Guilt and Cappuccinos

     Overwhelmed. That’s exactly how I felt as I rushed into the Panama Bay Coffee Shop, that gloomy autumn afternoon. It didn’t last long. The scent of dark roast held hints of hazelnut, and mixed with freshly baked cinnamon pastries. It assaulted my senses to the exclusion of everything else. I dreamed of this place. Here, sales reports could wait, and problems, both work-related and personal, were nonexistent. It was just me, a few cups of coffee, and the pale orange couch on the corner. At least until I got enough of a caffeine rush to rally my cutthroat sales team, because I needed to pay for the Tiffany’s ring, the Burberry Coat, and the European winter vacation, otherwise known as some of this month’s purchases. On impulse, I ditched my usual espresso in favor of the more calming cappuccino. I didn’t even realize I had closed my eyes, my first sip already working wonders on my frazzled nerves, until I opened them, and there he was. 

     “Hi Trisha”...” he’d said something else, but I miss the next few words. Staring at those earnest, slightly disconcerting eyes. Just like in college. Bringing back a flood of memories that left me slightly confused.

    “Alex.” My tone was warm. “Will you join me for coffee?” I felt a twinge of guilt at the surprised look on his face, before he flashed a big smile and flopped down on the seat across from me. Apart from getting a law degree, he hadn’t changed much. He was the same caring person, involved in half a dozen causes, none of which had himself as a beneficiary. And he could still make me laugh. His eyes drew me in. I saw myself in them as he saw me; not as the stressed out sales executive with the plastered smile, or even the bitchy cheerleader I once was, but just Trisha, as he first met me; the nice girl who lived next door. Back when I liked myself, when I was happy, and capable of making others happy. 

    "Live, Dream, Be...” the words screamed in my head as I read them off the cheery shop wall directly behind Alex. My gaze return to where I had just tore them away. He was looking at me just like he used to, all those years ago. Another sip of my 

bittersweet brew silenced the warning bells I heard from a distance.

  “I still think about you Trisha.” It was all I needed. We left together. It was quick, and wrong, and sordid. In his car, parked in the deserted lot of the nearby cemetery that autumn afternoon, just like in college, I laid to rest the last decent memory of the nice girl I used to be. As we straightened our clothes, our eyes met. It felt different somehow. I guess my self image was not the only casualty. Oh well. At least, it was a good fuck. Fast, and hard, and kinda rough. 

     The drive back to my car was quiet. Our goodbye had been said years ago, on my wedding day. Just like today, it was a Friday. I had a thing about Fridays.

     His car stopped perfectly beside mine. Without a backward glance, I jumped into my car and drove off. I was shaking as I drove. The clouds were starting to clear. For the first time in months, I let myself think of my husband, Edward. Right on cue, there was a damn sunset. Everyone said we were the perfect couple until he left six months ago. We were very civil. Very reasonable. I didn’t even ask why. From our big bay window, I just watched him drive off. The stupid sunset was making me cry. That taught me a lot. I’d never wanted so greatly, needed so desperately or failed so spectacularly. Suddenly, illogically, I was mad. The least Edward could do was give me answers. “Live, Dream, Be...” the words were stuck in my head. My foot pressed against the accelerator as I sped past my house. I drove for what felt like hours then skidded to a stop in front of the little log cabin where my husband now choose to stay. Just as I remembered, the key was still under the mat.

  “I slept with Alex.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. For about a second I felt a grim satisfaction at the hurt look that crossed his face. Then the floodgates opened. In the five years we’d been married, we’d hardly ever argued. We’d certainly never screamed at each other. We did so now. In language that neither of us knew we possessed; there were years worth of accusations, questions, confessions, and declarations. In the middle of it all, I noticed the unmistakable smell of coffee. He’d been making it when I barged in. The bastard had a cappuccino maker. For some reason, this more than anything else made me burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry, Trish.” It was barely a whisper. 

     “Me too.” I finally had my answers. They were reflected in Edward’s big brown eyes. 

