the path

So at work all I’m hearing is 80s music and it is reminding me that I haven’t been rollerskating in more than ten years. Back in West Palm Beach there used to be a couple of really good places — The Palace in Lantana, and Atlantis Skateway on Jog Road. Are there even rinks still in business?

This time last year I was preparing for graduation because it was less than three weeks away. Little did I know that my grandad was coming from England (even though my mom did slip and tell me a few weeks in advance it was still a pleasant surprise). Tonight as I was looking through the pictures I remembered something he said to me a little bit before this photo: “I can’t promise I’ll make your wedding, Steve, but at least I’m here for this.” Even then I knew he was sick, but I didn’t really think twice about his statement. Never before has he missed anything life changing — my mother’s medical school graduation, the move from New Jersey in the summer of 1999 — and it make me unnerved to know that he never will physically be present to those kinds of events again. It’s been more than three months since he died and I still can’t help but rewind a year to this date in 2004 when he was still here.

As a kid I used to love Legos, so much in fact that I loved Christmas and my birthday because most of the time I got some Lego related — my favorite being some medieval castle. One day I spent all my waking hours putting together a Lego city. It was small in size — around 4′ by 1′ — but took a lot of hard work from a youngster. It had a racetrack, high-rise, and houses for the little Lego people. That night my dad, and Uncle Mike came in late from a night at the Hitching Post and literally destroyed it. So I rebuilt it the next day and made it better… and so begins this exciting story.

I had enough Matchbox cars to fill up not only my Matchbox Toolbox carrying case but also another big box too. I loved having miniature car shows where I’d pick out my favorite toy cars and put them on display. I would then pretend there were rival car gang groups and they would all fight in a good versus evil style. It’d be interesting to look at those again because it would probably bring back some pretty funny memories.

At one time I was fascinated by video games. One Christmas morning I got the Nintendo gaming system (a big thing then) with the Power Pad for some Olympics style game. For some reason I remember my uncle (same one) being there and he and my dad running on it thinking it was the most pointless thing ever. It was, of course, but I was probably six or seven so it was the greatest thing for me at the time.

I can remember when I was about nine or ten playing with my action figures, I could come up with the most elaborate scenarios. I had this battle plane thing and I would get so lost in that whole thing. Looking back on it I find it kind of ridiculous, really. If there was no one to play with then I would simply make up an entire world to rid myself of boredom. I wish I could remember my characters’ names now because they were always cracked out — like Captain Seabass or something. I was a little too creative, I think.

I don’t know where that imagination went. It’s got to be around somewhere, because occasionally I have a flash of self-proclaimed brilliance. Now instead of play time antics and fantasy worlds, it usually comes in the form of written words or lengthy conversation. If I try to use that same childhood imagination to figure out what I want to do with my life (which at one time was an astronaut until I was old enough to learn I’d have a better chance of winning the lottery) I usually daydream about the past (as in right now) and purposefully ignore what lies ahead. I don’t want to think of it from a grown-up’s perspective because that will have meant I’ve given up being a kid and thus the end of youthful exuberance.

It’s been a while since I’ve put something meaningful to read on here because I haven’t been all too philosophical about anything ‘public.’ I need to start getting back to putting my thoughts down on paper instead of only thinking them.

Being the kind of person I want to be in all aspects is tough and if I set my goals too high I’m afraid I won’t ever reach them. Inversely, if I set them too low then I’d be limiting myself. Finding that balance has always been my problem (and I’m sure a lot of other people’s as well). Halfway through dinner I realized that on I’ve surpassed my initial goal of balancing graduate school with life and I haven’t set a new one. I think talking to someone at any depth for the first time brings that to the surface because otherwise those sorts of sentiments lay dormant. I can’t notice a gradual change in my physical appearance, but if I look at photographs from years ago I can tell I’m getting older. The same, for me, holds true when I look at how much I’ve grown as a person in the past five years. I left high school with a limited concept of my capabilities and now I feel as though I’m able to “be something.” What that something is will most likely be my next goal.

Over the past two days, there seems to be quite a bit of words and thought about a candle. Whether it was the person who purchased it, the guest who commented on it, or what has been crossing my mind the most: what it has come to represent.

This evening I was laying on my covers looking up and I noticed a familiar sight of the projectection of the lamp shade touching the ceiling. The smell of vanilla conjured up a few fleeting memories but most importantly the sense of tranquility through soft conversation. I can’t explain in words, but the chemical change of a burning wick and the surrounding molten wax never opened my eyes as much as it did in that moment.

