This time

Twenty cats.
That's how many the house I live in now has.
If you were to ask me this question yesterday, my answer would be 17.
Twenty cats with twenty variations, and as Amy puts it, "If you stay around long enough, you'll see every one of them has their own personality."
I've been here almost a month now, and while I haven't quite been able to separate all 20, It is getting easier to know some of their names.
The album I'm listening to right now, is called "Washed out." If you've ever seen the IFC series, "Portlandia," It's the opening theme song. That's what I've read at least. I haven't seen it.
Sitting in a cardboard box in the corner is Pepper. As I move closer to take a look, Pepper does her best to cover and protect her litter with her two front paws.
This is my first time seeing a litter of kittens. This is my first time seeing a litter of anything really. If I didn't know any better, you know, with a quick look, I'd say they look more like tiny mice then baby kittens. I reach down to try and pick one up, but am greeted with a hiss from a protective mother.
Standing over Pepper, and looking down over four tiny kittens, I'm reminded of the simple fact that I fucking hate cats, right? At least that's what I've told myself my entire young adult life. It used to be an anecdote over Thanksgiving dinners or New Year's eve parties. Now I stand here fixated, fascinated really. I can't seem to take my eyes off of this mother who's just gave birth to four tiny creatures, breathing, alive.

Miss River sends me a text message, wanting to know why I've been such a fucking liar. My phone lights up and her text reads, "Why are you such a lying asshole?"
The frost from the cold December air covers my android phone. 
"I don't know." I write back. 
Where I am right now is walking around Cedar City, Utah because I have nothing do to. I walk past Southern Utah University and take a left at a stop light, checking my phone for messages every 1-2 minutes. 
During the next three blocks, my phone turns bright, while message after message lights across my screen. 
"I don't want you." 
"I don't need you." 
"I'm seeing someone." 
Right now my heart is down to my knees and my knees are up to my chest, and every message I read, every message from this woman I love so much, cripples my body and moves me towards the sidewalk. 
"I'm sorry." I write.
"I love you." I write.
A minute or so later River sends me a message back.
"I don't love you." She says. 
Where I am right now is walking up the cold, hard sidewalk, walking back home, towards a place where memories of River are warm and soft. 
A minute goes by and there's no message from River. The electronic sign from the Bank of Utah tells me it's 17 degrees outside. How I feel is numb. The string from the north wind no longer burns my face. 
All around me is nothing but frozen breath and passing cars and Christmas lights. 
I reach my front steps and my phone vibrates. 
"Heading to the shower, than off to the boyfriends house." She writes. 
This is the last things she's ever said to me since. 

Dear Ms. River

You probably won't read this. You probably don't want to see anything with my name on it. In fact, you probably don't want to see my name. Ever again.

Matt's gone, Ms. River. He passed away on Monday. I can only assume it was a drug overdose.
I know you didn't like him much. While Matty and I had our conflicts at times, he was still a friend to me.
It was Matt, that I was at the hospital with when I called you, the same day we talked about our feelings for each other, you remember? I was sitting in the hospital lobby and we talked for hours, maybe four or five.
I can't  help but imagine where you're at right now. With your boyfriend, or maybe with Celina, playing pool and drinking wine.
Today I closed my eyes and thought about coming home to you. Pulling my laptop bag from off my shoulder and going outside to smoke cigarettes, and talk to you about how I'm feeling. Some sick part of me wants to believe that it would be a reality someday, instead of a dream. Some part of me would like to believe that we still live in a world where you love me, and I love you. A world where we hold each others hands and make meatballs, or salmon cured in salt and lemon. A world where I was a good guy and didn't fuck things up.
Right now, my hands tremble and shake over the top of my keyboard. Even typing something you'll probably never read, it's still fucking hard. A part of me still sits, in front of my laptop and checks gmail, and facebook, waiting for a message that will never come.
When two people love each other, they put hands over hearts, taking each others pulse until both hearts stop beating.
I still live in a world where I still love you. I love you and I know you'll never love me back, not the way that I still love you. Not like you used to.

Made With Concentrate

Where I am right now is inside the Salt Lake City Library.

Tiny beads of raindrops form on the window to my left, while a young girl spins 'round and 'round in a swivel chair to my right. 

The sound the rain makes on the aluminum roof above, it reminds me of tens of thousands of soldiers marching. 