  What happened next caught both of us by surprise. Not that we made love, but how... so gentle, and unhurried. Without thought or care for what came after. Like it used to be before our endless quest for perfection seeped in. In me, it awakened something I thought could not be reclaimed. Once again, I am living in the moment, learning to both love and let go. Of useless hurts and old obsessions, of everything and nothing. I am making peace with the scars in my heart, the screaming in my head and all the baggage I have carried far, far too long. Perhaps it is a new beginning. Perhaps it is a final goodbye. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Now caught between sleep and residual bliss. I am happy. I don’t even need a damn cappuccino.

Lucinda's Complexities

(Character Sketch from one of my projects - feedback welcome)

      

        Lucinda Marisa Evangeline Rose will talk your ear off any chance she gets. To be fair, it’s extremely rare for her to get an audience. Hardly anyone in town talks to Lucinda. Stories of her weird family, her odd appearance, lack of social graces, and penchant for tall tales have conspired to make her unpopular in most circles. Consequently, she usually spends her afternoons staring out the window of the tidy little box house she shares with her two elderly, spinster aunts.

Lonely as it sometimes can get, the bright pink house with its collection of figurines and cross-stitched artwork is a haven to its youngest inhabitant. Her sparsely furnished bedroom provides a space where she can ponder life’s complexities and her seeming inability to forge relationships with those around her. It was also where she came to dream. It was her escape from the nightmare of an abusive childhood and more recently, the less than welcoming environment at the exclusive private college her aunts insisted she attend. 

“We were laughing the whole time and he kept staring into my eyes,” Lucinda told her aunts the one time she had gone out on a date. “It was so much fun.” In truth, her pretty little schoolmate had set her up with an unsuspecting ex-boyfriend out of spite. But at 22, it was the only date she’d ever gone on. That night, Lucinda kept bursting into nervous giggles while Prince Charming stared in disbelief at the mousy little chatterbox he’d ended up with. She was barely five feet tall, slightly overweight, had messy dull brown hair, thick, pink-rimmed glasses, and just wouldn’t shut up. The childish cartoon T-shirt, pale orange skort, and comfortable blue flats that she’d chosen to wear to the theatre that night didn’t help either. Her rose perfume reminded him of his grandmother’s potpourri. Of course, she never heard from Gary again, except in her overactive imagination. 

In her imagination, everything went right. In it, Lucinda re-created each day and made her life much more exciting and colorful. There, everyone in town wanted to be her friend, she wore sexy designer outfits instead of the old-fashioned clothes her aunts bought her, and she and Gary were practically engaged.

Every afternoon she stared out the window and saw, heard, and felt her life as she believed it should’ve been. It was increasingly seductive, achingly familiar, but the minute reality stepped in, truly scary. 

       Snapped out of her beautiful daydream, Lucinda would scramble to face her unpleasant reality. She’d venture into town, hoping for a familiar face or a friendly stranger with whom she could interact- someone, something that could strengthen her fragile hold on her sanity. Unfortunately, no one would want to listen to her boring life, so Lucinda embellished the truth quite a bit...she had to. 

In My Cell...

Hmmm... I was upset when I wrote the below... much better now due to the post script.


I like swirls better than circles. At least the path seems slightly different and it usually ends... somehow. I like neat little packages... yes, tied up with strings would be a good thing. Yet the pretty paper can never quite hide the grey that peeks behind the sunshine. The edge on the horizon of that laugh. When do you know when you're done? When the brainless work turns into a semblance of a career you never wanted? When you feel like a little hamster running on a wheel that never gets anywhere? When you dread the weekend because you spend it worrying about the same stuff you do all week... wait, you don't get weekends. When you cry more than the person telling you the sob story, you have the monopoly of horrible dreams and you can't stop screaming (of course, the last one is silent and in your head... otherwise you'd be in an actual asylum instead of the virtual one that is called your job). Nevertheless, you are in a cell. 

