Return

It was cool - as cool as the end of July in Houston can be. 78 degrees. It was partly sunny. I decided on a visor to shade my face but no sunglasses. I wanted to allow the sun to do its thing on my eyes and give my brain what it needs. Today I needed to be outside. I needed to be back where all this started, this injury. Funny, the very place where I overdid is the place where I will gradually get back to me. I miss running so much. Today I went for a walk.

I took no music, no watch, no phone.

Without the distraction of sound or time:

I saw a plane flying overhead and advertising signs on its sign. I wonder if he sold any.

I noticed workers sawing and hammering in a new restaurant on Richmond. I also paid better attention to several little shops on Ferndale. On my list to check out.

As I kept moving, I became less aware of my manmade surroundings and more aware of that feeling of connection. I was, once again, connecting with the earth. I could sense each footfall. I felt it all the way up my spine. I passed trees and I wanted to touch them. I did. I reached out and felt the bark. I let my fingers hit leaves and palm fronds. I stopped for a moment and stood, letting the breeze hit me.

Moving past the River Oaks Apartments and the fountains I laughed out loud as I found myself wishing for a penny so I could make a wish. Instead I sat on the marble edge and plunged my hand into the water for a moment, closing my eyes. When I stood I was met by a man I guessed to be homeless. He was holding an open can of peaches in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other. We exchanged "good mornings" and I kept walking.

Three miles. I'm glad to be back. I'm rolling a frozen water bottle under my foot as I type this. I'm also thinking a donation of at least a case of canned peaches to the food bank is in order.

Las Vegas Recap - Single Friends' Getaway

Sometimes it's best not to wait around for that perfect trip with a boyfriend or significant other. Sometimes it's best to go. Now. I've been traveling with other single friends for years. Cruises, Las Vegas (many times), day trips. New Orleans, Austin, Mexico. Thanksgiving, Christmas, whenever! Don't wait or you may find that you've waited your life away.

I went to Las Vegas last week. He'd never been so it was a blast to take him around and show him all the places I love. It was also bittersweet to return to the city I used to use as a meetup spot with my dad. Dad died in January and I hadn't been to our old favorite city since then. Returning with a good friend was the right thing to do.

This trip we had no plans, other than seeing "Zumanity" a Cirque du Soleil show. It was brilliant, funny and sexy. With no set plans we were able to relax and enjoy a few days to do mostly nothing. Fabulous!

Here's what nothing looked like on our tour of Las Vegas Boulevard:

Harrah's, where Oklahoma goes to casino. You heard right. I've designated "casino" to be verbiage. There - I did it again. I'm going to change the English language as I speak because that's what Las Vegas does to me, it changes me as I go along. I'm so overstimulated that I shed bits of myself and take on parts of my surroundings. It's the most unhealthy assimilation on the planet and I love it. At times I'm a high-roller looking for the table that calls to me and my fistful of dollars. At others I might strive to be a relaxed European on holiday lounging by the pool for the afternoon but it's only so I can save my energy and go-go all night with a miniskirt, dark eye makeup and showgirl poofy hair.

Back to Harrah's. I've found that my personality changes a bit depending on which, um, resort I'm walking through. At the more upscale sites (the Venetian, Bellagio) I tend to talk in a quiet voice and tip bigger and drink more sophisticated libations. When I'm in a place known for entertainment (NewYorkNewYork, MGM Grand) I become boisterous and flirty. Harrah's seems to cater to a different crowd all together. It has a "Toby Keith's I Love this Bar and Grill". Country music plays overhead and there seems to be an abundance of nickel and penny slots. When I'm in Harrah's...

...I get the hell out as soon as I can.

My recommendation for accommodations: Stay somewhere adult. We were at the MGM Grand which has great pools and even better restaurants. Check out Aria. It's new. it's beautiful. It's expensive. I'm leaning toward Bellagio next time. Very adult. Again, expensive. This showgirl is worth it.

This Journey

If you let go of my hand-

I won't.

Blinking cursor beats three/four time
and I imagine the time
when I'll dance at your wedding
or you'll dance at mine.

Fan whirs and cools the brain
of this machine as I make
a lame attempt at recording
the words that can't be put to words.

Fingers pause over keys as I
let left fall over right,
remembering the first time
you reached out and took hold and we walked.

Past this line
and past the next
the story waits.
We'll laugh as it unfolds.

Such fortune to have
found a fellow traveler
eager for unknown
fortune.








©Michelle Scofield, July 16, 2010 All Rights Reserved

Enough

Today I'm 50 years and 4 months old. No special milestone, but for some reason, I felt like noting it. I feel a little wiser today, as if I've learned something. What I did today was let go just a little bit more.

I was given an assignment at 6:42 AM. I was to report to my post at 7:00 AM. No way was I going to make it. I didn't make it and the world didn't end. I didn't run traffic lights, I didn't break a sweat. I did what I could and it was enough.

I watched as a cap was placed on a deep-water gusher. It might work and it might not. I hope it does. That's enough for now.

