A Mess to be Made

Isn't it funny how you can almost imagine things into being? We can, if we think about it enough, transfer our dreams and fantasies to fruition. Although, it never quite ends up like the imagination inspires, does it?

I'm talking about the tall, sexy, coffee-coloured man walking through my tiny, feminine apartment, having to bow his head to pass safely through the doorframes, hunching down a little to admire himself in the full-length mirror. I wanted to dip that man in sweet almond oil and watch him glisten.

Note the use of past-tense.

The subject of my Chocolate-Man fantasies and I went out on a date last week. We went for dinner, then ice cream, and then for a very long walk around downtown during which we had a very insightful conversation about almost everything we're made of: our childhoods, families, religion, education, hobbies, past relationships, all of those interesting topics that make you feel like you know a person.

We'd been walking for at least an hour when we decided to sit on a bench located in an isolated outdoor rotunda surrounded by a garden and post-modern art structures. Tall, metal geometric shapes adjacent to billowy willow trees and stout shrubs stood around us, listening to our quiet conversation:

"Wait a sec. You can't cook at all?"

"No," he replied and went on to give me the awful details of his past cooking attempts. This man must never be left alone in a kitchen.

So we decided I would teach him to cook. The following Sunday was to be our first lesson.

Sunday morning found me irritable and with a sore throat. I'd worked a late shift the night before, slept only five hours and needed to be back at work at ten. I thought about calling him and postponing our plans but I figured that by the evening my mood would soften. After three cups of coffee, I was a more pleasant person to be around but still exhausted from the previous night. Thankfully, the day passed in a rush and, suddenly it seemed, we were walking through the farmer's market and I was smelling mangos and testing avocados for firmness.

It's safe to say that he was absolutely no help at all. He was indecisive and without words leaving me with the duty of filling the silence with conversation, and, with my being exhausted, I didn't have much to say. I'd noticed our slight struggle with communication early on during our first date. He wouldn't speak unless I prompted him, wouldn't emphasise unless I asked him to explain himself, and wouldn't share a story unless I'd shared one of my own. It was a good thing he'd mentioned that he wasn't interested in a relationship at present because, although I found him lovely to look at and enjoyed spending time with him, I felt our dialogue was draining.

On our way to my place, we sat in silence. A silence I was very much enjoying after hearing people talking over each other all morning and afternoon. I rested my head against the cushion and thought of nothing but how iridescent the rain clouds looked after the brief storm we'd experienced while picking through vegetables at the market. He turned to look at me and asked why I was so quiet.

"I'm just a bit tired," I replied.

He said that he was a quiet person and it would be no good if we were both quiet so he hoped I wouldn't be that way all night long.

Hmmm.

"I'll perk up when we start cooking. Let's just enjoy this silence right now."

He seemed disconcerted by my reply. Perhaps he was nervous to be entering my house for the first time, either way the silence was uncomfortable for him.

We had fun and the dinner was fantastic, flaky fillets of white fish, tons of roasted vegetables and bulgar wheat with onions and spinach. Everything turned out delicious.

We drank wine throughout the evening and ended up cuddling and kissing to close the night.

*******

After he'd left and I was alone in my apartment I began to feel confused. If he said he'd only wanted to be friends, then why did he kiss me and hold my hand? If I said I didn't want a relationship, then why did I kiss him back? Is it safe to just spend time with a heterosexual member of the opposite sex? Is it impossible for me to just be friends with someone?! Why is it so difficult for me to do what I really want? I want to be single but I am certainly not behaving like it.

Last night he called. After chatting for a bit, I dove into what had been bothering me.
"I thought you said you didn't want a relationship"

To which he replied by telling me not to put words in his mouth.

"But," I came back, "when we went out for dinner that night you said, 'I don't want a relationship right now, I just really want to focus on completing my studies'."

He said something to the affect of that being a general comment he'd made before he'd gotten to know me and now that he's had the opportunity to spend time with me, he'd like to pursue a relationship.

I suddenly felt like I didn't have much of a say in the matter and that this could very well be how a lot of my other relationships began. There's never any official commencement; I just fall into relationships. He holds my hand and all of a sudden I'm somebody's girlfriend. I end up having to ask my friends after a few weeks into it, "wait a sec, do I have a boyfriend?" I don't need him to get down on one knee but I'd like to be asked first or just made aware of his intentions before his friend says, "Oh, you're so-and-so's girlfriend." I am?! Since when? Am I that dense and naive? No. Not this time.

