughter.  Even as a little girl I knew it was the bad kind.

  I pulled into the parking lot here on the beach of an island two
miles from Downtown Corpus Christi exactly twenty four hours and eleven
minutes after I left my wall. I sat in my van and waited. When the sun
came up I knew that, for me, I had made the right decision.

  I can't come home until I knock down that wall. But a sunrise can
promise you a tomorrow. The wall will be there when I'm prepared to win.

  You see, the guy who played out every hand in my father's den --
always left a loser.

                               *  *  *

Travels . . . (7)
August 22, 1993
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  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- Nothing can knock you off the self-pity
pot faster than a letter from a good friend.

  "If it is true that 'the calm always precedes the storm,' then the
same must hold true for silver linings and clouds," writes a special
lady named Becky in response to my account of August 14. "After all,
a proverb is a proverb and we cannot or should not be selective in our
discussions of them."

  I moaned and groaned in Travels number 5 about my problems in
applying Chinese and American proverbs to my ongoing effort to confront
and deal with my emotions. Quoting the proverb above I mentioned that
if I tried to think myself better the future looked pretty bleak. The
future always appears grey from the perspective of the pity-pot and
those who choose to sit on it can always find evidence in words of
another. From where I was sitting that day the world looked glum.

  Becky set me straight on that one. The world is always gonna be
what we perceive it to be; if I wanted a cloud with silver lining all
I had to do was stand up . . . then look up at the sky. In seeking a
solution, however, Becky drives the nail further into my logic with yet
another direct hit:

  "And though sometimes I do find myself involved with the paranoia
associated with things going a little to well in my life, or, as I
like to call it, the 'waiting for the other shoe to drop' syndrome,
I try to force myself into the more realistic thinking pattern that
tells me how little meaning there is in tomorrows anyway," she wrote.

  "All we have is today, cloudless, stormy or otherwise."

  All journeys, great and small, are "one day at a time" adventures.
I spent four years of my life hoping tomorrow would be better. If I am
to recover from the aftereffects of that relationship, I must keep what
Becky has to say in mind. I can only grow one moment at a time -- today.

  This morning I woke up worried about what I had to have done by
this afternoon and pondering what I would tell this guy who wanted
to take me out tonight. I grabbed the express mail envelope with my
Missouri mail inside and walked to the beach in despair. I sat down,
dug my bare feet into the sand, and daydreamed about walking hand in
hand with a friend in Seattle. When a fleeting picture of a nightmarish
morning two years ago on another beach flashed into my head, I opened
the envelope to escape. Inside, with other stuff, was Becky's letter. I
read up to the "today" part.

  You know, Corpus Christi is a beautiful city. Downtown skyscrapers
literally run up to the bay. The sun warms before it colors the gulf.
Seagulls spend more time silently studying you before they beg for food.
Dolphins play in groups not far from shore while pelicans practice
"tough and goes" on the glassy water. Moist sand feels wonderful between
your toes.

  Pouting little girls look pretty small and inconsequential on beaches
of this size and splendor.

  "Your writing inspired in me a need to look beyond my simple little
world to a place far removed from where I am at the present moment," she
continued. "It makes me think, though being the emotional invalid I am,
this is not your written word's greatest claim to fame. Thinking, as you
say, is what gets me into trouble in the first place. No. It is not my
thought processes that are the most effected, but, rather, the emotional
reaction I have to the story you tell. And though . . . I've tried to put
into words just what this reaction is, I seem to fail miserably in the
discourse. For someone like me, the inability to express myself verbally
causes a certain amount of emotional insecurity and it is through this
feeling that I am most affected and the growth you so desperately seek is
allowed to take place."

  I laughed out loud (through my tears) at the last line. Trouble
expressing herself, I told the birds, yeah, right, sure. Becky writes
beautifully.

  "You see, the answer to your own search is right under your
nose. . . . Though filled with clouds, I tend to see sunshine filtering
through your words as you seek to find the answer to a problem that has
haunted you for years. You come to terms with the ordeal at Hilton Head,
perhaps not so much as to the whys, but, certainly with regard to
understanding how the situation came to pass."

  Becky understands bars and couples who stay in them too long. She
goes to explain that perhaps I cannot be expected to understand the
strangers who lurk outside . . . "but you can come to terms with the
role you played and forgive yourself for being unable to predict the
outcome of your actions," she writes.

  "'Que sera, sera,' though not Chinese, contains a few truths in
itself. And though I am a true believer in taking responsibility for
my own destiny, I am also painfully aware that none of us can predict
the future. Not for our own lives and especially not for anyone else's.

  "By the way, I believe there really are happy people out there,
holding hands and walking along the beach. And though their happiness
may be as fleeting as their footsteps in the sand, they are truly
blessed for the short time they were able to feel joy and love in the
presence of another human being. And if they do go home and fight, and
are forced to feel the low that comes with dying love, they can take
solace in the fact that another high, another day, and, with a little
luck, another walk on the beach is just around the corner."