Someone from that place once said something about the truth being on the horizon... my question was, why wasn't it here and now? Perhaps it was, hidden behind a pile of checklists and numbers that quantified what each little clone was worth. Perhaps it was, rendered invisible by the garish florescent lighting and endless drone of the high and mighty idiots.... who really should not have been given a license to think. Perhaps it was, inside all along... wondering why I stayed. Why I was bought so easily by trinkets and change. 

The realization that I've tossed a few years, is a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes stepping back out into what could be a storm is a daunting task. However, the alternative is the never ending ringing, beeping, buzzing and droning of the stupid... on daily conference calls, text messages, visual voicemails, emails and all other media made possible... In mY cELL.


P. S.            As of this week, I am no longer in retail bondage... I am now out of my cell!!! 


P. P. S.      I also no longer have that phone.

Edible Art...

Two of my favorite things... well mostly the edible part. But I saw them on her facebook page and could not help myself. The talented baker is Tommy's cousin Vidis (she took baking classes in Mexico so the cakes are bilingual... haha). We joined the rest of his family in Monterey for a relaxing couple of days, and I got a chance to chat with Vidis and have her tell little stories about her wonderful creations. Here's some of them:

Channel - If you've got the shoes, purse and perfume... who wouldn't love a matching cake?....

I-Cake... I hear it gets better reception than the phone and you can eat it too!

Told you... bilingual cakes and a degree (in any field you want) comes with the cake... Happy Graduation Cousin Phil! :)

The little figurine on top is handmade from candy and is edible too. In fact, she had a boyfriend but someone ate him.




Vi, we had a lot of fun hanging out with you and the family. Have had a couple of people ask how they can order cakes from you. Had to break their heart and tell them you are currently not in good old California. 

Scribbles...

Just finished reading a wonderful post from Life in the Expat Lane. First the article had me laughing out loud because it was funny, then it had me laughing rather hysterically because I have writer's block and can't write (who gets writer's block on the second line, of the first paragraph, of a short story... really).  Anyway, realizing that I sound like a crazy person, I took a deep breath, pictured the water on my beautiful Monterey bay and am now willing the sailboat in the picture to take me away. On a brighter note, how was your 4th of July celebration? Saturday, we watched the fireworks display and caught the midnight showing of Eclipse (it was my husband's idea, I swear). Sunday, we spent the day at the beach with my mother-in-law and niece Delinah. Thank God we spent the night, because Monday morning, Tommy's mom whipped up the best breakfast in the world. I woke up to the smell of bacon, eggs, potatoes, tortillas, coffee, chili cheese soup with tomatoes, jalapenos and big chunks of white cheese. I'm gaining weight just thinking about it, but that breakfast, put a smile on my face that lasted all day. It's now Tuesday, and again I'm smiling because I just remembered that sitting in my refrigerator is the best cake in the world. A fluffy chocolate chiffon with coffee cream frosting baked by my wonderful Aunt Bee. I guess thinking happy thoughts or in my case about food, does help because right now I'm not stressing over my writing. I realize of course that this post is far from polished (and I still do have a two sentence short story to finish) but this blog is about thoughts, feelings and conversations, not grammar and punctuations (though I am working on mine I promise). 

While I'm in a cheesy mood and not writing too well lately, I thought I'd at least post a photo of us at the beach. The figure to our left is of Delinah, busy scavenging for shells. Among the treasures she brought home were; a crab claw (taken from our dinner), and a picture of a permanently sleeping baby seal (who is now in seal heaven). 

Back When We Were Strangers...

Everyone has a moment, when everything seems clear. When the lightbulb goes off, the pieces fall into place and the world is simple. Things just make sense. It’s your eureka moment, and you know irrevocably that things will never be the same. 

The whole sleepy little town, seemed to have shown up at the lake that hot summer day. I had tied an ugly, bright yellow bandana to keep my hair away from my face and just sat under a shaded tree some distance from the crowd. Taking in the familiar sights and sounds, like an often repeated rerun of an old TV show. The recently divorced hairdresser was flirting with the handyman. Our next door neighbors were arguing over the weather forecast. Children were running around. There were a few boats on the lake and the good Christian ladies from church were gossiping as usual. Beyond that, I can no longer remember for at that moment, my imagination stepped in and took me away. 

