The Matador

Where I come from, women are enjoyed. They work hard in their own way, but they also take great care in themselves. They are alien beings compared to us men. While we are drenched in sweat and the dust turns to mud on our skins, theirs trickles like spring water down their curves. We men dance with the bulls in a jarring, frantic jive. The women, their very walk is a dance, meant to enthrall with every twist of their hip and extension of their leg. These are the women I'm used to.
In L.A. the difference from women here compared to my women in Spain is stark. These women are a different creature. Their power is raw and young, unlike the age-old seduction game I'm used to. They work alongside men and above them. Sometimes they work back-breaking jobs, jobs that are meant for men. They don't take no for an answer and often their first response is no. They walk with purpose, like they are always late and sometimes sacrifice femininity in place of succeeding.
This was my waitress, of this breed. Her hair was frazzled at the ends, in need of a trim. She usually forgot to reapply her lipstick as needed. Her arms were muscled from busing tables and her elbows were often bruised from bumping into the counters. She was nothing I was used to.
When we met, it was at the bar across from her diner. A friend and her went out for celebratory drinks to congratulate themselves on finishing their first year of law school. In all her differences, I couldn't help feeling drawn. Her seduction was a trickle compared to a torrent. A glance, catching my eye, a slight smile that parted her lips. I played the game, learning as I went. It was more of a dance with her, like a bull. Go the wrong way and you could be speared. I learned much of her ability to reject so easily and that she could hold her own. Her moves were subtle and at times I wondered who was the matador. Part of being a matador is the thrill of dancing with such a powerful creature. With my waitress, it was much the same.

Due to Unforseen Weather Conditions...

For the last week or so, I've been feeling quite lost. Like a plane caught in bad weather and having to land in some barren field of nowhere.
Since this blog is "what's on my mind", I'm steering away from my writing exercises and hoping that my words don't begin to sink into my habitual tar-pit of depression.
Starting on a positive note, I feel like I have many options available to me. As a creature of the earth and a being of technology, I have the power to travel great distances and land in Ireland and wander for a month if I felt like it... which at times I do. Having this freedom to be able to go somewhere on a whim helps to lift the cage I keep feeling around my heart. Above all, Ireland pulls at me, and not in the usual clawing, rude manner that I'm used to of other things. I can feel it tugging at me and I feel like it might be home. I don't like saying that, because when spoken aloud, people regard it the same way as when you're sixteen and you say you don't want kids when you grow up. You don't know what you're talking about, you're too young or ignorant to understand what you're saying. Similarly, how could I know that Ireland is my home, when I've never been there? I suppose it could be true, I could step out of the airport and find myself homeless. The pull I felt could have been the pull of the full moon, or the spin of the earth. In the end, there's only one way to find out.
As much as I love this freedom to do what I want, which is a two year old's dream, I still feel the slam of doors, the shutting of windows and the duct tape over the cracks in the walls. Not everything is as easy as hopping on a plane. I have a job to consider, which would mean leaving behind thirty-eight much loved dogs. Dogs know of the present, not the future or past, although they can be shaped from the past and can look forward to dinner in the future. They would move on, but I still feel that some benefit from my presence and I suppose I have to decide whether that would be worth staying. Or if my job would be waiting for me when I get home.
Its little things, pebbles in the river, that make the bed. They add up and create conflict on the things that we want. Consequences. The choice then is whether it's worth the consequences.
Above all, I love change. Sometimes the change is bad, and I feel the weight of its heavy cloud. Although I am looking forward to that change, I can't help but feel lost this time. It's like I'm eighteen again and trying to decide what I want to be. My mind is so full that after a day of walking with the dogs, I realize that I didn't hug them as much as I wanted to and my brow hurts from squinting. At times I wish I could empty my mind, but choices have to be made. I want to change now. I'm ready for change but the change isn't ready for me. Whether it's the idea of something new or just everything happening around me, I feel my mood soaring up and down again. At moments I'm happier than Peewee Herman before he got caught and then I swoop down and fear driving in case of what I'll do. I wish there were classes for twenty-two year olds with issues like these.