I got word that a major piece of legislation passed, split almost entirely down party lines. No surprises there. I live in the reddest of red states. Nothing I could have done to change votes here. I can (and did) work a little on a campaign event that I think will make a difference locally.

I didn't hear from one friend, but I heard from many others. I've done all I can as far as this friendship goes. Rifts occur and some things are out of my hands. I have a rich, full social life that goes beyond dinners and movies. I can count on those who count.

I came home from work and kicked off my shoes and for just a moment imagined that I was standing on a beach with cool water rushing around my ankles. I felt free, more free than I've felt in weeks. Perhaps a vacation to a beach is in order soon. Nothing rushed, nothing planned. That would be enough.

How Would Jesus Dance?

Ah, found piece from November, '08. I'm gonna miss that place.)


You can't miss Sky Bar. It's the only mid-rise on Montrose with the top floor wrapped in pink and blue neon. It glows like a beacon, calling dancers from across Houston. At eleven p.m. on Thursday nights, salseros, salseras, wannabes and a variety of those who simply want to be in attendance stand in a line that winds around the building waiting for the elevator to take them up to the tenth floor. There always seems to more of a crowd wanting in than the building can accommodate and the bouncers are kept busy holding the line, letting in only a few at a time.



It's a dress-to-be-seen scene. High heels reign, as long as they're dance-worthy and there are more skirts than not. Real salsa, serious salsa, makes for great legs and they are shown at Sky Bar. It's an exotic blend of shoulders, hoop earrings and ruffles. The men can get in wearing jeans, if the jeans are without tatters, chains and aren't sagging. There's a no tennis shoes rule, but I doubt that anyone would wear them if they could. How could you spin in tennis shoes, anyway? The spins and turns are important in salsa dancing, almost as important as being caught to turn again. Salsa is sexy, hot, primitive. I think it's the dancer's dance.



Last Thursday the drink special was a goldfish bowl-sized mojito. For five dollars. Yummy! And too much booze to make salsa dancing workable, enjoyable or anything close to recognizable. I ordered one, had a few sips, recognized the high octane level and decided it was worth the five dollars to let the glass globe of peril serve as a signal to others that our table was occupied.



I danced a bit, watched people a bit more. After a particularly fast-paced merengue, I was standing in front of one of the massive fans, cooling down, when my friend nudged me in the ribs.



"Oh, My God! Look who's here!"



Those words are never good at a club, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, there are about half a dozen old boyfriend/stalker types that could be "here". The elevator at Sky Bar doesn't provide a quick enough escape. I know. I've tried and failed. I started to scan the room as inconspicuously as possible. Then I saw him.



It was Jesus. You know, Jesus. The guy in the paintings. The one that looks up into the light. Brown hair, brown beard, beatific. That Jesus.



He was on the dance floor. He was good. The guy could lead with strength and confidence. He was putting his partner through triple spins. He even threw in a slide. Who knew Jesus could dance?



Now before you go all fire and brimstone on me, please understand that I understand that it wasn't really Jesus, but he really did look like the guy who hung over Mrs. Brandon's piano in my choir room at the First United Methodist Church. I got in trouble at that church for asking how he could possibly be that white. I always pictured him with much darker skin. That's a whole other story, I guess.



At the end of the night, I said my goodbyes and left, just a little disappointed. I didn't dance with Jesus Thursday night. He had so many partners lined up that I didn't get a chance. I descended out of Sky Bar and onto the streets of Houston, left to wonder what the real Jesus would think about dancing.



There is another place I know, the Big Easy. They play the blues. It's grimy, dark and also sexy. It's about the lindy and west-coast swing. I may go there next week. I can say I'm looking for Jesus.


©Michelle Scofield, July 14, 2010 All Rights Reserved

Stop Play-Acting

Thank God it’s over. Spain won the FIFA World Cup? I guess so. I stopped watching when the United States was defeated. Oh, I admit to my own brand of jingoism when it comes to worldwide sporting events. I’ll often follow a sport I enjoy (like gymnastics) to the gold medal bout of the Olympics, but you won’t catch me catching fever for the Tour de France and noting who’s yellow just because everyone else does. I’m not prone to picking up those particular bugs.

So how does this apply to date-coaching? Only that I’ve been watching and listening to otherwise non-sportsfans suddenly acting all breathless or silly or interested about soccer. I’ve seen them turn their heads in bars and restaurants and “cheer” when a goal is scored. The thing is, it’s always a little too little, too late. What, do they think no one notices? Do they think they’re even beginning to come off as genuine? This same thing happens during American football season to women when they put on a jersey and a pair of Converse hi-tops and suddenly it’s Halloween, only it isn’t. There’s a fine line between taking an interest and acting interested.

I propose to anyone who may recognize themselves above and hasn’t huffed off the page: A man who can read through your manipulations will not want you. You do not want a man who isn’t smart enough to read through manipulations. Perhaps it is time to stop with the manipulating and just be yourself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like all the same things. So what if it seems like the entire world is watching soccer or some other sport. Do you really want to pretend? I didn’t think so.


©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved