Ode to a stranger's eyes

It's the type of thing I think about to make me smile on an overcast day, when I forgot a sweater and have to walk a ways with the shivers and a threat of rain.

His brown eyes aren't even really brown at all, not like the kind you're used to at least. They're like the color of my coffee before I put in the last drop of cream, the moment it's sweet but not too sweet, the perfect balance. The brown of most eyes is a dark and deep one, rich with a shade that dances between the lighting, ever changing with the surroundings. His is a fluid color, light and infinite, a color that never changes with the light but still manages to never stay the same upon each glance.

It's mesmerizing, meditative, and marginally captivating on a scale from one to infinity. It's something I try to forget but am hard pressed to remember--something to get lost in like the dirty brown waters of a river recently flooded. Only you want to get lost in this one because it feels like it could be salvation: rescue. It's undeniable, intrinsic, the thing you spend your whole life trying to figure out until realizing you knew what it was all along.

It's a problem, but one that is worth filling up the chalkboard of your soul trying to solve. The variable? A blink of an eye, something that subtracts a few moments of sight. The constant is simply the static of the stare and all the unchanging grace present there inside the hue.

The color born from the concentrated brown tucked away in the plastic case of watercolors, which when added with the water and aided with a brush, slowly spreads itself over the white; never to be changed, never to be taken from, never to leave the once blank canvas--your canvas.

It's just the thing I think about--on days like these--to make me smile.

Missed Connections

There is no such thing as a "Missed Connection".

The eyes meeting, the chit chat at the Starbucks counter while waiting for your soy lattes, while it was fabulous, and filled with excitement, that my friend was all it was meant to be.

Because if it's going to be something more, it will be. It will come to pass. It will play itself out.

Don't spend time worrying about the "one that got away" or the "possibilities" or "the what if's", because the time spent worrying distracts you from the time you could be spending making the connections that will last; the ones that aren't worthing missing.

Let's caravan to sudden death!

Recently, Girl went into the fog. Literally. (But perhaps She was always there.)

There's this quaint, isolated town nearby that is an old port. The road is isolated, unruly, and descends down through sharp turns and steep hills. Add the element of zero-visibility fog, and well, folks, it ain't nothing but a good time.

Recently, Frankie and Girl took this journey at an A.M. time, to bring some havoc to a few bar goers at the one alcohol establishment in the town. Black Coat Mafia had been idle for far too long, and the thought occured to "start some shit" if you get the meaning. Unfortunately, the plans backfired.

Because while Frankie was mostly unattached to the situation, Girl was not. These situations, drive-by apple pie-ing, drive-by booking, etc., etc., always seem to arise when a Mafia member wants to do something to a Boy who "bad romanced" her. Or in this case, vice versa. Our Girl, you see, inevitably screws up everything she sets her mind to, and one screw up, as it were, was at the Creepy Port Town's Alcohol Establishment, having a few drinks after quite a large health situation arose.

The senses make it real. When someone that once had your heart is gone, by choice or not, they aren't around: they are eventually forgetable. But a scent, a picture, a movie, a song, anything sensual that reminds you of what once was, are useless ice picks. By ice picks, I mean to say, the once loved (or hated) person has been enshrined in ice, and left to sit inside one's head, frozen away in some Northern Cerebral glacier, until, inevitably, those memories melt it and pick at it, and it drifts back into the consciousness of the here and now, to haunt you, anger you, force you to bitterly drink it away while only being able to focus on either the good or the bad of it all.

It's not the destination, but the journey, as the old saying goes... in this case; Girl should've guessed from the perilous journey, start to finish, what was awaiting her at the end point, and turned around, back to safety.

Because more often than not, you get what you weren't expecting. But that's life, isn't it? Driving headfirst through the fog, visibility always changing, uncertainty looming about what's to come. Also, getting lost and having to turn around...quite a few times. Ahh, the joys of being alive...and in a fog.