I no longer heard the snippets of conversations. I was just drifting. First on winds filled with laughter, smells of barbecue meat and images of the familiar. Then I started to drift further, on stronger winds ... toward stormy seas and unchartered territory. I saw myself on a little storm tossed boat. It would never even have survived a placid lake, but a little imagination is a wonderful thing. Perhaps the boat weathers the ocean because of divine providence, perhaps I choose to suspend disbelief. Either way, I continue my journey, both terrified and exhilarated as I pictured, in the distance my destination. The little vessel finally crashed into some majestic faraway shore, tossing me rather violently on the deserted beach. I smell the ocean, see the waves crashing against the rocks as I rise to my feet. I have never seen this place before, but I know instinctively where each path will lead. What secrets hide behind each rock, each cavern, each secret cove. Soft rain starts to fall. I am drawn to the patterns the raindrops make on the sandy floor. Up ahead the trees sway, welcoming me back. It is my home more surely than my charming little town could ever hope to be. Here lies my story, like a constant lover or a loyal friend... “Come back to us...” I jumped at the voice, greatly annoyed to have been dragged back to my hum drum existence. I had not even realized my eyes were closed until they flew open to glare at the person to whom the unwelcome voice belonged. “Do you make it a habit, to sneak up on unsuspecting strangers?” The hostility was clear in my voice. “Only when I would like to get to know them, but I’m sorry I startled you.” He sat down beside me, perfectly at ease. I stared at his dark brown eyes and found that I had nothing to say. I frowned. “So where were you?” he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. My frown deepened. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

There are memories that blur with the years and there are some that seem more vivid with the passing of time. That day on the lake was one such memory. Somehow, in the course of that afternoon Richard was able to break down my defenses. We talked, we laughed, we swam in the lake and lay in the sun. Not just that day, we had many such days. Secrets were shared, plans drawn up, courses chartered where our paths were sure to cross and intertwine. With him in it, my sleepy little hometown became more exciting than some foreign shore ... at least for a time.

He asked me to go on a quest. It was towards the end of the summer. We drove for hours stopping at different beaches. We were looking for the perfect deserted beach, he said, one that would most closely resemble the one in my head. At the fourth beach, I closed my eyes, moved some images around and looked closer. Then I opened my eyes and smiled at Richard. We had found our beach. He laid out a picnic. Then we watched, entranced, as the sunset touched everything with a bright golden glow. As the gold faded, he lighted candles and spoke of the future. We would build a little cottage on this beach. I would write. Richard would practice law in the nearby town. We would have breakfast and dinner together. Everyday, as if by magic, coffee and chocolate croissants would be delivered to our door. All our dreams were within reach, I had everything I ever wanted.

Maybe, I should have held on tighter to those moments. Maybe, I should have let go. Instead, I was caught between yearning and doing nothing, in a daily passive-aggressive dance I did not fully understand. Of course, I went through the motions. Even a little cottage by the sea cost money, so off we went to make it. 

Slowly, the deserted beach of my imaginings was replaced with a city scape. Jeans and shirts gave way to suits and heels. My yellow bandana was lost in the move. I didn’t notice. I had no time. There were things to do, people to meet, places to be. Instead of sailing the high seas, we drove to meetings. I found out may things about us. Richard was good at business, he had found his calling. I went along for the ride. One day, he did buy me a beach house. It was not a cottage and we certainly did not live in it. 