I don’t recall much about being a young child, but I can remember odd things like the first time I had any recollection of the furniture in my house being rearranged or when I called the fire department because my dad’s barbeque was on fire (in my defense it was flaming). One of the staples of my childhood would be when my grandma and grandad would come to visit from England. The whole day we would spend cleaning — my mom dusting and me vacuuming — in an attempt to get ready and have the house at its best. They would always arrive in the evening and be exhausted. Grandma would go to sleep pretty quickly, and grandad would sometimes have a beer and some crisps (potato chips) with my dad. The next morning, they would both be up early and I could always count on grandad doing a crossword puzzle and having a cup of coffee, and grandma sitting by the window with it slightly ajar. He’d always ask me to solve the puzzles with him, and of course I didn’t know anything except the random Disney or Nickelodeon question. If I said an answer and he didn’t know it off the top of his head he’d write it down. I wonder how many times I was actually correct. It isn’t right that I’ll never wake up to that exact sequence of events ever again.

Probably my first real memory of my grandad was the summer they came to stay with us and as a result I didn’t have to go to daycare at La Petite Academy (I hated that place). My mornings I’d spend playing with Legos or playing frisbee with my grandma in the living room with a makeshift frisbee that was actually the top to the jar of peanuts. Late mornings or early afternoons comprised mostly of walking down Paddock Drive, past Wellington Elementary School, through the now blocked off housing subdivision, and towards to “old Winne Dixie” shopping center when it was one of only two of its kind in Wellington. I’d usually get tired about halfway and I would always crouch down to stretch my legs. I loved walking through the neighborhood and holding hands with both of them. As a kid I craved that attention that they so easily gave to me and I love them deeply because of it.

They would occasionally take me to the park where we once found an old horseshoe that was kept on the porch of our house for years. I don’t know whatever happened to it, but it probably fell apart from all the weathering and rust. Both grandma and grandad would always play games — Connect Four was my favorite. If I didn’t know how to play them, they always made it a point to teach me. Chess and marbles are the two that stick in my mind at this point… for whatever reason. I really miss all that.

One time when my mom, dad, and I traveled to England for Christmas both grandma and grandad helped me build the only snowman I have ever built. I don’t remember any of the construction, but I can remember distinctly looking out of the kitchen window and seeing it sitting there in the back yard. Of course that was 17 years ago, but I wish that could be yesterday because then I’d be able to write the letter or send the fax that I always thought I could send tomorrow or next week. Something so small and more or less effortless on my part could have made his day, but for some unknown or possibly selfish reason I always put it off. I feel terrible for that, and I don’t understand why I only sparingly did nice things like that for him — Christmas cards or a hello on the telephone every couple of months.

At my graduation on April 30, 2004, he said to me, “I can’t promise I’ll make your wedding, but I’m glad I made it to your graduation.” It broke my heart when he said that because I know how proud he was of me, and I wanted him to be there for every important moment in my life. I knew he was sick, but it don’t think it sank in until this past December when I would sit holding his hand as he slept in his bed. I tried doing the daily crossword with him. This time I would write and it took all his energy to mutter the few answers he could stay awake to answer. I couldn’t get used to that role reversal… one where I was kissing his forehead, holding his hand, and writing down his crossword answers… it didn’t stop me, but it was a feeling I can’t describe. Probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was to say goodbye to my grandad. Lynsey was with me… and we both hugged him, told him we loved him, and after a few minutes had to leave the room. In the hallway I couldn’t let go of her otherwise I thought I was going to fall apart. I probably didn’t show it, but that’s definitely how I felt.

I can’t stop the tears dripping down my face tonight… I’m lucky to have had the past 22 and a half years. And I know wherever he is that he’s happier than he was when he was sick but I can’t believe he’s gone, I just can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe he and I can’t create any new memories with each other. I’ll ensure I remember all the ones we’ve made.

So much of what I am today can be attributed to something seemingly insignificant when I was growing up. My tiny, uncomfortable twin bed covered in Sesame Street bed sheets and comforter was pushed against the wall. The headboard had some shelves and one distinct thing about it was the night light that sat on the upper left shelf. Inside the thing of porcelain was some kind of pretend house for some family of make believe animals. The front door was always open and there were little holes on the roof from which a small light, when turned on, always protruded onto the back and sides of the headboard. Depending upon how I moved the light it could project a different pattern onto the surround wood, similar to what can be done with life’s opportunities.