I took a deep breath and said into the receiver, "But I'm not sure I want a relationship."

"Really?" he said as if the thought never crossed his mind.

"Really."

He said he didn't want to discuss it over the phone and we'd talk about it once we saw each other face to face.

Hmmm.

Oh, Apathy.

Do I seem like I have issues? You read my blogs, do you think I have issues?

For some reason, I cannot feel anything romantic for... anyone. I want to make things work, I want to be the girlfriend of his dreams, and I want to be so satisfied in every way that a relationship can satisfy a person, but my heart is feeling nothing.
And when he talks to me, I can't bring myself to give my full attention, I barely listen at all. I sometimes wish we were kissing just so we don't have to talk, but when we kiss, I just want to be alone.

It's not him, it's definitely me.

Can I blame this on my ex? About a year ago I wrote this (it's posted on my second entry on this site):

Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and we remain very nearly blameless while leaving the tab with the invisible culprit (the ex) who initiated the cycle.


Why don't I feel anything for this person?! He's smart, he's an avid fan of my writing (well, he was a fan, I'm pretty sure this entry will put an end to that), and he’s lovely to look at, even-tempered, thoughtful. All those good things that people pretend to be when they write ads for personals.

I told him I wanted to go back to being friends. When I got off the phone, I found myself walking through an empty park in a light spring rain. It was the perfect moment to cry. To cry for all my failed relationships, for my future husband and the fact that I'm missing him without even knowing his name, to cry about this feeling of apathy that has been plaguing me since my last boyfriend. But I couldn't. Not one measly tear. I even tried to get it started by thinking of sad things such as my dog dying when I was fifteen, how disappointing the ending was in the last book I read, and the grass stains on my white Keds, but nothing happened. So I simply shrugged my shoulders and kept walking.

The fact is, I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm not depressed; I laugh and sing, do my Pilates workout; meet friends for coffee and all that jazz. Maybe I just need to be alone for about a year or so, what do you think?

I'm it.

The lovely Natural Muze has tagged me to write, in detail, ten things I like about myself and then tag five people whilst saying something nice about them. Alright, let's go.

1) I have the BEST relationship with my sister. I honestly could not wish for a better person with whom to share parents. Even though I'm thousands of miles away, our relationship hasn't suffered at all. I am so thankful for her and our friendship.

2) I am one of the most passionate people I know. I don't just like something, I love it. It's a part of who I am and is apparent in the way I talk to people or dive into new experiences or tell stories, which brings me to my next item...

3) I am a fantastic story-teller. I believe I can make the action of putting on a pair of socks sound riveting. I believe this is why I write nonfiction, it's not so much that my life is very interesting, it's all about the way you tell the story.

4) I traveled all the way to West Australia to get a master's degree. I am so proud of myself for doing this. I'm thrilled with my choice to come here and I'm amazed that I was able to come here alone, knowing no one, get into a university and get a second degree. I feel so courageous and like I've gained so much since I've been here. I can also tell people that I lived in Australia for a little over a year and a half, which will sound sooo cool to my future in-laws.

5) I prefer a small cafe or pub to a crowded club any day. When I say "I wanna do something fun," that means that I want to go to the local cafe and people-watch while sipping lattes or a good glass of wine, (red wine, never white!) and have a good conversation. Uh, this is a little off topic but I really dislike white wine and I don't care for champagne or sparkling wines unless it's a sparkling rose. I don't like sweet red wine like Merlot, although I'll deal with it if it's a Merlot blend like Cabernet-Merlot or something.

6) I LOVE my uniquely West Coast accent. I've had some people pick up on it instantly saying, "What part of California are you from?" and I love it. I use the words "totally", "like", "definitely" and "whatev" freely and I don't feel bad about it at all. Who cares if I sound like an extra from Laguna Beach?

7) I am so comfortable in my own skin. I love who I am and I'm fine with or without someone keeping me company. I don't mind perusing a bookstore on my own but if you want to join in, you're more than welcome.

8) I embrace my blue moods. I think it's important to really feel every emotion so when I'm feeling down I allow myself to sulk, play sad music, watch sappy movies and whatever. I even made a playlist on my iTunes specifically for this purpose. Yeah, I know it's a little strange but, like Madonna says, "express yourself, don't repress yourself". I think it will save money on therapy later on in life.

9) I love my musical background. My sister and I are the daughters of a romantic, soul-searching jazz musician and I'm very proud of that fact. When I was younger, music was always floating in the air, Dad was always strumming his guitar and humming the melody of songs when he'd forgotten the words. Lovely.

10) I generally don't care about what people think of me. I know it sounds cliche but I really don't. I mean, I love hearing the good things like "Porsch is so nice, I really like her," but if someone is saying or feeling negative things about me, it doesn't really bother me too much. I know it's impossible to please everyone and, in the end, what matters most is that I love myself.

A few extras...

11) I'm really happy I decided to go natural with my hair. It's so much healthier and it's nice not to be chemical-dependent anymore.

12) If the whole PR thing doesn't work, I'm pretty sure I have a future in preaching. I know my Bible. I can spout off verses left and right for nearly any situation. I attended a private Christian college for four years of my life and have read the Bible at least three times during that period. I know for a fact that whatever it is you're going through, there is a Bible verse, passage or story relevant to the issue, and I can probably tell you what it is and where to find it.

Alright, now on to the tagging...
My Lovely Sister, Nikki, a phenomenal chef and a great writer who doesn't write nearly as much as she should.

Ms. Puddin', a beautiful young woman who is a fantastic writer and that I relate to immensly.

Megan, my lovely friend who is honest, witty, and absolutely delightful.

Heathie, my favourite Australian. So smart and simply amazing, I adore him.

Jenna a wonderful, passionate and over-analytical person who knows me so well, it's ridiculous.

Take care!!!

Black Beauty

There are so few African-Americans here in Australia it's absolutely striking. African natives, however, are everywhere. They look at me with a mixture of curiosity and familiarity and I feel like mixed up fragments of the future gazing at the beauty of the past. I also feel like an outsider, being both African and American makes me a bit too multicultural to fully fit in with either group, a feeling I've grown accustomed to. People look at me trying to figure out what land I'm native to. Just two days ago, a lovely African couple approached me and asked, "Where are your people from?" Well... My roots are the same as yours but somewhere along the lines, things got mixed up and the branches became caramel skinned with curly hair and hazel-brown eyes. I don't like hearing Black people say, "I'm part this and part that and one-fifth this... with a little bit of (insert random Native-American tribe here)..." but faced with this question, I was stumped. We barely look African-Anything, I wear my hair natural and people still can't figure out what my heritage is. For some reason, I felt my being African-American was a cop-out, like I'm not really Black at all. In the States, you can be as Black and Afro-centric as you want to be but once you see a group of Nigerians who just left the Mother Land two weeks ago, you will definitely feel like the odd man out. I told the couple that I'm African-American and they nodded, smiled, and told me I'm beautiful. Thank you, you two are gorgeous.

I feel obliged to preface the following by saying that for the last few months I've been experiencing a slight obsession to date a darkly skinned African man. I feel silly writing this but I really want to see an African man's dark chocolate-y skin against mine. To see this tall dark being walk around my girly apartment and kneel to look at himself in the full-length mirror or have to bow his head slightly as he passes through the door-frames. I want to admire him up close: high cheekbones and angular features, full lips and dark eyes, it excites me. There are tall, beautiful, athletic-looking African men all over this city but none have ever approached me. This brings me to Charlie.

Charlie is a tall, slim, handsome man from Congo. His skin is as dark and smooth as black coffee. He is employed by a crowd-control agency that sends its employees to all the high-profile bars in Perth city. I see him every Friday and Saturday night while I'm at work. Drunk women stumble and fall against his statuesque frame, he just smiles and helps them steady themselves. As he stands there, his presences alone keeps rowdy party-goers in check while his tall, erect posture dwarfs everyone in the venue. He sees me carrying trays of cocktails and coffee cups, laughing and chatting with customers but because we're both working, we've never had the opportunity to speak to one another; I had never heard his voice before Sunday night.

I was having my dinner break outside in the staff courtyard when I heard two men talking nearby. He and a fellow bouncer entered the courtyard deep in a conversation about various troublesome customers who'd been causing problems in the restaurant. While listening, Charlie's eyes glanced around the area and met mine. I smiled, a bit embarrassed sitting at a table while hunched over a caesar salad and the day's newspaper. I knew he'd linger once his coworker left and we'd have our first opportunity for conversation. The idea of finally being able to talk to him after eight months of watching him out of the corner of my eye made me nervous. I never thought about what I might say to him if we ever talked. "I like the way you look" seems a little blunt, doesn't it?