  I got up and walked back toward the motel. I had a phone call to
make.  And I had to finish my work so I'd be ready for my first "date"
in four years.

  Thank you, Becky. For all the things you say and do, this day is
for you!


        (Author's Note: Becky Blanchard logs on to the)
        (Outland BBS, FidoNet 1:280/68; [phone]).
        -----------------------------------------------

Travels . . . (8)
August 23, 1993
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  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- I spend lots of time in a little marina
across the highway from my beach front motel here and I've discovered
that fishermen disagree over methods, tides, times and tools. Each has
their own idea of what works best.

  The man who boasted the most about his luck used a single, red rose.

  I like to sit around the shrimp boats and listen as the fishermen
repair and hang their nets. They tell long, robust stories. They ask
very few questions. Their eyes and hands are busy with their work so
they are safe fare for a nosy blonde with time on her hands. They like
where they are so they don't try invade my space; I can leave without
owing.

  I found the rose Friday after I returned from the marina. It was
on the windshield of my van, along with a short little note:  "I have
been watching you and wondering why you seem so thoughtful. I hope we
can get together someday and have dinner."

  It was signed, predictably, by "a secret admirer." I checked the locks
on the van and, rose and note in hand, climbed the stairs to my room.

  The motel where I am staying is four stories high and the stairwell
is on the outside. It's one of those zigzag, fire-escape designs that
force you to announce your presence to the world. Every guest can hear
your progress, secretly making bets with themselves on whether the
footsteps will stop at their floor or continue to the next one. You do
things like that when you're cooped up in a motel room.

  I did not speculate on which floor housed the man who left the
flower but I was positive that he was also a guest at the motel. The
intention of the gift was also obvious and there was no mystery
surrounding even the man who left it. Although he was both nameless
and faceless to me, I had met him many times before.

  As far as I was concerned, he would have to pin all his hopes on
that old adage about there being lots of other fish in the sea. This
stuff was not going to work on me. Although new to being single, I am
an expert on gifts given by those who expect something in return. This
was just the first installment in the obligation game and I decided right
then that I wasn't playing.

  Once I got into my room I startled myself by noticing that the rose
was not the kind they sell in all night convenience stores. Up to then,
all the flowers given me were  bought after the bars closed.

  Interesting.

  I flopped down on the bed and resolved not to make any changes in
my daily routine. Even on the road, I keep weird hours. I work throughout
the night pounding on my computer. Long distance rates are cheaper after
eleven p.m. so I can log on to a Bulletin Board Service without pledging
my first born son to Ma' Bell. My best writing flows out in the hours
just before sunrise.

  I wasn't going to let this guy change any of that. I couldn't sit
around worrying about the inevitable phone call.  When he called, I
would tell him in no uncertain terms to get lost. As it turned out, I
worked through the night without incident. The phone never rang.

  Strange.

  When the sun rises, I begin my walk. I use this time to slay the
dragons I have conjured up during the night and set my margins for the
reality of life. I've learned only recently that the sentences cannot
be longer than one day. It is my time to spend with me -- a way of
fading from isolation to being alone among birds, trees and strangers.

  I tapped down the stairs as quietly as possible, glancing
subconsciously from side to side for the stalker. It figured he
would be somewhere watching. It would be some time before he would
give up his one-way window and let me see him.

  I walked the hundred feet or so to the beach, removing my shoes
as I went. I headed North on the sand toward the skyline of downtown.
It wasn't a destination -- just a compass point. I noticed with
satisfaction that, besides a spec that represented a sole human some
thousand yards away, I had the beach to myself.

  The ocean has a way of giving you a perspective on your own
importance. If you do much beach walking, as I do, you learn that you
are just about as important to the universe as one grain of the sand
beneath your feet. I wandered with my memories.

  My ex-lover and I were just friends -- very good friends -- when
we walked this beach together years ago. It was to be another two months
before we shared the same bed. That would happen on yet another island
and set in motion the roller coaster ride that, for me, was an "E" ticket
to hell.

  But the memories of what we shared on this beach were beautiful
and I got lost in them as the spec got larger.

  Before I knew it, I was on top of him. He sat with his legs
crisscrossed, staring at me. I wasn't close enough to see the color,
but his eyes were large and expressive. He was a good looking guy
about thirty-two or -three, broad shoulders and large hands. He had
dark hair neatly groomed but still blowing in the wind. He sat with
his back erect, silent.

  I immediately veered off toward the water and began my U-turn to
head back to the motel. It was best to ignore him. I had to.

  In front of him, stuck in the sand, was a single, red rose.

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have begun
and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever. Perhaps
leaving was her fist step to realizing -- she was *there* and already
knew. She is eager to hear from her readers and can be reached via:
U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto The Crackpot
Connection (816-747-2525). She also likes to chat, if you should catch
her online.
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