More years passed. I knew I had a good life and a wonderful husband. So I had not taken the road less travelled. So I had opted for the path of least resistance. Why did that matter? Over the years, unwelcome thoughts would creep in during quiet moments, marring the perfection of my charmed life. I heard a constant typing sound in my head as I virtually added on to our story ... sometimes I changed it a little. Still, each day, I flew farther away from the beach of my childhood. Eventually, I no longer saw it in the distance. Heaven knows what lay behind those rocks or coves or tress. I would never ride a little boat. We cruised on ships to proper city ports. The pictures in my head were now snapshots of real faces, places and events. The conversations were specific drones that belonged to the aforementioned faces. I mastered the art of smiling and parroting back polite responses. Richard continued to be his brilliant self. We were always together ... well, maybe not together, just in the same place.  

I wondered about Richard, but I never asked. He seemed happy. He was kind and generous and never complained. He still told me he loved me. He still smiled. I could still see my reflection in his big brown eyes. Life went on. I let it be. 

This morning, I had woke up to find Richard in his study, staring into space. It was so unlike him. He saw me hover by the door and laughingly called me in. A piece of paper in his trash caught my eye. We had breakfast together, went through our morning rituals, then he left for work. I am back in his office snooping. I have never done it before. I pull the paper out of his trash, the writing is in Richard’s unmistakable script. Tears start to fall as I start reading. It is about me:  

“Crystal. I love her name. But then again, I love everything about her. From the first time I saw her dreaming in front of an uncaring crowd. Since then I have worked hard to win and keep a prize, that I knew could never really be anyone’s. I understand more than she knows. Perhaps because I have studied her as I have studied each proposal, each venture in the business that we have built together, but she calls mine. My fascination with Crystal has never quite worn off. She does things but they do not seem to hold her interest. She is the first to recognize achievements in others, but never quite sees it in herself. She has always been there for me, yet she manages to glide in and out of everyday, not quite letting me be there for her. She is charming, yet each day I feel her grow more distant. But still, there are moments, when she lets he guard down ... like that first summer.  I still see shades of it now. When I see her brilliant smile, hear her soft laughter or even hold her as she cries. Then the moment passes.

I have always been jealous of Crystal’s thoughts. Whenever they wish to, they take her away. 

It has been twenty years. Once, I had dared to hope that someday we would live out our moments together. That one day, she would not need to drift away. That she would come to me for comfort instead of some shore, some thought, some dream. I did not know her then, back when we were strangers... I do not know her now.”

Carefully, I replace the paper in his trash, walk out of his study and close the door.

Apologies... Updates...

It's been a week since my last update. I have been so caught up in work, I just realized that I have not been able to post additional articles. However, I will post the short story I wrote over the weekend, immediately following this post. Please bear with me. I will be going back to posting conversations with my wonderful friends as soon as able. I miss all of you. Thank you for reading.

Touchstone... (very rough draft, please let me know what you think...)

“My precious Jade...” she heard it clearer than any statement she’d ever heard in her life. The voice was deep, sultry and unmistakably masculine... a voice that was both strange and hauntingly familiar. Calling to her from some faraway place. Jade took a deep breath, there was nobody here. Olivia was arriving any minute. There were things to do. It was an inconvenient time to go crazy. 

Of course it was raining, as it had been all week. Another dark, gloomy night spent staring restlessly out the big picture window of this eerie, old house. The weather was getting to her. Jade sighed in frustration. So was this creepy gothic travesty of a house which Olivia had invited her to, somewhere in the most backwater, godforsaken part of Louisiana. “A beautiful former plantation.” Olivia had said “Surrounded by oak trees,  crystal streams and acres of beautiful gardens.” Naturally, she had forgotten to mention the almost utter isolation, the cemetery on the property and the blasted, blasted  weather. Jade was thoroughly annoyed. She could have been looking out into the calm seas of the pacific ocean, feeling the cool breeze and soft whisper of the waves on her beautiful California Coast. Instead she had this. 

Not knowing why, she pressed her face against the window pane. Through the torrents of rain, she watched the trees cast sinister shadows on the sodden grounds. The stream glowed darkly in the distance and the lights from the house shone faintly as it was swallowed by the darkness outside. The rhythmic drumming of the rain against the glass and wood had long ago ceased to be soothing. Now, it felt like a hammer pounding against her overwrought brain. Where the hell was Olivia? From across the room, the big black grandfather clock chimed midnight making Jade jump up in fright. The witching hour... she thought dryly a reluctant smile forming at the corner of her mouth. How very appropriate for this house. Slowly, she glanced around. The crackling fire in the elaborately carved fireplace brought some measure of warmth to the dark wood panelling, velvet drapes and heavy antique furnishings that filled the room. The rest of the house had pretty much the same look. Dark wood floors, silk wallpaper, and inlaid wood panels. Then, there was the slightly creaking spiral staircases and those paintings... God, those paintings! Jade suppressed a shiver and sank gracefully into an embroidered chaise. Everywhere she looked were paintings... mostly female, as if the house itself was an altar of sorts for its former inhabitants. All over, there were gilded gold frames with painted faces studying her with curious eyes. Seemingly wanting to communicate, ask a question... rasp out a tale or two. They hinted at scandal, intrigue and a menace she could not fully explain. It made her uneasy. It was a story that she wanted no part of. Jade liked fluffy romance novels, mostly set in some bright and sunny place with the perennial happily ever after that she so desperately wanted herself. She had no desire to dabble in the mysterious, scary, silent scream a story set here seemed to promise. That was Olivia’s realm. Olivia, with her twisted tales of ghosts and goblins on dark stormy nights such as these. Olivia who insisted they dress up in period costume yesterday and commune with the weeping willow outside as it held her in thrall with some ancient spell. Olivia belonged in this house, she had settled right in and had started her as of yet, untitled, novel. 

Tomorrow she would tell Olivia she was going back to California, Jade decided. She would appeal to Olivia’s sense of adventure and invite her to go to San Francisco with her. The thought put her in a slightly better mood. Yet she could not shake the feeling that there was something she needed to remember. Some memory she should jot down before she forgot. Reluctantly, she glanced at her journal. Still no Olivia. Perhaps she had decided to stay in town rather than drive in this rain. 

Jade paced. This place was driving her crazy. Her overactive imagination was certainly working overtime.  In the meantime she needed to calm down. Grabbing her journal she threw herself on the giant four poster bed and wrote. She wrote without thinking. Scribbled without feeling. Her intent was no longer to tell a story but merely to write... and write she did. Words came in quick succession filling the dark, rainy hours with page after page, after page. With a wildly driven desperation that she neither understood or knew she possessed. As time flew in perfect rhythm with her pen, the rain splattered and the cold wind howled outside her window. Until exhausted she falls into a troubled sleep.

“My precious Jade...” his voice haunted even her dreams. There was to be no respite. Somehow, she saw herself standing still in front of the window, staring out into the rain, again. Then slowly, softly, he appeared from behind her. His strong arms wrapping possessively around her waist. His sensuous mouth finding her ear. Whispering wicked thoughts that she dared never express. Every dark secret was hidden no longer. Every fleeting detail from every fantasy she ever had. His hold tightened and his voice took on an almost savage edge. From somewhere appeared a blindfold. It went around her eyes, yet surprisingly did not take away her vision. Rather, it heightened it. She saw images so crisp, she knew without question that this was no dream. He bid her let go... of fear, of propriety of all coherent thought. Her halfhearted struggle was gently but firmly restrained before it even started. His rough voice, his piercing gaze, his burning touch branded her his, as she had never been anyone else’s. She did not even know his name. A sigh escaped her, she was shaking as he deliberately swept her off her feet. “Pierre... He whispered, ... have you forgotten so soon?”

***

“Good morning, Sunshine...” Pierre smiled at his beautiful wife as she finally opened her big brown eyes. He had been watching her sleep for what seemed like hours. Olivia smiled back. “When did you get here?” Pierre stared at her puzzled. “We arrived together, last night.” The laugh in her voice told him he was being totally ridiculous. “Honey, I’ve been here all week.” He was in no mood for games. “You were in New York working all week, your editor took us to the airport yesterday, we almost missed out flight.” Why was she looking at him as if he was crazy?... 

