... that I was

Tiptoeing like an intruder I held my breath and wished I had worn quieter shoes. He led me to the intimate and charming room in which the mastermind creates, recieves inspiration, and finally rests. An old piano owned the wall which reflected his twin bed, covered in organic sheets and watched over by the Lizard King himself, an obvious idol to any man born to break on through and light their fires. His bedroom was inviting, hopeful and full of books, films and timeless pieces intended to inspire. I couldn't help but feel at home and feel privileged to be with this ONE that I had long ago dreamed and sketched and drawn up, but never imagined could truly exist. I was in awe. I tried not to be though. He was just another guy, one who had attempted to 'hook up' with Catherina and I both just two nights ago. Did he not realize she was my best friend, unknowingly since birth, and would tell me everything. Did he not realize I don't fall for guys, I've been hurt and scarred and am not trying to add to the collection?

But then I saw It, and knew right then and there I wouldn't be able to deny him no matter how hard I tried. The book that changed my life. The book I picked up at 16-years-old, for 99 cents, at a used bookstore (cuz my Santa Barbara deejay Uncle recommended it, saying 'I'd love it,' and I loved everything he told me I would) sat on his desk. On the Road, the leader of a generation and the leader of my burning and ever bubbling desire for adventure, stories, experience, and life, sat; read, studied and sanctified; existing.

His bed was 'too small and room too messy.' To his sister's bed and we lay and thanked the dependable California rain for its presence and assistance in framing our moment. It's sacred pitter patter prompted American Spirit to lean in and me to hold tighter. Finally our lips touched and candles burned and the smell was unforgettable and a shade of deep purple. His flawless chocolate hair brushed my olive face and I breathed it all in, well are and accepting that nothing good can last, nothing gold can stay.

He was different than the other boys I'd kissed and allowed to make me and those that I'd loved. He made me laugh a different laugh, he played a different song than those I was used to hearing or even used to liking. But I was willing and I was ready. After hours of endless and (finally) meaningful talks and 'wow, me too's' it was 3:00 a.m. He asked questions and opened up and for once I wasn't the lover prying for something deeper than skin and penetration, booze, smoke and all else in the 'all inclusive v.i.p. package.'

and it made me sad that i had given up on that dream, that hope of a love in which waiting actually meant something and fucking on the first wasn't so normal, and "well that was fun, umm, I guess call me... if you want," hadn't become a regular in my generations' dictionary. Thanks urban dictionary. Cable television, the list is an endless spiral leading to one big orgy of apathy. The times had changed and so had I.

But something in this actor-musician-writer made me remember who I had been before those times swept me up and tossed me back to what I told myself was better. Spirit sparked a remembrance of my passions. "I wish my life was recorded," I had admitted earlier that night. "Maybe someone is recording it," he responded. Well, I thought, even if no one's recording, it still leaves it up to me to do the duty. I'm a rolling stone, and I'll never stop tumbling and rising and someone better keep track of my trail. But that's the thing, no one can, and no one will, and no one has the ability but me to do that. It's in my hands, my fingertips and my toes. I store it all in my heart, my brain, my lips are the culprit that let it go and I've gotta start using my fingers. He reminded me to take those places in life that most find as ghetto little shitholes, and to love them, to visit them, to appreciate them and see the magic they will forever possess.

On our quest to the unknown, we passed by The Avalon, an off the highway motel, priced at $50 a night for obvious reasons. It was much too late for his sisters bed and "oh shit it's late, let's go to the Super 8!" He jingle jangled and there'd only been a few I'd come across with such talent and humor and confidence in his creativity to do so.

Fathers car played the vehicle in a situation he raised me to never be in, but the medium was not more important than the message, sorry McLuhan. Inside and we, both actors in life, the only difference is he gets paid for his work, put on a little show.
Me: "Walk in, helpless, alone. "Hi, um, room for one."
Little Indiand Woman Worker: "Okay, $72.59"
Me: "Oh, really? oh no well I only have.. uh let m-"
In walk American Spirit, casually tossing pistachios (that were my dad's, unopened)
in his mouth with his red pajama pants decorated with triangles or spaceships or something in that shape I could never make out.
AS: (in his deepest almost creepy voice of course)"You need a little help, pretty lady?" And with that he tosses down a hundred dollar bill, and strides out the door, leaving me no time to question but only to skeptically yet gratefully take the money and use it for my much needed room.
Me: (Suspicious and shocked) "Um, do you know that guy? Does he come around here a lot?
LIWW: "Never seen him, we'll give you a room close to the office." (Her husband had come out by this point.) Nervously she assured, "you'll be okay."

His arms wrapped mine and giggling and stealing kisses we entered into our first of many dirty old sacred corners we would make ours. And he was goofy. Goofy enough to fall off the bed, to wear a shower cap to make me smile, to tell me I was beautiful and mean it. "I want to make love to you so bad right now." 'Make love?' I thought. Who is this guy. I met him 3 days ago. Making love doesn't happen with me and three days, but yeah we've made and meant ( justified) but that doesn't mean you can fuck me and say its making love. But it was too perfect and although he pushed too hard it was still perfect and beautiful, so I let him kiss my shoulders and love my freckles and "what the fuck?" was his reaction to my inking. We ignored alarms and rose to the sun and that brilliant monday morning I became his gypsy.