Sure enough, his company left and we were alone. I looked up from the paper and smiled, "Hi."
"Hi," he said and came closer.

Then, with the silence between us broken we began to ask each other the questions fuelled by the need to satisfy the curiosity we both felt every time we saw each other.

"What's your name?" he started.

"Porscha, what's yours?"

"Charlie."

"Where are you from?" I asked, noting his rich accent from the way he pronounce his name "Chah-lee".

"I'm from Congo. What about you?"

"The U.S., California."

"Oh," he nodded. "Are you just working and traveling or do you live here now?"

"I'm studying here, what about you?"

"I'm studying as well."

"Really? What are you studying?"

"Mechanical engineering."

"Oh? Wow."

"What are you studying?"

"I'm getting my master's in public relations. Do you like your job?" I don't know why I asked that. I guess I just wanted to get away from each other's stats and learn more about him as a person.

"No," he chuckled, white teeth gleaming. "I hate it. I just do it to cover my expenses."

For some reason the way he said, "cover my expenses" captured my intrigue. I think it's because it's an intelligent way to say, "I work cuz I need to pay for stuff." I feel like my degree in journalism makes communication skills of the utmost importance for me upon meeting someone. This makes me way too easy to impress and an all around fool for a man who can turn a phrase.

"Did you come here alone or do you have family here?" I continued with our friendly interrogation.

"No, I came here alone. What about you?"

"Same. How long have you been here?"

"About a year and a half. You?"

"A little over a year."

We nodded at our similar situations.

His coworker's voice buzzed the walkie-talkie Charlie was holding.

"I gotta go back in. It was nice talking to you. See you in there," he said.

"Yeah, see you."

And that was all.

Just for clarification, I must say that yes, I am currently dating someone that I care about very much. He is a wonderful person and I am very happy to be in a relationship with him. But, as a writer, I feel it's my duty to express my thoughts, feelings and experiences and I refuse to censor myself. Thank goodness my guy understands and loves this about me... right?

In a coffehouse

The elderly couple sitting at the table next to me is having a full on discussion regarding what the woman had eaten that day and whether or not she'd like a sandwich or another cup of coffee.

"I had two chocolates and a banana..."

"Well maybe you'd like something else that's sweet," her husband suggests.

"No, I don't want a sweet, I've already had two chocolates."

"You want another coffee?"

"Well, I just had tea this morning and then coffee..."


Why is that interesting? Does being married force you to care about how many chocolates your spouse has consumed that day? It's incredible; they are both so intrigued by the conversation they're having. I'm wondering if people ever run out of things to say to each other. It seems that by the time you run out of topics, you've reached a point where the silence is no longer awkward. You can just look at each other and nod your head in understanding. When you think of something to say, you'll say it.

"Did Janice get you that sweater for Christmas three years ago?"

"No, you bought it for me when Myer was having that sale."

"Oh, right. That's a nice colour."

"Yeah, I quite like it."

Then more silence and a nod here and there.


The seat across from me is empty. There is no one to fill the empty spaces of silence that occur between scribbles in my notebook. No one to tell me if the foam from my latte is on the tip of my nose or to comment on the ambient music in the background. Maybe I'm really happy just being alone. Maybe I shouldn't be in a relationship at all and just let the empty chair watch me sip coffee. At least then the silence is comfortable like the elderly couple's. The only thing is that once I think of something to say, I haven't got anyone to say it to.

Aftermath

The air about us was still and a bit damp as we lay there in the darkness, the silence added weight to our surroundings. For moments at a time I felt as if I could not speak or very well decide if speech was in fact better than silence. At other moments, I felt as if I could open my mouth and pour out a deluge of words, that I could talk well into the dawn never ceasing, and the notion scared me.

"What are you thinking?" he quietly demanded. "Tell me."

And I thought, what am I thinking? I'm thinking about how it feels to have my head nestled against your shoulder and about how difficult it is for me to feel warm while you are laying here utterly perspiring. I'm thinking about what this all means for us and our loving relationship, though we are not in love. I'm considering the feeling of your callused fingertips against my pillow-like lips. I'm wondering why I can't hear the ducks' quacking in the daytime from the lake outside my flat but I hear them so loudly at night. I'm thinking about how every kiss and touch that led up to this was filled with supsense and innocent, unspoken boundaries and I'm wondering if we've lost something.

I shifted a little bit to see the way the moonlight shined on his face. His eyes were closed in waiting.

"I'm happy," I whispered.