How I feel right now is vulnerable but optimistic. 

I have just changed my work schedule to having Thursdays and Fridays off. This is so I can go visit Ms. River every other week, on every other Thursday.
How I feel right now is naked. My phone is turned off and haven't been able to speak with Ms. River in almost 36 hours.
Every other minute, like the rain my eyes continue to fall but on my cell phone, watching for the message and waiting for the vibration to let me know my phone is back on.
The little girl in the swivel chair, her mother tells her to stop, tells the girl she might get sick if she continues on.
The only way I've been able to communicate with Ms. River is via E-mail. The response between the two of us has been few and far in between.
A cell phone plays a ringing sound and a young man who calls himself Nick answers the phone.
Nick has forgotten his password and wants the entire library to know how unsatisfied he is with a certain company's customer service.
My fingers pause over my keyboard as I try to concentrate on my next sentence.
Nick, apparently his mother's maiden name is Wiley. "Like the coyote!" He yells.
A blanket of "Shush's" fill the air around me.
There is a middle aged overweight male, resembling an Orson Wells(circa 1960's) look. He breathes heavily, looks at me and says, "You think he knows this is a library?"
The rain continues to march on the roof above me while Nick yells into his phone, "You say you want to know my zip code?"
What's  happening right now is the same thing that  happens when your in bed, late at night trying to sleep. The smallest of sounds sometimes, can be the loudest annoyance.
Right now Nick's voice, it sounds like a roller coaster on a fucking chalkboard.
Right now Nick tells everyone that his last log in date was sometime in "Juneish."  
Trying to concentrate right now, is just as hard as tying to concentrate on sleep while Ms. River runs through my mind. For the past few nights, instead of counting sheep, I count beautiful memories and the days it's been since I've seen her..
The time on my cell phone tells me right now, this very second, Ms. River is in class, probably running on no sleep and a pumpkin spice latte.
Nick tells his phone and everyone in the room that he'll "have to go get that." Whatever "that" is.
I close my eyes for a second, try to concentrate and push through but I can't.
My thoughts are watered down into a concentrate I can no longer concentrate on.
I close up my laptop, stand up and head out the door.
"Thank you!" Nick says into his phone.
No, thank you Nick, thank you.

When Vocals Fold.

    This is when it starts to happen.
When I get quiet and my eyes start to water.
When my throat tries to resonate any sort of vibration from my larynx up through my lips.
This is what happens when I can no longer speak.
This is what I like to call, "The Depressing Pause."
The Department of Health and Human Services describes this as, when vocal folds no longer produce a vibration, causing nothing but air to slowly fall out of my open mouth.
After a moment of silence, I make a grunting noise, bringing to life the muscles that have recently failed me.
"Sorry..." I say
"About what?" River asks.
"Sorry for getting so Emo, for a moment." I say.
Where I am is laying down in my bedroom, talking to Ms. River.
Where I am is getting out of my "Good times bus" after taking a drive down memory lane, doing my best to walk a straight line and speak a straight word.
The funny thing about all of this is, you never know when that unexpected teardrop is about to form from the corner of your eye.
Three minutes ago, all I was doing was asking about a simple raspberry plant.
A raspberry plant that was purchased from a simple Low's Home and Garden with a simple twenty dollar bill.
Now I lay here and rub my Adams Apple, feeling like an extra from a Charlie Chaplin film.
"It's okay." Ms. River says. "I understand."
I take a moment and breathe, letting go a thick cloud of nostalgia, letting it pass through my vocal folds and into the air.
Three minutes ago it was a simple raspberry plant, reminding me of simple sunshine and generous offerings that make all the difference.
"What where you thinking about?" Ms. River asks
"Raspberries", I say "I was thinking about raspberries."

On Saturday's, the Lowe's Home and Garden in Henderson is open from 10 AM to 8 PM.
The digital clock on my phone tells me it's a quarter to one when we pull in the parking lot.
Ms. River and Ms. River's  Mother,-or "moms" as we both call her, have decided to stop and take a look at few seasonal plants and flowers and more importantly, a raspberry plant.
Ms. River and I had been fighting for what felt like several weeks.
After a few days of silence, sometimes the only thing to do is to argue.
When you go so long without noise, sometimes the best thing to do is just turn on the power, and turn up the volume.
Inside the open air garden, Ms. River and moms wheel a shopping cart around the corner of grass seed and insecticides.
I hand the cashier a twenty dollar bill and he hands me back $1.72 in change.
Afterwards, I turn around and walk back towards garden hoses and lawn furnishings.
What I have in my hand is a raspberry plant.
A simple plant with nothing but a short stem, sprouting from a gallon of soil, inside of a black plastic bucket.
River and moms stop in front of Jasmine flowers and whisper something back and forth in Russian.
"Rita," I say, "Here". I extend both my arms and hand over the plastic bucket with the sprouting stem.
"What's this for?" Moms asks.
"It's for you." I say, and place my arm around moms, giving her a smile and a hug.
Out of the corner of my eye, Ms. River's look, it tells me she's happy but still wants to be mad at me.
I move over to Ms. River and place my arm around her waist.
She tells me, "I'm happy but I still want to be mad you." She says.
"Sorry." I say. "Would you prefer if I were a dick?" I ask.
This is the first time I see a genuine smile in over a week.

So this is when it happens.
This is when tears form from the corner of my eye and my vocal folds, fold.
Something simple I know.
I miss times like these. Times when something so simple can make a world of difference.
I ask Ms. River about the raspberry plant, how it looks now.
"You should see it." She says. "It's crazy. It's grown from the ground up to the top of the patio."
I take a deep breath and attempt to say something.
Anything.
"Are you okay?" River asks.

Where I am right now is inside a Lowe's Home and Garden.
Watching a smile I haven't seen for weeks.
Watching my love continue to grow from the ground up to a patio.
From my larynx to my lips.

Barks In Translation

Where I am right now is standing in the entrance of Ms. River's apartment. 
What I look at, are a pair of big puppy dog eyes and a large tongue that hangs down towards the floor. 
The thing you need to realize is, if you want to get to know Ms. River, you need to get to know Maggie McGaggie. 
Standing on all fours, Maggie McGaggy continues to look up at me, and through her large, puppy brown eyes, her look says, "Who the fuck are you?" 
I bend down and reach the palm of my hand out towards her nose. Maggie sniffs and licks my palm and looks at me one more time. 
Her look says, "Okay." It says, "Just don't try anything with my mom." It says, "Mother Fucker." 
I scratch her behind her ear and tell her it's nice to meet her. 
"Pupsicles!" Ms River says. River bends down and throws her arms around Maggie McGaggie and tells her she loves her. 
The thing is, if you've ever heard Ms. River talk about Maggie, then you know. 
You see for yourself. 
You hear for yourself how much compassion and love River has bottled away, only for a select few to see. 
For those lucky enough to see this face with the mask off, it's kind of a wonderful thing. 
Ms. River puts her cheek up against the nose of Maggie McGaggie and continues to smile. 
"Pupsicles!" Ms. Rivers says "Oh, I love you puppy." She says. 
With her same puppy dog look, Maggie Mcaggie looks at Ms. River and says, "Where the fuck have you been?" She says "...and who the fuck is is the new guy?" 
I slide my laptop bag off my shoulder and take a seat next to a small kitchen table. 
Maggie makes a slow trot my way and stops two feet in front of me. 
"Hi." I say
She looks back at River and back towards me and back towards River. 
"Are you going to be nice Pupsicles?" River asks. 
Maggy Mcaggie, Pupsicles, she pauses a moment, looking towards her mom and back to me. Her look says, "Don't fucking try anything." 
My look back at her, it says, "I wont." It says "At least not when you're in the same room." 
Ms. River sets down her backpack and moves towards myself and a pair of inquisitive puppy dog eyes. 
I stand up and place the palms of both my hands on River's hips and draw her close. 
"BARK!"
I draw River close and press my lips against her lips. 
"BARK, BARK!"
My lips slide down from her lips and press against the soft skin of her neck. 
"BARK, BARK, BARK!"
While the palm of my right hand slowly moves up towards River's back, I can only translate this to, "I thought we had a deal Mother Fucker!" 
I lift Ms. River up and set her on the small dinning room table. 
My hand moves under her shirt and over the top of her breast. My opposite hand pulls up on her shit, sliding it up and over her nipples. 
Just as my tongue begins to swirl around a bare breast and bare nipple, Maggie McGaggie barks, over and over and over she barks. 
This can only translate to, "You don't waste any time do you." This translates to, "Just wait, just you fucking wait until you leave a pair of underwear or a pair of pants on the floor." 
"BARK"
"BARK"
"BARK" 
I stop and laugh and pull myself up from Ms. River and her dinning room table. 
"Maggie McGaggie!" Ms. River says. "Be nice McGags." 
Maggie McGaggie, Pupsicles, McGags, she looks up at me and over to River. Her look says, "That's better." It says, "Works every time." 
After the small kitchen table and kissing, River tells McGags that it's time to go to the park. She grabs a black leash from the kitchen and clips it to the collar of Maggie McGaggie. 
Opening the front passenger door, Ms. River tells me I might want to sit in the back. 
"She's probably going to want to sit in the front seat." River says, "Which means she probably going to want to sit on your lap." She says "Which means it might be a little uncomfortable." 
I tell her it's okay. 
"I don't mind. I'm sure it'll be fine." I say. 
Ms. River opens the back, passenger door for McGaggie.
"Go on." River says. 
Maggie McGaggie looks at Ms. River and over to me. 
"Go on." River says again. 
Maggie McGaggie jumps into the back seat of River's silver Honda Civic and looks at me. 
Her look right now, it says, "Okay." Her look says, "That's how you want to fucking play this is it?" 
Ms. River closes the front drivers door and starts her car. 
With the three of us inside, Maggie McGaggie slowly works her way from the back seat, to my lap, on top of my now squished genitalia and testicles. 
Right now, Maggie's look says, "What?" It says "It's so fun to be out of the house." It says "I'm having a great time! Are you?"
Luckily the drive to the dog park is only three blocks.
By the time we get out, everything below my torso is numb. I kick both of my feet out of the passenger side door and wait for the blood to return. 
Sometimes, this is the price you pay when you try to get to know Maggie McGaggie, when you get to know Ms. River. 
At the park, I hold the end to a short, thick rope. On the opposite end of this rope are a set of teeth, twisting and tugging and pulling. Every once in a while, I let go of my end, giving Maggie the satisfaction that she once again, has bested me. 