“Where’s Jade?...” she asked suddenly, “... did she go back to California...?” Pierre sighed in frustration, who the hell was Jade? He was worried about Olivia. She spent so much time writing stories they became part of her. “Jade left me her journal, I didn’t get a chance to read it... she kept asking me to go with her.” Pierre shook his head. Olivia’s doctor had assured him that she was fine. Olivia, her shrink had said, had very clear touchstones between her stories and her life. Listening to her right now he had serious doubts. But she had never acted like this before. Olivia was using her considerable storytelling abilities to describe all the little details of the house and grounds, as if she had in fact been here exploring all week, instead of arriving late last night. She was very convincing. In fact, had he not arrived with her last night, he would have believed every word. She also seemed to have a whole history on this Jade person, little miss sunshine from California. His mind started to wander when Olivia launched into a full character analysis and physical description about her perfect little friend. “Sweetie... Pierre interrupted gently, ....there’s only one girl I’m interested in right now.” He kissed her tenderly. Then made a mental note to call her doctor after breakfast. His gaze softened as he touched her hair and took in the scent of her lavender perfume. Her took a moment to study her upturned face. Predictably, she flashed him the smile he fell in love with and dragged him to an open window to look out at the magnificent view. 

They stood there awhile, just staring out the window. She at the little gazebo in the distance. He at the rock garden directly below. She had become perfectly quiet as he held his arm protectively around her. Her head leaning trustingly against his left shoulder. In the stillness, he could hear her heartbeat. 

“Pierre...” he heard her voice clearer than anything he had ever heard in his life. It was seductive, feminine and definitely not Olivia’s. Calling to him from far away... both strange and hauntingly familiar. A chill run up his spine. “Pierre...” He heard her voice again, invading his thoughts, searching for an answer, pleading. “Pierre... No...” It was too late. 

With practiced ease, he grabbed Olivia. Then carefully, deliberately, and in one fluid movement, he turned her to face him and pushed her out the open window. For a split second their eyes met, hers widening in shock. The last thing he heard was her scream mixed with the other voices already screaming in his head.

Impassively, he watched her fall to her death below. There would be no need to call her doctor. After breakfast, he would start on her painting. 

Unravelling...

She knows the event is Saturday, we've talked about what she's wearing to some extent. She knows it's in New York, she knows the bride and groom and that she declares, is the extent of her knowledge. That she is apprehensive raised an eyebrow or two. This was after all, the girl who sang an impromptu concert on a midnight train ride in Singapore. The same girl who argued over margaritas On the Border (the restaurant not the Mexico border... now, that would have been insane). Someone who's always jumped in head first and played on the edges of what was taboo. A bright pink blur who rushed into things and didn't really care what people thought of her. But that was then. 

Between then and now she's done her share of living, loving and learning. Hope, despair, happiness, failure, tragedy, success and what she considers her greatest triumph - her son, Joshua. An ongoing process that she would not change... for while there has been heartache and near disasters, there has also been sunshine and a few really good chocolate bars (forget the roses). She is right, it has been a while. Time enough to emerge from her self-imposed hibernation. Time enough to recognize that her role as a mother is only one important facet of who she is as a woman. Someone who has always landed on her feet, my reluctant Cinderella who I will always cheer for. 

Marie, we’ve laughed, cried and argued. We’ve lost touch, caught up, talked for hours and talked some more. I have to say I will miss the girl that was, but I am happy to know the woman that is, in all her glory, still... unravelling.

Ask Any Mermaid That You Ever See....

No, I am not writing about Chicken of the Sea. But sure, the jingle is playing in my head while I’m writing (the Clint Black version from last year’s Apprentice, in case inquiring minds want to know). But I digress, this article is about a diver, underwater photographer, and sometimes advertising executive, Jun Lao. It is a love story, his love affair with what would be the little mermaid’s old stomping grounds (sorry cousin, this would have been a lot better and more masculine if you had agreed to guest write... I just couldn’t resist). 

