yobech505

The Myth of the Relationship

I know I’m going to get clobbered along side the noggin for this one.

Being in a relationship is over valuated, okay?

The world’s second greatest love poet, Rod McKuen, once rhythmically scripted, “If I’m still alone, by now it’s by design.  I only own myself, but all of me is mine.”   (Sorry Rod, but Kahlil Gibran really has to be first.)    What incredible way to say, ‘hey, I got me, I don’t need you.”

Don’t get me in an incorrect comprehension here.  Relationships are nice,  at least some of them are, some of the time.  Overall, I have to reveal my emotional honestifications.  They don’t deserve the rating they get.

Seriously.  Think on what is being perpetuated into your left/right brain here.  Do you know anybody who doesn’t complain, at some time or another, in different altitudes, and at different pressure levels, about their partner, spouse, significant other, boyfriend, girlfriend or…?

It’s constant, consistent or, at the least,  confusingly bewilderingly way too often.  How do we cope, or better yet, why do we cope.  Silliness, insanity, semi blind neurosis, emotional trauma, emotional ignorance, stupidity, are any or all of these reasons to justify being self abusive to our hearts?

On we go.  In we go.  Relationship here, relationship there, long term, short term, no term or no one is happy, or is it that just no one is as happy as they want to be and is miserable way too many times in a select spectrum of time.

As humans, it would be my innermost suspicion that we seek perfection then settle for whatever we can get when we think it is way too late.  And it ain’t perfection.  Not even along side the wall of the relationship we wanted.

Of course, often we don’t see that until we’ve committed to getting involved, dropping our hearts in front of what we believe to be the right selection. Thus, the confusion of why we are there in the second place sets itself into the space we provided for a first place right next to us.  Then we have justifications for complaints, gripes,  snippets and general  not positive statements towards the person who filled the leaking void.

Humans are not solitary creatures, so we’ve often been brainwashed into believing by social experts throughout the history of science, anthropology and human geography.  But is it true?  We gape at headlines about some guy living alone in the woods, doing his anti-social thing, then publishing and enacting books and stories on bomb making or the like. The anti social anti social person.  So, how many of them are there that no one has an inkling even exist out in the back mining hills of South Dakota?  And since when is anti social a bad thing, any more than over social is, given the social nutcakes we encounter on a daily basis?

Overrated!  There is no doubt in my mind that relationships are overrated.  Still, I would like to be in one.  A “most of the time it is pretty good and that makes it all worth it” one.  You get what I am trying to inflict into your  psyche?  A good one.

But if it doesn’t happen, that’s okay too.

Dodging Raindrops.

I’m not one for excuses even though, to keep things where I, as well as others, can view them, have to admit, have given my share.  Not an excuse,  in absolute verbage, but in honest presentation.

There are always excuses.  We all own a few and are all very good at at least one or two.  Some are even legitimate.  There are real ones, then there are the phony, nobody really believes you, type.

Both are leaning too far over the railing when it relates to a relationship.  But you have to have them because stuff comes along that we have no remote control for.  Flat tires, drivers who won’t turn right where there is no traffic for eleven miles, blizzards and mobile phones that can’t send signals past a cactus, are reality.

Doing the laundry, walking the dog, changing the air in your car tires and it is raining too hard don’t cut it though.

The dog ate my car keys?  The basement is flooded and my only clean garter is on a drying rack next to the meat freezer is also a major stretch.  You don’t have any reason to not doubt them.   And some?  Whew!   Imagination is leaps and bounds ahead of relationship so often.

I can’t come over now because it is raining??  Seriously?  What are you, some kind of snail?  Raindrops don’t fall in the same spot twice.  Go between them!  You have a perfectly good bumbershoot, use it!  And so what if, I don’t know, maybe thirty thousand or so of them should hit you between the car door and the covered porch.  All you’d be is wet.

What makes it all worth it, anyway?  Who makes it worth the effort, time and energy?  I guess we need to make that crunchy choice.  Unless, of course, we are just nice and too embarrassed or too busy shaking in our hiking boots to say what we know is gobbling up our insides.  We won’t say, “I can’t stand your poodle, even though I know you don’t have one.”  Instead, we go through the leaking heavens to see that person who is existing in our emotional balancing beam with no more than mediocre desire.

Dedication to what we think we want, versus that same devotion that we really like, are two different things and thus, render two types of excuses.  Honest ones, ones that are designed to  not hurt,  and just plain fib type, are the run of the obstacle relay we participate in.  And how far we go with it leads it into; will I screw up when I try to remember what it was I used as a reason, or what if I am not believed and it is true?

We don’t want to ignore what we like, but we don’t want to overdo what we sort of like but are not really sure what it is all worth.  And this is where we call in the excuses.

The person is nice.  A relationship is possible.  But the current interest is only limited, restricted by, maybe, other possibilities, or so distant a chance that, convenience be cursed, we don’t care enough to go there come Hades or flood.  So we come up with solutions, at least in our minds, for why the rendezvous should not take place.  Here, the creativity of the human mind is in it’s appropriate field of play, knowing where to go and quickly coming up with the right thing to say, or at least it is when we hit the icon.

The danger, of course, is remembering in the event that the coupling does take place.  We want to skip past any hurt our not coming over could cause, but if we slip and trip on this one, somebody is going to be embarrassed and someone is going to have their feelings hurt.

So, I will visit when I can, and when I feel like it.  I will stop over when the weather allows me to travel without stress.  I will be around when I don’t have laundry to fold or a dog to let out of the kennel.  This is, I will tell you all these things unless I really have the hots for you.  Then I will brave all, hurricane be damned, and find a good reason why I should be there.  After all, this is a relationship, and what are partners for?

When the reply is, ‘I’m going to bed early’, or ‘I’m not feeling well’, ‘my mother is stopping by’ or even, ‘I have a headache’, well, we were asking for it.

Setting up House.

It’s been a long time since I got unceremoniously dumped from my last relationship.  I’m way beyond it, or so my electronic brain sensors attempt to point.   But it was something my daughter said the last time we hung out that incented me to attempt to unmuddy what went down the turnpike in a direction counter to mine.  Baffling the mystery; what actually happened?

My beautiful daughter, who is quite insightful, told me she was “setting up house”.

“Just another bunch of syllables that translate to ‘rebounding’?  I inquired.

“Well, sort of”.  She explained it and I heard it, thus:

While we were grooving, her divorce was only a collection of fortnights away. The officializing papers only needed to be signed, exempting all the nit picks that didn’t have to be brought to a closed clump in our glorious original one of thirteen colony’s laws for a legal joining to end.  As soon as they were signed, like maybe somewhere on the short side of a week, our relationship was flatulence in a hurricane.  Gone.

I’m standing there, in the doorway so I don’t get squished by falling debris, saying to myself, “Self, what in the name of Krishna just happened?” while Vishnu is laughing her multi armed blue butt into squiggly wrinkles saying, “Geez.  Are your glasses really that scratched?

Somebody had to get sucked up the relationship vacuum to fill that airless spot her ex left her in.  Who could she possibly bitch to. (not at).  Mom and Dad are so ‘told you so’ people.  Best friends listen to the stories she’s told 33-1/2 times before.  But a new guy steps in?  Aha!  Ears to hear all about the sob stories (yes, they can be legitimate).  Someone to lay next to you and give you what you probably didn’t have in your marriage but remembered that, once, you did.  She gets intimacy, passion, dates to the good places, a quiet dinner, all the jovial stuff a relating to each other experience should have.

And an unseen anchor chain cranks you right in.

Things are tough.  A divorce is stuck up with moving from Cape Cod to El Paso, Texas on the stress scale.  So the temp hired with emotional payments, to help her get through it, enrolls in an essential job, making it possible for her to nest and set up house while the cracked marriage is allowed to legally be split like the samurai’s watermelon.

Those of us who dumbly fall into these divorce made holes are subject to a crash course in relationship crashing.  Not yet able to be completely alone or without another insignificant significant other in the empty slot, she somehow needs to get puttied in.  And here we are.  So, chasing the rabbit, we fall, like Dodgeson’s little blonde girl in her quest for adventure, then out we pop, male chameleon calicos, insects in pupa form and psychotic queens be cursed.  No happy endings for us on this trip.

The recipient party, of course, does not suffer the same malevolent outcome however.  The housekeeper gets the house, and the benefits of the aspects of the relationship that maintained their sanity through the struggled part.  After doing your part, the party of the second part, becomes the party of the third part, which is not a part of much of anything.

Oh, I get it.

Duh!

Seats on the Plane

I used to love to fly. I’ve been doing it since the fifties, when I flew back from Beirut, Lebanon, flying first on a ARAMCO Douglas DC3, (also known as a Dakota, Gooney Bird, clear air turbulence seeking aircraft) to Europe, a TWA Lockeed Constellation from Europe to New York and a United DC6 from New York to San Francisco.

Since then, it hasn’t stopped.  I’ve flown to small cities on Convairs and Fokkers, to big cities and continents on L1011s, 747’s and 707s, and domestically on A320s, 737s, 727s and even a Boeing 745B.  I flew to and returned from Vietnam on a DC8, and while there flew in C130s, C141s, and even a C7 Caribou.  Rotary winged in CH47 ‘Sh*thooks’and UH1 Hueys.  Flew a 152, a Cherokee and took the yoke on a Seminole once.

Love to fly.  Just don’t like flying the friendly commercial skies that modern mass for profit aviation is promulgating upon us.  It just isn’t the same as I want to remember.  Crammed into much smaller spaces than before, I have to deal with security checkpoints, thoughtless passengers, unruly, noisy children; and three across seating.

How stinkin’ romantic is that?  You want to travel with your favorite squeeze, and first class is beyond the budget permission allowance, so you sit in a seat with a complete stranger on one side of you.  If they’re in the window seat, they have to step over you.  If they’re on the aisle, ewwww.  Somebody has to stand up and let the other out, It’s sooooo personal, and it shouldn’t be.

Brain epiphany: Two seats and four.  So couples can snuggle and families can sit together.

Bring the adventure and romance back into flying!  A little more room, a bit of privacy, and a place for couples could revitalize the industry.

I’d be happier.  A mate would be happier.  Retired couples would be happier.  We’d all be happier except for the person who got the last seat and had to sit by the window of the four wide row.  Expectedly, the flight attendant would have to hand a full plastic glass of tomato juice across three other passengers, but it might be family so somebody would be there to absorb the spills who is actually related to the thirsty rascal at the window.

Now go back to that loving couple who just want a romantic flight to Duluth where the sister in law and her husband live.   The rowdy nephews and the untrained Labrador retriever be damned, the flight out and back will be personal and allow reflective interplay.  Giggles won’t have to be explained and footsies won’t bother other passengers.   Imagine sitting butt side to butt side consuming lukewarm airline coffee with no one needed to pass the cream and sugar.  Imagine the imagination that will elude from personal mind as the lights in the cabin are dimmed.  You could even stretch then connect one side of each of your seatbelts and get really close.

But for now, those of us appointed to the peon’s seats in general admission have to behave lest the 55 year old Novelty Polished Rocks salesperson sitting in seat C complain to the ones we used to call stewardesses about the goings on of the couple next to him.

Frankly, I would just as soon have only one person next to me, my co-habitant perhaps, who can hand me a barf bag when the airsickness sets in, and thus, not bring on a similar nausea to the third party.

Honest Kiss a Cow.

A term my mother used to use.  Honest kiss a cow.  I should ask her where it came from.

Good advice, for the you and me people who want to make the best of things.  But it comes, not just with pitfalls, but will massive doses of lost footing canyon drops.  It has the taproots of a ruined relationship scribbled all over the surface.

I don’t know many who can grasp and keep a hold of it.  Yes, we all like the honesty part, but experience has educated my internal processor to an understanding that, many people don’t really want to hear it.

My advice to newly weds has always been the same.  “The secret to communicating is listening even when it is something you don’t want to hear.”  The response is always the same.  “We do.” or “I know.”, but they don’t and they don’t.

It’s a learned skill, and is one that a plethora of people don’t learn.  It takes time, and more than that, experience.  And is met at every oversized pebble in the way, with resistance.  People don’t want to know that you think what they just did sucks!.  They don’t want to be informed that their action doesn’t have the same significance to you as it does to them.  If it isn’t pleasing to the eardrum connectors to the brain, they don’t want to hear it.

For me,  if it hurts, I want to tell you that it hurts.   If I don’t like it, I want to say just that.  And I want to do it without the recoil.

I wouldn’t do it with the dumbass effect.  Tact is always a strategic approach.  I don’t want to cause misery, I just want to be honest.  Tactfully.

Choosing the right word is certainly a good idea.  Relayed in the simplest of sentences; you have to be able to tell someone they’re a moron without directly calling them that. If you don’t agree, somehow they need to understand that, in your mind, they are filling the bathtub but forgot to put the stopper in the drain.  You ain’t gonna soak in the bubbles.  And in the major caseloads, tactfully does it with better effect. Also allows ‘nice’. Your choice of vocabulary in this moment of revelation can make or break the conversation.  It will continue with a peaceful parlay or you will end it in the blink of a bee’s eye.