As the evening continues, I can honestly say I was happy to meet Maggie McGaggie. As the evening comes to a close, I can honestly say I believe the feeling was mutual. 
You see, the thing you need to realize is, if you want to get to know Ms. River, then you need to get to know Maggie McGaggie. 
You need to get to know Pupsicles, or McGags, or any other nickname Ms. River has for the Blue Heeler mix with adorable puppy brown eyes. 
The clock on my phone now reads 5:05. 
Ms. River rubs her hands through Maggie's ears and head and tells her she loves her. 
Grabbing my laptop bag, I move towards Maggie and her hanging tongue. 
"It was nice to meet you Mcgags." I say. 
Maggie McGaggie continues to hang her tongue. She looks at me through her brown, puppy dog eyes and says. "You too." Followed by, "Mother Fucker" 

Picking up the Pisces

Something small triggers an emotional avalanche, but that just means you're likely to clear away a ton of debris that leaves room for building anew, do get excited about the future Pisces. It's not as bleak as it once looked.
Today your compass will point east, towards the state of Tennessee, and the music capitol of the world they call, "Nashville."
This sign points towards, not necessarily relocation, but towards laughter and happiness and soft pillows to your face.
The world is no longer your oyster Pisces, but a lab coat, over the black, lacy, Victoria secret lingerie you call, future.
Where you are right now Pisces, is on a fast track for success. Just remember to pull over once in a while, look at the sunrise from the sunset. Look at the sunshine from all angles of life.
Don't forgot to stop and slow down Pisces. Remember not all are on your same level. Some are only on a 5, while you're a 30, posting and boasting high scores on Facebook and various social networking sites.
Today you're a calendar Pisces. While you'll be asked on many dates, there is only one you should circle. Check these boxes with caution. Fridays, Saturdays and Somedays will come suddenly, do not let this be your week-end.
Look at your job like a pendulum. Swinging back and forth from 9-9, remember to wind your watch and consider puppy faces and puppy love. While the daily grind may turn you into dust, just remember, someone out there is thinking of  you, waiting patiently, at a DMV, waiting to stand up and clap when your special number is called.
So throw yourself out there, put your name on the board, you, yourself control your destiny.

The ImPACTS of love.

     On my notebook, I write words like, "my" and "mind".
This is followed by several lines of black ink, zigzagging back and forth over these two words.
The sound my energy drink makes while popping the lid, it sounds like air escaping from a Goodyear tire.
I take my pen and cross a zigzag line over "Goodyear" and write "Michelin."
Where I am is sitting on my couch. Unable to fall asleep, I sit and write.
The television in front of me wants to know if I'd like to try the newest formula for hair growth. The advertisement tells me that actors and common people like myself have all had success.
The thoughts that keep me awake tonight are primitive ones.
These thoughts are of naked bodies with naked egos, laying on a mattress of stripped down vulnerability, falling on a blanket of uncovered emotions.
The thoughts keeping me awake tonight are thoughts of blue and soft pink, followed by thoughts of dark windows and warm breath.
My pen crosses out the word "pink" and writes "peach". My pen crosses over the word "peach" and writes "pink"
The television in front of me tells me to, "act now."
It says, "only 3 easy payments of $19.95".
It tells me to act now, and I'll get the shipping and handling for free.
The digital clock in the bottom right hand corner tells me it's a half past midnight.
The energy drink in front of me tells me I'm tired, and will crash and be more tired in two, maybe three hours.
Tonight I lay awake and think of gentle reminders over loud billboards.
When you love someone and loose someone, these reminders becomes a giant billboard. A billboard that follows you around where ever you go. It lets you know that this person you love is a television show or a commercial.
She's an inside joke or a restaurant or a slice of cake with chocolate icing.
All of these are reminders of the time the two of you shared.
All of these are reminders of the times you took for granted and would like nothing else but to get them back.
In tiny letters, my pen writes the word, "chocolate" in front of the word "cake"

The window tint on  her driver and passenger side windows, they tell me it's okay to move forward. 
The large windshield in front of me, the one with wiper-blades and a small family of four in front, this tells me to stay exactly where I am. 
Where I am exactly, is in the front passenger seat, laying with the seat back, with River laying in my lap. 
My right hand slowly slides down her right thigh, between both her legs. 
River's soft pink lips meet my lips while the palm of my hand rubs over a pair of denim jeans. 
Her moan and breath tell me to keep going. 
The white Chevy Blazer that parks next to us, tells me to stop. 
This is the first day River and I hang out, outside of our writers' group. 
This is the first day we've given each other more than one word to write about. 
Ms. River looks up at me, through her deep blue eyes and tells me she wants it to be different this time. 
"I really like you." She says. "I don't want it to be like every other time with every other guy." She says. 
I rub my fingers through the side of her maple brown hair and say, "Okay." 
Looking through tinted windows and bug marks, my right thumb swipes the side of her porcelain cheek. 
"So where are you trying to go with this?" I ask. 
"I don't think we should have sex yet." She says. "Not right now." She says. "I think we should wait three weeks." She says. 
Right now my heart sits in the passenger seat and beeps. It pulses and moves to the sound of an unexpected emotion, one it's never played before. 
My primitive male reaction is to say something like, "Three weeks, one day, it's all the same." 
Instead, I look down into these hazy eyes and say, "sure." I say "that makes sense." I say "yeah, okay". 
The funny though about love, it doesn't have to be three weeks or two months or one year. It can be the first day the two of you spend alone. 
The funny thing about love with River, it can be the moment before the moment's actually started. 
Before silver cars and passenger seats and denim jeans, I was already in love. I was already in love with blue eyes and pink lips. I had already painted a portrait of porcelain skin on a billboard to follow me at every twist and turn. 
The funny thing about love is it doesn't matter if it's one day or three weeks or one year. 
If it's love, time shouldn't make a difference to make it. 
I look down towards Ms. River, into these hazy eyes and I say, "sure." I say "that makes sense." I say "yeah, okay". 


Where I am is on a couch.
The television in front of me wants to know if I'd like to save 10 percent on car insurance.
The pen in my right hand and the paper in my lap, they both want to know if she'll ever come back.
The heart underneath my plain white T-shirt tells me she will.
Tonight I sit in front of a Television, one that tells me all about E-trades and E-harmonies and Esurances.
I sit on a couch wide awake, trying to find the key to open my mind.
The words that keep me awake tonight are "emptiness", "loneliness", "volatile".
If I'm going to write, then I'm going to open my heart, pump blood out through my left ventricle and move from hope to promise.

So River and I, we sit in a parked car and make a pact. 
The funny thing about pacts, they don't usually last as long as they intend to.