On a more serious note, Jun first tried to scuba dive to overcome his fear of the water. The wonders he discovered, convinced him to shed that fear and fast. In a big way. Jun has since traveled cities, countries and continents (read 200 times this year) and spent a small fortune, in pursuit of his passion - diving. While at it, he has also picked up another interest - underwater photography. The picture in the link below placed 3rd at an underwater photography contest: http://www.flickr.com/photos/junlao/4019241881/in/set-72157623171955252/. It is a revelation, what he terms as “the greatest show on earth...” and he has the pictures (and videos... there’s also a video link to u-tube under the photo in the link) to prove it. 

Should you need more convincing, do check out these links that made me want to don a wet suit and join Sebastian, Flipper and (no, I was not going to say the little mermaid) Jun for an exciting adventure under the sea http://www.flickr.com/photos/junlao/sets/72157623171955252/ and www.flickr.com. 

Conversation Updates...

Conversations is now officially on day 2!!!!... and of course it is evolving as all good conversations do. Here's some updates from "...all in a day's work" otherwise known as yesterday:

1. I've updated my profile... no more scrapbook stuff... I solemnly pinky promise.
2. The Blog has one follower and one comment - neither one of them my husband... (and no, it is not me either!) But seriously honey, you had better come visit or else... I really don't know... just check it out pretty please... LOL. 
3. Side note to #2 - most people send me their feedback through Facebook, email or phone call and while I love that, please write something on here too... it's day 2 and the one follower and one comment is lonely... I promise to post all comments unless it has profanity or porn.
4. Thank you Eleanor Joy for talking to me in the middle of the night while you were drying your hair, I'm working on the Suburbia article and of course you will be the first to see that one.
5. Conversations is now going to run a feature called "Profiles and Passions" about... you guessed it, my subject matter experts and what they are passionate about. This section will include tips and tricks for beginners who want to try the same things. If you want to be featured, email me at mae.sanmiguel@gmail.com or Facebook - please no spam.
6. I'm also looking for guest writers. If you have something worthwhile to say I'd be happy to post it. Email me at the same address as above.
7. I currently do not have an editor so please bear with me... my editing skills are rather rusty and I was never good at editing myself. But hey, that's what your feedback is for!!!
8. The photo is of my husband swimming... and yes, it has nothing to do with this post - but I like it!

First Few Conversations...

Whew... it's been a couple of hours and I finally got some conversations started... on a Sunday, when all my friends are barely alive. And here I was, starting to think that I would have to change the blog title to monologues, which would be so not fun (no matter what Tommy thinks). Seriously guys, thank you for the feedback and encouragement. Thank you for the facebook comments... and do feel free to comment directly to this blog too. Marie, thank you for the phone call and the candid advise (working on it). 

I would love some guest posts. But either way, most of you my friends and readers are going to be making guest appearances. Like below...

                                            That's Lorena and Kevin walking away....

Coffee and a Good Conversation...

Somewhere in the little tropical island I come from, a friend is dropping by unannounced. At any given time, there is always someone to wave at, to walk with, to talk to, and no, you don’t have to call first. Perhaps it is because things move at a slower pace, or maybe they have long ago realized what so many others have not; that unless it comes with sirens and bright flashing lights, it is usually not an emergency. In non-emergency situations there is time to breath, to smile, to get to know your neighbor, to chat with friends, to be silly, to sing under a window and dance in the rain (of course, the last two are not so common amongst the more sober townsfolk). 

I’m a long way from home and am still trying to find my way back. For years I got so caught up in the urgent, that I forgot what was truly important. To enjoy the journey. To savor the experience. To hold hands and share confidences. To live not survive. 

There will always be something that will come up in our hectic lives, a work crisis, a school project, a social obligation or multiple variations of all three at once. It is up to us to slow it down, breath, and take it one step at a time. 

To following are quotes from my brilliant friends; Olivia “...no one gets out of this life alive, so...” Dennis “...there’s always time for coffee, and a good conversation...” Corinna “...that’s nice.”