I just realized tonight that some folks reading my poetry might take it seriously. A poet’s job is an interesting one – especially to me as an actor. I observe my own thoughts, having learned to do so as a character development method. So… what I write in poetry, whether good or bad poetry, whether positive or negative, are all just thoughts. I don’t always believe what I think, if that makes any sense.

“what are you thinking?” I think everyone thinks that is an invasive question. “It’s the thought that counts…” No, I disagree. Just as in playing a role on stage or in film, it’s the action that counts.

Thoughts are just that… thoughts… words that come into the mind to describe the current emotion. Fear, lust, love, longing, rage, disgust, wonder, awe, inspiration. These are, in general, the emotions I have from time to time. Sometimes it’s pure imagination.

I especially love those poetry prompts that challenge us to write a poem containing specific words. Those always develop into fun stories for me… like the woman at the bar in Colorado who meets the guy with the periwinkle pin. Gumboots was the hardest word to weave into that one, but I made it work.

Here lately, I’ve been examining emotions I’ve buried for three decades, trying to make sense of it all. My love for him. Real, genuine love. Why it’s still there after all these years. My treacherous emotional baggage. OMG! My own fear of rejection. Rationalizations that are most likely far removed from reality. Projections based upon past experiences. All that STUFF. Just stuff.

I realized something, though… I realized what motivates me most is love. It’s what motivates me to make a move, to make a change, to improve, and to create. Love doesn’t always mean stay. Sometimes love means run away. Caring about oneself and others sometimes leads to the need to escape.

I haven’t escaped entirely – and by that, I mean escaped my treacherous childhood. That needs fixing. It is my hope that everyone has grown up enough to stare the truth right in the face without quivering. I can.

I’m going to call that man from 30 years ago just to say hello. No expectations. He was dear to me, so, at my age, and his age, what is there to lose or gain by just seeing how he’s been all these years? I would rather risk rejection if he finds my call a bother, than regret not having made the call at all.

My instinct tells me not to call. Ok. I won’t call. It would be better if he called me, wouldn’t it.

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.

I never know what to believe!

Ok, so who was the guy from 30 years ago? I’ll drop a few hints. I refer to him as “the music man” obviously. But as far as I know, he never starred in the musical by the same name. He played guitar, and had a voice like Adam Duritz and like Robert Plant. And he kind of looks like this movie star I’ve seen but never met. Beautiful man, inside and out.

He definitely wasn’t one of the rich ones who demanded I marry them (how romantic). One of those said to me “when we get married, it’s going to be my way or the highway.” I took the I-10 east to New York. Poor guy, he otherwise was very sweet, but big mistake to announce a lack of a collaborative attitude on our third (and last) date. Funny in retrospect, though. Just think! I could have been a miserably rich Houston socialite! Aaaaannnnndddd… probably get caught having an affair with the music man. He was truly irresistible.

My music man had a good job. We met at a party at his house in 1989. Or was it 1990? I don’t recall the year – just that it was the only Superbowl party I’d ever attended. His wife to be approached me the same day, upset over my presence there. Hmmm… note to self – be possessive. NOT. Sorry, Can’t. Jealous, yes. But not possessive. On the other hand, isn’t that two sides of the same rusty penny? Whatever…

He married her. They had kids. So, what is up with my subconscious mind that I still have this giant torch for him? Is this the torture God has in mind for all poets? Unrequited love? I have to laugh, because it’s so unbearably ridiculous to blame it on God. Obviously, it’s my own fault. Ah, then again, he’s a little at fault, too. I have a feeling he still loves me.

So, what am I supposed to do in a situation like this one? What, exactly? What would any other normal human being do? Call him and say “hey, by the way, do you still love me, because I really can’t even begin to get you off my mind, and it is driving me crazy.” ? LOL! Sounds like something out of a movie. Like Sleepless In Seattle where they’re drawn together by their thoughts.

The day we met, I’d given my son a haircut, and accidentally sucked the wedding band part of my wedding ring up into the vacuum cleaner. It was before the party. The thought occurred to me at that moment “God is telling me I’m not married anymore.” I’ll never forget it. Serendipity.

Maybe I should go out and buy another wedding ring and a vacuum cleaner – recreate history. [That’s a joke, just in case someone wants to spin me crazy.]

Crazy… speaking of which… define it. What is crazy? Fatal attraction – that’s crazy. SO crazy, no matter what the gender of the offender. That movie, while very good, forever put women in a pickle. We can’t let men know we like them, much less love them lest they think we might make soup out of their cat! AND YET… statistically, it’s men who are more likely to go postal on a break up.

I wrote a poem about men once, claiming they don’t feel. I was mistaken. I never really liked that poem. I don’t know why I ever repeated it or read it out loud. “Hurt people hurt people.” That was me being hurt, and I am so very sorry if my words hurt anyone.

Men do feel. They feel very deeply. I think more deeply than I, as a woman, could ever fathom. I see them now as these beautiful candy shells hiding sweetness that I don’t know how to find. I think I grew up knowing only the ones that were hurt, who had that extra cracked shell leaking a bitter layer of resentment against those who had hurt them. Some with bitterness that spewed everywhere, covering the world in a black muck, making us all seem bitter.

Maybe I’ll cut my hair like my mother’s, and just not go platinum. Maybe we’ll cross paths at Costco. I’d come back to Texas if it meant being with you – but do we have to stay? It’s hot!! How about winter in Texas and summer in New England or Oregon? Or year round in the highlands of Panama?

For now, though, I’m headed to Thailand for the spring. I think my stalkers need a vacation someplace nice. Fella’s, you surely must be tired of sunny Oregon winters. My phone will be on as usual, so you won’t have any problems tracking me. I’m going to a lovely place, but can’t recall the name. It’s this city on the border of Laos. I’ll be the one with the long brown hair with the solid blue bathing suit and Fendi sunglasses sipping a MaiTai. LOVE those! See you in paradise!