It still has to be honest, sincerely honest, just like your reaction.

Can the average homo sapien, regardless of gender, learn to be completely tolerant of a bedmate’s point of observation?  Who among us can accept the other sans baggage, opinion or interpretation?  And is that level of oral correspondence worthwhile, or desirable?

An answer would have to go back to the love thing.  To do that, you would have to know the difference between love, infatuation, control and obsession.  They are not the same which points a big toe at, they are not connected.  But the love part has to be there, and if it is, then acceptance should be easy.  It isn’t.  But learning it now has a chance.

So I am going to be in depth honest.  At full gallop I will not pull back on the reins.  The throttle on the honest mobile will be to the floor.  Expect; harshly up front, pin point to the point, unabashed holdbacknothingness, all tactfully, of course.

To Sally

One of the things my mother instilled in me as a young person was to respect those who deserved respect.  She called them my elders.  But it wasn’t just senior citizens. The way I interpreted it was not gender specific.  I just respected my elders.  Female, male, it didn’t matter.

The first job I got on my own, my supervisor was Barbara Smith.  Then it was Carolyn Rennie.  Both women were fair, capable, honest and hard working.  My favorite teacher in middle school was Mrs. Lazzarini because she knew so much about history.  My grandmother Lucille on my mother’s side was an independent woman who lived all over the world and travelled from continent to continent on small commercial steamers as a passenger.  Her stories, like travelling in an open cockpit mail plane to make a connecting train, fascinated me.  Women who deserved respect were the women I was influenced by

I was never able to create in my mind, a difference between the genders when it came to what a person was worth and how much respect they deserved.

On June 18, 1983, I watched with fascination when the Challenger flew into space.  I had seen shuttles go before, but this one I watched, and followed.  On board was the first American female astronaut, Sally Ride.  I followed STS 7 for six days.  I watched all the videos and especially the one where she walked out of the Challenger, waving, with a smile as big as the Pacific on her face.

The pride I felt that day still brings a sense of wonder to my insides.

Sally Ride lost her 17 month battle with cancer yesterday.

The emotion that filled my heart, the sadness that lingers, will not go away any time soon.  When I began  my facebook page five years ago, she was one the people I admired the most.

I look at our country today.  I look at the world.  I wonder.  I listen to the youth talk about their favorite actor, their favorite musician, the professional athletes, the people they idolize.  Even the television show, American Idol, is not about a hero, it’s about a singer.

They have it wrong, and it needs to change.

The aforementioned are entertainers.  They contribute little or nothing to the bettering of our society.  They don’t deserve the attention, the salary, the idolization that our society gives them. Yet, look what they get .  Why?  Every major network has a period of time dedicated to entertainers.  We know about their private lives, their dysfunctional families, and their naughty behavior.  Yet they have only one job.  To entertain us.

Who cares!  And if you do care, why?  It makes NO sense.

How many Americans know that on September 11^th, 2001, passenger Todd Beamer kept terrorists from flying a plane into the White House. Who remembers Batallion Chief James Anato who gave his life in New York that day? What about his family?

Sally Ride was a true hero.  She was self made, a genuine adventuress.  She didn’t act it, she lived it.  She didn’t play the part, she was the part.  Intelligent, dynamic, capable, she is the one the youth of this country should be idolizing.  Where others pretend, she was real.   Where others are in it for fame and fortune, her goal was so much more than just to advance science.  She took on a man’s world and proved herself at least equal, but in many ways, superior.

For me, there was more to her than that.  To confess, I had a crush on her.  I wanted to meet her, get her autograph, give her a hug and say thank you for being the incredible person that you are. Her strength as a human being gave her an aura of sexuality; it made her beautiful in a way that no super model, no music video queen, no actress could  touch.  It was, in a way, indescribable,   I never got that chance, but this genuine American Idol will always be in my heart.

I love you Sally Ride.  May America never forget.

Transitions

I’m not in the frame of mind I was a few months ago.  Thank the gods of Valhalla for that.  Being rather emotionally drained is a pain in the fore point of contact, and way too distracting to life in the median.  Don’t like feeling crappy and don’t want to dwell on aspects that drain the good things.

I suppose I had to go through what I did, but I have yet to see why?  I’ve done it before and really have no inner, outer or otherwise desire to experience anything like it again.  Also don’t see the need for why it had to show it’s redundant fanny again. So damn the missiles, we’re going in!

