For instance, let’s say a dude recently
rediscovered running,
rappelling ropelessly up barriers
(What barriers?).

Restoration and renewal and relearning living.
Revitalized and realizing that somewhere along the way,
he’d forgotten a few things that turned out
to be important

(anyone who’s built a spaceship will understand).

Let’s say this guy has opened up;
Neruda’s XIV, still years ’til XX.

And he wants to write.
What’s there to say?

There are words to describe the epiphany
when our toes and the grass meet and remember again that they are for each other.
But they never speak of this affair, and I’d rather not be the one to render their writhing redundant.

I have too many words and no life within them.

I want to say that your hair is lovely, no matter the color,
but again, it would only be words,
and the truth is that the beauty comes from somewhere else anyway.

It’s enough to make a person want to believe in god
just so he could have someone to thank for all of this.

For the feeling of grass copulating through curled toes,
or the joy of poetry, mine and yours,
intermingling lines, a remembrance of a memory of youth.

It’s enough to make a person not mind being redundant.
To whimsically write a haiku before everything ends.

My fingers push through
hair (what color?). Curling toes,
our legs intersect.

Someday, maybe.

Maybe I don’t need words for this.
Maybe it’s inside us already, important and forgotten,
waiting to rush forth from neglected sensations.

Or maybe it comes from somewhere else
And it’s worth it to find the words
to write it all down.

BUT, here we go, because maybe this time will be different?

i’m actually feeling pretty good about the things i’d like to do this year:

1. actually train Parkour twice a month. this is the one that i’m least concerned about accomplishing, because the only group that i’ve been able to find in houston only meets on saturday mornings, and it’s not uncommon for me to not be out here on saturdays. but i could try to find groups in the places that i’ll be, so with some effort, it would be totally doable.

2. capoeira. at least 3 times per week, preferably 4. this is important if i want to accomplish #3.

3. be able to do an au batido, fluidly.

which isn’t the best visual, but it does demonstrate that the kick can be an effective strike, which most people that i know do not think it can be

4. write at least 3 stories for my other blog 21 Seconds each week. preferably more, because i’d like to have a bit of a backlog. at the very least, i want to be MUCH more consistent than i was last year.

5. quit being so damn negative so often. jeez.

6. bike to work on fridays. at least, right now, while the weather allows it. come june, this one might be disavowed.

7. a few other things, mostly involving increasing strength, but they’re seriously specific, so no reason to go into them here. i really like the parkour mantra “be strong to be useful”. the idea isn’t to strengthen oneself just for the sake of being stronger or looking good, but to be more capable of doing that which needs to be done. i like it.

8. oh yeah, figure out what i’m going to do. with everything.

alright, happy 2011 to anyone who happens to find their way here. all the best.

Tomorrow: Do all those those things you’ve been putting off for the past two weeks!

Been hangin’ around with the pain for a while
It’s not so bad once you get used to it.

Spent some time the past few days
dying.

But also,
I’ve taken to praying again,
praying and reading,
searching for an answer.

They say there is One who holds it all together.
I’ve heard all the stories,
maybe even talked with Him from time to time.

Did I ever tell you about the Mesons?

Here’s the deal:
When we produce them on the ground, they barely move
(as one measures Meson speeds).
But in the sky, they come alive!
Cosmic rays spewing forth invisible life,
traveling at 98% of the speed of light!

But the important part is this:
the cosmic Meson lives 5 times longer than its caged brethren.
A discrepancy in perception of time.

I don’t understand the general theory of relativity.
I don’t even understand the special theory of relativity.
I don’t understand black holes, Meson lifetimes, or the proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem.

I don’t understand why things have happened this way.

But I do know this:

A world without pain is a world without suffering.
And in such a world, it could never be said,

“This is love, not that we loved God
but that He loved us
and sent His Son…”

In the world that my heart craves today,
my God could have never demonstrated his love for us in this:

“While we were still sinners,
Christ died for us.”

In that world, God would have no way of showing us the depths of His love.

We may never push the beds together again,
but
I do still believe that the One who holds the future
holds a future for us.

Even if I don’t understand the way He’s chosen to bring us there.

Play by the rules.
Don’t say “I love you”
or “I miss you”
or “I need you.”

Yeah, he used to be a pro.

I love you, dear girl.
I do not wish to be your pain.
So be with him, let him take care of you.
But, please, know this:

You were the first one I saw when I returned from the cold lands.
To me, you are this place.
I was foolish.
I regret only one thing.

Lookit! A haiku, for you:

Pancreatitis:
your insides consume themselves.
I know about that.

If we ever can try again, I’d be willing to start at the beginning.
Take you on a first date
(we never really had one to begin with, did we?).

How do you feel about lasagna?
I know where we can get the best $5 lasagna you’ve ever had.
Surrounded by a chorus of beautiful accents from beautiful people.
And a chocolate mousse you can’t resist.