Assume, first of all, that opportunity is signified by the small incandescent bulb and that the outcome of each opportunity is represented by how the light touches everything else. If the light is never switched on then nothing will ever change. There’s no reference point and nothing to go by… no measure of what is or what could be. Even if the light is on — meaning the opportunity has presented itself — most of the possibility is contained inward, escaping only through the small holes. What does leak out is a symbol of what others can see, and is ever-changing as I move through life. Sometimes a tweak here can shut everyone out, but a tweak there can reveal more about me than I could feasibly express in as many words.

I wouldn’t call it as much of a struggle as I would a journey in becoming the person I want to be. The miniscule changes in perspective affect all aspects of my persona. From the way I interpret others to the ways they may interpret me. All I can hope for is when I have the chance to adapt into a better person that sense of opportunity hasn’t disappeared.

Last night as I was driving home from Silver Q, I had the windows down and the outside temperature was a cool 73 degrees. I rarely drive with the windows down, but almost always on Tuesday nights after pool because I hate the way my clothes stink of cigarette smoke. It reminded me on a time when I was very young — probably only about 4 or 5 — and was in the backseat of my dad’s car. We were driving down the dirt road past Wycliffe and Palm Beach Pointe (unfortunately, they have a gate there now) well before there was ever an elementary and a middle school around. I was tired and falling asleep in the backseat but liked the feeling of having the cold air hit my face and be breathed into my lungs. It smelled fresh, clean, and new… very similar to the way it was last night. As I drove home the temperature of the air seemed to soothe my skin and I got to thinking how I didn’t want that feeling to end. So I kept driving and my mind wandered to all the late night driving I’ve done in the past, or how it feels to look up at the sky when there aren’t any lights around and imagine the stars as pin pricks in a blanket of felt positioned no more than one hundred feet above. It looks just as nice during the day, I guess, but there’s a mystery in the darkness in that there’s no images to make out of the clouds because the stars remain unchanged. There’s no give with some things, I realized, and then there are some things you can make out to be whatever you want. In the end my clothes and skin were just as unclean as when I started, but at least I was able to clear my head and pretend that I was the child in the back of my dad’s old car.

It’s a fact that ever since I came to school in Gainesville I’ve hated the first kiss. Now I don’t know why I do, because I never had a problem with it in the past. I’m fairly forward about everything else so why I can’t bring myself to kiss someone for the first time remains a mystery to me. The only thing I don’t like is the uncertainty of what comes next, provided there is something next. Once I get past my own insecurities and inhibitions I’m fine. Usually, though, since the thought of kissing someone new lingers in my mind, by the time I’m ready I’ve already built it up to be this big deal. It never is — I realize this — but it’s there and is still a hangup.

It’s hard to count (not because there have been too many) how many girls I’ve dated in college because most of them were just a friendly thing and then there was a kiss involved. I’ve been officially single for much of the college career, but that doesn’t count the fling type relationships I’ve had. They usually don’t last very long because for whatever reason I strive to be emotionally void and as distant as I possibly can be. It all comes down to me not letting myself go or not allowing myself to try something new.

If I were to estimate I’d say there were three noteworthy people in the past four years with whom I’ve wanted to be with at one time or another. With each there was a first kiss, and even a second… each one being meaningful. No matter what, though, there will always be that I enjoyed most or is the most memorable. I’m not sure if I’ve explained the whole situation to anyone before, and certainly not to the other person in question. Not because I’m ashamed but because it’s something that is really mine and isn’t meant for anybody else. I can’t explain details, really but I can shed some light onto my already vague-sounding post; the moment it happened is completely clear like it happened three hours ago. Sometime in the afternoon she and I were talking and we started kissing and it felt brand new. So much so that it everything was slow, it seemed, and I couldn’t think about anything other than her lips touching mine. The moment probably didn’t last more than a few seconds but there was enough emotion behind it to make me remember it. It’s sad that the kiss gets ignored and in most times is a means to an end. Especially as I grow older it seems to be that way. It’s as fun now as it was when I was in high school, and I hope it doesn’t stop being fun… at least until I’m about 90 and not able to kiss anymore.

Ever since I was small, I’ve always liked the way my eyes felt after I cried. I didn’t cry on purpose because of that and I think every time that I’ve had that realization it has always been an afterthought. What I like is the smoothness and even the redness because it seems to go with my natural color. When I close my eyelids and move my eyes around it feels like everything else goes away for that brief instant. It’s also that when I look closely into the mirror I can see in my eyes that I’m not as strong about everything as I’d like to be but that I’m not always afraid of being weak.