A LETTER TO THE ONE I LIKE AND COULD LOVE IF HE LET ME AND WHOM I KNOW WOULD LOVE ME IF HE COULD ONLY OPEN UP.

August 20, 2006
C. Pacheco

Brave and Stupid


There’s this love thing again. How could a civilization be so predictable and complicated at the same time?
How could this cliché of the subject of love become commonplace in a society that has risen, pushed through oppressive forces of our earth’s gravitational pull and despite all odds – still land on the moon?
How could the ethereal nature of love be so filled with blinding complexity and binding ropes?

This isn’t like me. My time is usually spent thinking about the sky and looking at the trillions of tiny dots that make up our multi-dimensional real-life moving painting. I think about them and the quantum leaps that happen all around us everyday. I wonder about DNA, perpetual motion, and the science of emotion, spirit and reincarnation. I dig inside of the mud, get dirty and want to discover the bottomless pit.

But love.
I am clueless and without words or language.

The wanting of love and not knowing how to ask for it leaves me the most fearful. It makes me more scared than traveling alone in a wet, thundering mountain in a country below the equator, surrounded by strangers in a lost place.
It is my heart that is bigger than this world. It expounds beyond the literal universe and reaches toward a horizon, poised to land in the incinerating center of the sun.

It is brave and stupid. But isn’t the difference just a transparent, fragile, fine line?

And so I’m here in this place- staring at the dots, creating a play list of music for you as you are probably daydreaming about your happiness, your sadness, what it is that you may want, don’t want, don’t want to admit you want --- amongst your confusion, your breakfast, your laugh, the lowering of your head -------- your sighs.
I can’t help that your exhaled breath finds me like smoke signals.
Wondering about these little pieces, I have a deep desire to touch you and remind you that you are not alone.
Then, I feel crazy --- as if I fell through a wormhole in outer space and the universe of my heart is leading me further away from civilization. There, I become like an animal – reactionary and losing all my reason.



And I don’t care.
Perhaps I have already found this pit – this 8th wonder of the world; deep, dark, mysterious, primordial and unexplainable.

Between all of my deep ponderings and curiosity about our existence, at the end of it all, I want to slow dance with you.
I want to think of nothing. Maybe that is the greatest give that love can bring to me, can bring to you…

Silence.


Inspired by E.

A LETTER TO THE ONE I DON’T WANT TO ADMIT I WANT TO LOVE AND WANT HIM TO WANT TO LOVE ME BACK



Promise of Spring
By C. Pacheco


WORDS TO CLEAR MY THROAT:

What if I told you that every time I’m near you I feel like I never learned a thing? You make me want to pull my heart out of my chest again and lay it down for your to explore. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt my center rise and my core as bright blue as the hottest flame in a dark room.


THE POINT:

I want to hold you with my eyes closed, touch your beautiful hair, smell your golden skin and bring you into me – over and over again.
I want to exhaust myself at the end of everyday for over-loving you.
I’m sure that it would be reciprocated. I have a place for every part of you. Your sweat dripping into my small valleys – there’s a dry part of me matching every damp part of you. You arrived like a thunderstorm, uninvited and surprisingly. So, rain hard on me. Demand your thunder to shake my earth – your lightening to strike me more than once. This humid, sticky essence of your entrance brought green to my grey.

I can’t explain all of those silly little reasons that I feel this way. I’m just drawn to you like dew to a thorn. And even if it means yet another pain of heartbreak, I want to lay with you and feel what it could be, in my mind for this moment – if only for this moment.

Please be him.
Rub your body around me as we dance to deep, slow rhythms and make me want it.

You can make me wet with longing. Kiss me where I’m raw, sore, tired – where tears swell and my body tickles. Give me your mouth and sip on my sweet, hot tea for a while.
I want to show you my words, my most open – my most honest – and I want for you to play with them between your rough fingers. Swirl the o’s in your index, tickle the x’s, dot my I’s, squeeze my e’s and push down on my g’s with your green thumb. Grip my sentences and hold them up against your warmth. Then give them back reinvented, like new full-bloomed dewy roses from your garden.

In the deep purple and blue hours of the night I want to awake with my body lying over you - lethargic and trusting. Let me sleep cradled in your thighs and dream of all that you could be.
I will dance for you – undulate my body, like you are the dry shore and I am the full moon’s tide.
I want to rub you, feel you rise - pumped full with blooming gardens of life and a promise of spring.


Your lips are ripe and high above the sea – ready for me to dive deep into yet another abyss - this deep blue bottomless wetland where I never catch my breath.
Come close to me, up against me. Feel my damp chest slipping against yours – I am squirming and not wanting to give in. Make me see in your eyes that I am but a young girl again, remembering my innocence.

Though all of this is like over-saturated sweet syrup poured in lumps into milk, just bare with me today as I finally am waking from my winter’s slumber. I am grateful for the possibility of you and it makes me rise in the morning and look toward the sun.