Maybe next year.
There is an exhibit in a museum in Chicago.
Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.
I think you would love it.

If the day ever comes that we can be together again,
I will not allow you to feel unloved.
A bold claim, but, beloved,
if we don’t work,
don’t have a second chance (as some claim real love always has),
honestly,
I will have already been destroyed.

I was shown a bracelet, a necklace, and earrings at a little shop in a little village in San Antonio.
I think you are beautiful, even without them.
But (and I know you understand what I’m saying here)
I think I would like to give them to you.

But I will wait.
We still have to get to that first date.
And I will work to make it so that,
if things don’t work out between you two,
I will be better for you too.

I understand if we can’t,
but I will continue to hope.
I can do no other.

But then I realize it’s already happened once.
I woke one week ago to a world drastically altered.

I barely recognize this place anymore.

Can I be presumptuous for a moment?

Does this not feel wrong to you too?
Like a much-anticipated film but The Stand-Ins have replaced the cast?

Number 5:
The hardest part for the artist
is the realization that his work isn’t as important as he thought.
The understanding that it might not be able to provoke any kind of change or
at least, not the change he wanted.
To put it another way:

It turns out that it might not matter how many words I know that start with f.

Flaky fried fish for Friday feasting follows familiar flows: forthrightly, freeing fleeting figments from far flung phases of fellowship with the fille.

I still find your hair
(it’s everywhere)
random sizes as though cut by a novice hand
or perhaps
as though it were a hip new European style,
“It’s not quite layered…”
That’s the way all the beautiful girls in Spain are wearing their hair these days.

Please, don’t stop learning your cartwheel.
You really are close.
Don’t stop reading little books in the park as your dress gracefully flutters.
Don’t stop speaking to those who can help
on behalf of those who cannot speak to them on their own.
Don’t stop eating fruit in places where eating fruit is
beautiful.

Don’t forget, it’s just Airon Paul Dugas, and we are two of the (relatively) few people who know how to spell it.

Death only comes when we no longer remember.

Please, love, don’t forget.

I once wrote a poem every week for months
delivered each Monday
to the one that I loved.

I guess I’m catching up to all the Mondays I neglected you.

New subtitle for this blog:
There must be 50 ways to miss your lover.

Yes, this will be another.

There have been three hardest parts (for those keeping track)
the hardest part is waking up
the other hardest part is knowing how close I was to avoiding this
the other hardest part is knowing I can’t surprise you anymore

But I think I’ve made a breakthrough

The hardest hardest part is owning an unwavering desire to
call you
text you
write to you
tell you about my version of today,
about my introduction to the Quantum Zeno effect and
about “The Last Question” by Asimov.

I want to
hear about your version of today
about your weekend with your dad,
about the wisdom he may have imparted this time,
about Anton, and if he is growing well
or is it Antoine? Or Antone?
In another time, I would be calling you now
to ask how you chose to spell it.

These things well up throughout the day
leaving more and more residuals of you
more and more ways to occupy my thoughts
with thoughts of you.

Someone mentioned the dentist and
wouldn’t you know it
you fill my sight.

It’s just that I miss you.

Remember the poem of the white bull?
“That you came to love it, that was the gift.”

I’m trying, love, to accept that.

After all, it’d just be a bad movie
if there was no crying.

Tonight the weather finally agrees that we are better in pairs,
but I walk through the cold alone
without you to hold.

Beloved, I am scared for us.

Look

I still believe pain is necessary for a complete life.
Life to the fullest, you could say.

But you could also say, then, that my life is full right now.

And it continues to overflow.

An offhand Space Jam reference.
My pajamas of old t-shirts from old conferences.
The music I listen to as I drive to the post office where
I will pick up mail.

Picking up mail reminds me of you.

Here, a running list:

Space Jam
pajamas
music
picking up mail
ant poison
buses and trains
airports and planes
the gate at the house
my special needs puppy

I could go on, I’m sure you know.
But this list continues to grow, even now.
I guess I should add making lists to the list.

I wish I could be the one to take care of you again.
Do you still think of me?
Of the nights of feigned worry over radial neuropathy?

The hardest part is knowing that the distance between reality and
our together-life
is measured in mere hours.
How can I forgive myself for the hesitancy that guided me here?
How can I expect you to forgive me?

I try to trust in the One who holds the future.
But I still create my own worlds where we are not parted.

Telling stories reminds me of God.
I think it’s one of the things we have in common:
a desire to create that which does not yet exist.

But my stories (of which there are many)
never show themselves before him
never pass from thought to truth
never experience an abrupt cut off, as you break open my door in passion
confessing that you still need me too.

The other hardest part is knowing I can’t surprise you anymore.
Can’t show up at 3 in the morning to hold you or sing you to sleep or
drink tea while you study hematology.

I’ve kept almost everything.
I still have a can of tea that you gave to me so that I wouldn’t leave thirsty.
And a spoon.
Let’s share a spoon together.
Nothing else matters to me now.