Riding the waves

A week ago I was asked by my friend Jorge to test-drive his new motorboat on it's maiden voyage. He owns the boat and I have the skipper's licence. In other words he can only sail if I'm available. Nice arrangement. The Bayliner Capri handles like a dream and the 3 litre inboard Mercruiser engine has enough muscle to drive it faster than I dare go.

The sea wasn't as calm as I'd have liked; swell just above the stern and the wind picking spray off the crests, hell-bent on soaking us to the bone. Nonetheless, I took it to 3500
revs, or until the constant thumping of hull against wave got the better of my nerves. The boat handles beautifully. The Garmin GPS unit soon started to show fish and we regretted not bringing our rods. The next trip has been planned; Jorge, Lisandra ( the girl I wrote about in the previous post) and I, will fish through the night in an attempt to fill the bucket with bream and parrot fish.
I am so looking forward to this trip for two reasons; I love fishing and I love... (work it out for yourselves)
...

Love means nothing - only in Tennis

I chatted with him over a few drinks and soon realised the error of my ways. Him, as in the boyfriend of my latest flame.

At first I considered him a rival; an enemy to avoid at all costs, but as the conversation progressed it became apparent this was not the case. He is a nice person. A gentle and interesting soul I would choose as a friend, under different circumstances.

The futile nature of my ill-conceived plan to win her heart became obvious as the night went on. After all, he is with her, probably now.

He speaks highly of her. Doesn't seem to pay her much attention though. Not as much as I would, given half a chance.

She displays genuine affection for him; in public and in my presence. Insurmountable problem, I think.

What no earth made me think I could step in between them?

Maybe some arrogant impulse created in the recesses of my love-sick mind.

And did I really receive the kind of signals from her I was hoping for?

Probably a case of wishful thinking playing havoc with my perception.

And what if she were to fall for me?

What could I possibly offer her, aside from love, companionship, encouragement and support?

And what of the age difference between us?

Would it not create a colossal conflict of aspirations and ideas?

I am, after all, two thirds of the way into a journey she is merely starting. I may be young of heart and mind, but the hands of time will not slow for me and enable her to catch up. Not even get close.

Why do I pursue such impossible dreams?

Why do I make it so difficult for myself?

Because I adore her, that's why.

She looked particularly lovely last Sunday night. All dressed in elegant black, long, wavy, silky hair complimenting the most beautiful deep-brown eyes I've ever seen.

Her eyes, oh those eyes that can look straight through me and make my heart stop, in an attempt to freeze time. It is impossible to not look at her eyes for more than the briefest of moments.

I simply had to constantly look at her, as if by doing so I was feeding my burning desire to hold her in my arms and kiss her tenderly.

Anyway, as I was saying before getting carried away, I have to stop this foolish pursuit.

I have to stop making my feelings for her so blatantly obvious.

But I cannot stop adoring her.

That my friends, is simply way beyond my control.

.

Always on my mind

Saturday, 11:30.  As I drive up to Monte the sun does it's utmost to glare me off the road. I fumble for my sunglasses and momentarily forget I should be driving on the right side of the road. There are no oncoming vehicles, but a group of men outside the pub notice my error and look at me, open-mouthed, in disbelief at my incompetence. I smile and continue, with retinas adjusted and comfortable behind the protective polaroid lenses.

I love this particular drive, but now, it also fills me with anguish. It is the route I used to take when visitng my mum.

 It's been 5 months since her untimely death - our unwanted separation that is harder to accept than any other separation, before or since.

I'm presently decorating and tiling parts of my brother and his wife's home. The home attached to my mum and dad's home.

I walk across the garden and look through the window, knowing there is no one in.  I open her front door to get some sugar and instantly feel overwhelmed with sadness and a sence of her presence.

Her belongings are still on display: her framed photographs decorate the walls, serving as a constant reminder of the loss I feel  and portraying part of the life's history of a very special and irreplaceable woman.

One of her life's legacies - me - standing still at the entrance, teary-eyed and empty despite feeling her presence; weighed down with the unimaginable pain of her loss.

I miss her so much.

If she were still here, she'd have been busy keeping me watered and fed as she always did. She would have been telling me about all the extended family's goings-on, the dynamics of our large DNA-bound group.