Shine over me. Bring me your heat.
Make my flower bloom in your orange, hot and humid dawn.

A letter to the one I don’t want to admit I still love

Perpetual winter


I want to hate you.
Don’t we all feel that way about some people?

I don’t even really want to want to hate you.
Where are you anyway?

You damn fool. You still feel me when you sleep against her. Her hair, her smell, her skin, her breathing. Isn’t she lovely? Really.

In your dreams I know you see the “ifs”. And no matter how collected you are and perfect you are and clean you are – no matter how composed and intensely focused you are, those messy memories of us cloud you.

It’s all about the, what if’s, isn’t it?

But who in the hell cares anyway?
This mini obsession I have with the wonderings about you add up like small dollars and tiny cents. It was expensive to have experienced you at all, on any level, in my life.
I have been paying on the interest and feel like I’ve just begun bargaining with the principal. And I still have a long way to go.

When can I finally upgrade from you? When can I at least trade in this broken heart for a newer one? Perhaps one with a different vibe, smile, texture and color. At least it would be a variety on this pain. A buffet of gut wrenching is better than the same ol’ everyday, predictable and petty disappointments. It would at least give me the thrill of the un-expected. You remember how I enjoyed playing with fire, don’t you? I like skating the unstable edges of piercing cliffs and cutting earth. There’s just something so divine about the hurting that reminds me of my closeness to apathy. It’s just a quick, steep and fast death fall ahead.
So, at least pain that I don’t expect - keeps me on my toes and reminds me that I’m living.
If I only could say that I’ve been hurt by another this way. I want to say that I have – but no. I tried to. At times I may have stared deeply into myself in a mirror until this person in the reflection became a blurred, melted fleshly version of me. She became part of the glass and evaporated away. I was searching for a kernel of something that would convince me, sincerely that I have bled for another him.
But, no.
Instead, all they’ve ever been were just other let-downs. Like flies and honking horns in the distance never letting me sleep. But never like yours.
I wonder if the veil over my soul has thickened like the dry callous on the balls of my feet, and have become themselves like those dark, old timeless rocks existing in a vast, isolating land – never uncovered.
Damn how I long for that sweet pain of slipping and slicing myself open. That deep, violet haze of pain that rises like smoke in a room on fire.
But for that I’m guessing I would have to open up this cave, again. And at least for now, it seems that snow is still falling on those steep and sharp edged cliffs. Sleet is still slick up against the pavement and the bitter cold is breaking the bark of an old oak outside my sunken lair. I will hibernate until the first trickle of melted ice, like a bug, sneaks its way underneath me and into my hiding.

This winter has been a blizzard and even the sun holds out his hands, bloody & filled with sharp ice. Stabbing, cutting, hard frozen water.

This is how I loved you. This is how you loved me back. Such sweet slicing pain that created a dichotomy inside me – splitting me in two - like ice cracking rocks in a perpetual winter.
You see I want for you to come back and hurt me again. Summon out the purple from my beige. Conjure up my red from my still white. Bring out the black from my clear and lucid pastel.
Come and bring this pain, sharp and cradled in your hands, and make me hate you again.
So that for one brief moment I can remember how it feels to want to love someone else, anyone else, but you.





For G.

Written on Thursday, July 27, 2006 (on the plane over to Tejas)

OZ


The other day while feeling bad, I bought myself a beautiful pair of deep-red, patent leather, closed toe, classic high heeled shoes.
I’ve always wanted a good pair of red shoes.
And last night I found myself packing them up alongside some old, tattered, dirty flip flops. They are meant to be broken in someplace else.

Here in Austin, it is hot, humid and wide-spread – just like I remember Texas.

You see, that’s the thing about Texas. It sticks to you, like the humidity. And already, in some ways, it seems like San Francisco was a fairy-land, foggy dream. Did all that ever really happen? Did I really live in such an amazing world-famous city, on my own, in a cool neighborhood, dance naked for some funny money, do media work, go to the Hopi reservation and Alaska, meet Maya Angelou, get my heart swollen and broken, hang on for dear life in the Muni, run down the stairs to jump on the BART, participate in some of the largest protests, smoke the best herb and meet the strangest, coolest, funkiest people? As a matter of fact, it can be said that I indeed met the tin man with no heart, the lion with no courage, the scarecrow with no brain while skipping around in the emerald city.

And the result of that messy mosaic is formidable. My wisdom is heavier, like a water-balloon. My conscience looks bright like white linen shining through sun. My heart is large and filled with the deep blue liquid of humility. And, my spirit. She is light and boundless – forever rising above me, watching the landscape and guiding me where to go next.

But there is something I must say to you all, my fellow travelers down this yellow brick road: In my deepest core I am certain some day, some how, I will click those shiny red heels of mine and return to Oz – taking the emerald city within me.

But, for now I’ve got to admit ------- there’s no place like home.


A big embrace to my California peeps. You are with me for life.
And to SF --- I've never felt a warmer embrace from any other cold place.

Thank you.