Or is it out?

I feel better.  It’s the ‘time’ thing, the healer, so I’ve been consistently brain refreshed by well wisher.  Either that, or the whole thing was a superficial mind blog to begin with, which could easily be the true value of the situation. Not that it’s a bad thing, since I felt emotionally involved, at least at the moments when I was feeling like I did. It felt good.

So I have moved along, no longer enslaved by the stupidness of the emotional twine that was attaching me to things I probably had no business being connected with in the first place.  I have transitioned into a new time warp, leaving the old one somewhere amongst the old faded dishes I put in a box for the Salvation Army.  I haven’t forgotten, just categorized.  Not a life changing factor, not a growth enhancer, not something that I need even be concerned with.  Just something that happened, and, given the person that I probably want people to think I am,  will probably happen again.

I, however, am probably no wiser, no more aware, no more wary of the mistakes I will grasp and embrace in the future.  I learned only that it won’t happen again, at least not with her.  But elsewhere, I’m sure I’ll set myself up again.

Or I could find the person who’s been looking for me for the last 45 or so anniversaries of Christmas.  I could find a true lover, friend, companion who will spend the next 20 years of our lives with me.  And damn if I don’t have every inclination to have a good time doing just one thing, having fun.

Future marble searches will have to answer that, however.  Because I’ll be damned if I have even the slightest idea what will be hiding behind any of the curtains.  I suppose I will find a bag of cat’s eyes, but they may not be the ones I lost.  Don’t really care, though, as long as I have them and pretend I never lost them in the first place.

So, on we go.  No more the lost human, suffering with a broken heart amongst the tomato plants of other experiences that influenced me over the decades.  None the wiser, nor the stronger for all of it, set in a direction that takes me in circles and brings me back to where I didn’t realize that what I was doing was pure asinine.

This doesn’t forego a new beginning.  Obviously, I have to start over.  Can I do it without the anticipation of euphoria, the best feelings, the deepest emotions?  Not me.  If I am not a romantic in any other comprehension of the spoken motif, I certainly am there.  I want to be in love.  And once I am, I do not, ever, at any time, want to be out of it.  It feels too good.

Who’s idea was it to bet on the long shot, anyway?

Truth in Advertising.

Made up word for the day:  tellee: (noun/pronoun) tel `ee     the person you want to tell something to.

I was asked the other day to respond to the question, “what do you want?”  I think this is easy to answer on the surface, but to be more than superficial, it has to be explored on a floor just below the lowest level the elevator stops.  The internal workings of the mind tend to be stored in the sub basement, not always easy to get to and shake out for fear they will bring with them, goblins, that will scare away the partner you want to stay around.

The answers are there in two icons.  One is the altered format, that which will only include what one believes is what the other wants to hear.  This is not as much deceptive as it is protective.  How do you not scare the hell out of somebody? You present these responses with the full intent of not allowing what is hidden behind them to ever peek into your life and show a distorted face.

The other is the absolute truth.  This is the one that probably frightens the truth teller considerably more that it would panic the tellee.  This is the dungeon, where all the ghosts are hanging out, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mate and throw the relationship to a pack of starving coyotes.

What role does love play in all this?  Better said, what do we expect from our other half, potential or actual, when those true stories are revealed?  How much should we ask for?  How deep should we fill the pot of noodles?

This depends on what kind of relationship you want. How much faith do you have in the other part of the couple that you are?

Truth revealed?  I want it all.

I want to be happy.  I want to slow dance.  I want to be able to say what I think needs to be mentioned, discussed, hashed over and resolved.

I want to laugh.  And I want to hold hands.  I want to be more than lovers, I want to be best friends. I want to forgive and be forgiven.  I want to explore the emotional and physical precipices of a relationship, taking the smooth trail in the middle only when there ain’t no other way around.

I don’t care where the road goes, as long as it goes, somewhere.  And I want to be on it.

I don’t want to drink my coffee alone.

No more conflict, no more confrontation, no more stubborn responses. I want to talk out a problem, not argue about it.  I want to accept and be accepted, be different and be okay with that, at the same instance, allow differences to thrive in whoever sits beside me in the front seat of the car.

I like me, and I don’t want to change me.  If I love, then I don’t want to change that which I love.  But I am willing to grow, to be better at life, partnerships and co-living.

I want the little stuff to be little and irrelevant, and the big stuff to be secured in common sense, compromise and with love as the embodying resolution.