She would have complained about the politicians too,the ones she concluded used public office as a mealt-ticket. And about the innapropriate content of our day-time television. She would probably complain about dad's refusal to take her out more often than once a week.

She would have made laugh. She would have also gently reprimanded me for smoking - for drinking - for all the late nights.

I loved being reprimanded by her. After all, I knew she cared as deeply for me as I did for her. It wasn't criticism, never, just plain motherly advice that more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. But the mere fact of her words bouncing around my head, always seemed to induce a sense of well-being and gratification that nobody else's words can ever match.

I like being here at the house, despite, or maybe even because of, the constant and painful reminders of a time gone by.

Gone but never forgotten. 

:(

The life of Reilly

Or is it?

Reading MC's blog over at Divorcee's Life inspired me to put pen to paper, so to speak. Lately my mind has been blank, unable to write, but I hope to get back into it as soon as possible.

Blogging IS therapeutic. To me, anyway.

***

It's coming up to four months since I moved into my bachelor pad.

Four months of being single and carefree!

- of coming and going as I please, without worrying about someone else

- of reading in bed before sleep, as late as I like

- of leaving the toilet seat up without complaint

- of late, late nights at the musicians favourite haunt, The Warm Up Cafe

- of piling up dishes in the kitchen sink until I have absolutely nothing else to do

- of watching only my favourite TV programs, remote control in my pocket

Sounds great, doesn't it!  I can imagine some of you reading this and feeling envious of my present situation. Of my new found freedom. Of my capacity to be myself, all by myself.

But...it's not all its cut out to be.

I may kid myself at times and celebrate my independence and freedom with the enthusiasm of a recently-released felon, but...

...the truth is I can't wait to meet someone special

 - to fall head over heels in love again

 - to share my life, my intimacy and my dreams

 - to go to sleep and wake up next to her and start the day with a smile and a hug.

The good news is I know someone I'd love to get to know better and am working on it.

She also knows how I feel.

She is beautiful, smart and a musical talent.

I hope to publish her photo in a future post as soon as possible.

The fact she is presently dating someone else is neither here nor there. It won' put me off. It can't put me off -I'm getting the right kind of  signals.

If it was easy it probably wouldn't be worth it.
Am I acting like a silly infatuated school boy?  Honestly, at my age !  Will I ever grow up?

I hope not.

Off to see her now, gotta go. Bye for now!

:)

The way I miss her

She is gone and is not coming back.

I know that now.

I will never kiss her again. I am never going to wake up beside her again. I am never going to watch her sleeping again. The perfect moment when she opened her eyes and smiled - a smile that always made me feel feel as though something inside me was melting. I definitely won't see that again.

There are ten thousand things we are never going to do together again.

"You´ll meet someone else" he tells me, with all the patience that my father could never quite muster.

"Give it time. There will be another woman". He is trying to be kind.

But I don't believe a word of it.

I think that you can use up all your love. I think you can blow it all on one person.

You can love so much, so deeply that there is nothing left for anyone else. You could give it all the time in the world and  I will never find someone to fill the gap she has left.

Because how do you find a substitute for the love of your life? And why would you want to?

And perhaps I could learn to live with it if I could resist the ridiculous urge to phone her. Things would be more bearable if I could remember, really remember that she is gone and never forget it.

But I can't help it.

Once a day I go to call her. I never actually dial the number but I have come pretty close. Do you think I need to look up the number? I don't even have to remember it with my head. My fingers remember.

And I'm afraid that one day I will call her old number and somebody else will answer. Then what will happen? Then what will I do?

It can strike at any time, this urge to call her. If I'm happy or sad or worried, I suddenly get this need to talk to her about it. The way we always did when we were - I nearly said LOVERS - but it was that and much more. Together, when we were together.

She's gone and I know she's gone. It's just that sometimes I forget. That's all...

(...)

Courtesy of Tony Parsons.

***

I couldn't believe how accurate, in every sense of the word, the above message is. I was shocked; dazed for hours at the uncanny similarity with my own situation. How could Tony Parsons now so much about my case? How did he know about the words of my brother when he tried to comfort me? And my father's inability to do so? How does he know about the phone number, etched in the mysterious memory of my fingers, and the daily urge to call?

Has he been reading my blog and FB updates?

Maybe he has. And if he has, I'm eternally greateful.