Skeleton bones belong in the mausoleum, not in an emotional partnership.  Ghosts can haunt a house but shouldn’t be found hiding in the attic you share with your lover.

What do I want?  In a relationship, I want exactly what I would give.  I want it all.

Along the Beach

            The Pacific beaches on the north coast of California are amongst the prettiest in the world.  But the water is cold.  So swimming is one of the things you do at the risk of freezing your insides, ice cubing the body into shivers that turn blue after five minutes.

            She is always the same that way, 366 days in a leap year.

            The sand, however, is usually clean and wading barefoot is still a desirable endeavor.  They are often miles long and , most of the time, barely habited.  Nice places to be.  Much better places to be if you have someone’s hand to hold.

            Warm beaches are nice.  The swimming is much better and the cooling effect of the breaking surf is a desire on a humidity prone day.  What is missing on a baking, sweaty day is the close contact that Northwestern Pacific currents make possible. 

            The weather on the left ocean coast is usually cool.  Days may reach the low 80s but more than likely will hover in the 60s.  With the breeze, the only way to stay warm is to put on a sweatshirt and get as close to your partner as you can.  No sweaty bodies, no sunscreen oils and the humidity is AWOL.  From January 31^st to January 30^th. 

            Great for couples.   It was always one of the things I enjoyed doing; for the serenity, the closeness and the privacy of a very intimate kiss.  It brings you close.  It takes the heart and makes it reach to its counterpart nearby, until they are both beating at the same rhythm and at the same energy level. 

            It does it all so quietly.  Breaking ocean waves are the only noise and they are only a whisper that enhances the inner workings of love in action. 

            Sunshine, fog, clouds and a wave  twice the size of the previous seventy four, wakes the soul, the spirit, inner workings of bodies that have trouble finding how to reveal themselves and their hidden wishes.

            The expanse of trillions of grains of sand, infected with foaming broken waves that wash under and over each other as they quarrel for a spot on the beach, lightens internal turmoil.  They give into themselves and become part of the next part of the next breaker. ‘Look at me’, they mumble.  The conflict that was once an ocean storm is no more than me, blending with me, to become the next one.  Disharmony becomes moot, a non entity.

            How else does one explain a walk on the beach?  The Pacific is not a pond.  Gentler than other oceans, her expanse makes a kind mother, a powerful parent and a great provider.  She’s cold in the American northwest, at least to the touch.  Yet she brings a special warmth to the souls of those who let her inside. 

Travellin’

On the road again, in a faraway place, at least, far from where I currently reside, maybe a couple of thousand miles.  Enjoying the warmth of Arizona, the vastness of California and the glitter of Nevada.  Will be flying back east in a few days, but for now, it’s good to be home.

Serious travelling has always been a passion and is a family tradition as well. My mother, siblings, grandparents, uncles, cousins, my entire gaggle of relatives, have enough travel background to present individualized slide shows to bored audiences for 1000 years. I don’t think a trip has ever been bad, although some of the experiences, especially with airlines, have been rather pesky.

One of the discords of my travels has been that I tend to travel alone, or just with my children.  Rarely have I travelled with a partner.  The exes used to go with me on about a tenth of my expeditions, but they were really more theirs, and maybe ours, not mine.

I drive when I can.  I camp along the way.  I stop when I want, hike when I stop and sit and enjoy the view.  I travel for the journey and experience the sights and sounds along the way.

Yellowstone Park is an experience, not a quick shot mental picture to be seen once then referred to a yellowing photo album.

Hotels, tours, fine dining, shows, are all nice, but that is not why I explore.  That’s why others travel.  Getting away is just that to me.  I want to get away from civilization, the middle ground, the current human norm.

It would be nice to have someone to extol these character impasses who enjoys them as much as I do.  I don’t mean someone who gives it verbal accreditation and tells me how much she likes it.  I want to travel with someone who likes the same experiences I do. Where the hell did I leave that one?

Showers and flush toilets are okay.  They can be close by and handy, but not in the same tipi.  The lights at the nearby public campground toilets hide stars.  I like stars. Take away one, take away the sky.  Yes, amenities are often nice to have readily usable, as long as they don’t interfere.

It just seems to me that having someone to pull close and say “Isn’t that beautiful?” or “I love this place.” makes the travel adventure that much warmer and fuzzier.

I will take a cruise now and then.  But expect me to spend a lot of time on the foredeck, wind in my face, tourists behind be, as the prow cuts through the waves.  And with the seat beside me occupied by the someone I like to turn to.