empty nest

 empty nest

It takes time for wings to dry

That day that I was young—the morning summer shinning through the blinds, that one day I was young, sunshine squeezing through the cracks. 

You were so vulnerable, yet the darliest thing. I remember the sweat emerging through the sheets, yet, morning still rising, and me, so sweet.

The stone building saving the life that was yet to come, holding to the last yearnings of a soul so young.

Summers have gone by, pollen sucked within, wings which took time to dry searching for the flight.

Middays by the sea, listening for answers deep within, salty eyes, dry lips—moist skin.

Evenings falling in, stars fighting to shine, what are the colors of the clouds?

Your heart in the rosewood—I still unaware of the future pretend. Winters have gone by with you dancing in the sky, thankful that I endured at this side. 

Now that you are free let it go of me, there is no aftermath if we holt the moment. 

Dream Catcher

Two in the morning
lowlight on
I listen to Angels
dancing upon
surreal reality
waves of silver
catching your dreams
fire burning through
bloodstreams 

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

I write words
hoping to kill
time
is my enemy
daylight a sin
broad opportunities 
of reality
but all I want 
is to dream
of you.

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

Sweet moments
held within
prisoners of me
memory in my whole
waiting for you 
to champion your dreams
time will stop
but for now... is my enemy.

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon.

People are talking
people are loving
It's all a blur
all in the while
I write my memories
time is my enemy
all night long

Can't fly away...
Can't fly away...
I listen to Angels
dancing upon

Reaching your dreams
Reaching your dreams
I will be here
holding you in
and when it's all done
sweet record
hands together 
holding along
what most dream
but scared to conquer
we'll be forever
for the way was long

Sweet record
waves of silver
Angels upon us
holding all along
sweet record
Angels upon us
holding along
your hand on mine
as if never
gone.

Casa Romantica

Resting on the cliffs of San Clemente, Casa Romantica wakes up to the intoxicating shades of the Pacific Ocean. Tucked away in Southern California, this gem sits quietly guarded by the San Clemente villa and the town’s Spanish casitas. This hidden jewel, which once served as the summer home for the town’s developer is without pretension a California treasure.  

I was in San Clemente just for the weekend, but I knew as soon as I parked by the beach to watch the sunset, that the weekend wouldn’t be enough—for not many places have had the ability to shuffle my plans and intentions as San Clemente had. 

San Clemente is the last of Orange County’s Pacific coast cities. It sits to the west of California’s Interstate Highway 5, far enough to the south to be out of Los Angeles, but also not too far from its conveniences. The town is mostly known for its surfing community and for the cool, laid back lifestyle, of it’s inhabitants. 

The great weather and outdoor life, together with the diverse cuisine, charming inns and happy nightlife, gives the city just enough flavor to make it attractive, without being pretentious.

A stay in San Clemente demands a stroll through town and as I walked on Avenida Del Mar and visited a few shops, I was lucky to chat with a darling clerk at the jewelry boutique who wasn’t shy about sharing how she ended up in San Clemente. 
“I came for a visit, and decided to move here,” she told me with a sincere smile that made me feel like I, too, was 18 again. Perhaps I shall do the same, my mind contemplated. I soon found out that she was not the first one to swiftly diverge and make San Clement her home. 

Ole Hanson, a well-known politician, public speaker and developer of his time, passed by the warm and sunny Southern California site and decided to invest in it. Hanson, not only developed the land, but had a grand master plan. Ole’s vision was to keep the natural topography of the land while incorporating the charming Spanish style from the neighboring south in his dreams for his newfound land. Hanson was able to create a perfect piece or art, and after three years of ongoing development Ole’s canvas was inaugurated and on February 27, 1928 San Clemente became a town.

Casa Romantica was Ole Hanson’s San Clemente home. He shared it with his wife, children and friends. The Casa was designed by Carl Lindblom and together, him and Ole created a stunning villa by the sea. Ole, friends and family enjoyed the incredible site for a few years but with The Great Depression, Ole Hanson lost his dream home and the magnificent view, but his vision remained carved on the hills above the Pacific. His casa passed through a few hands before becoming San Clemente’s Cultural Center and gardens, offering the town, its community, and visitors an unforgettable experience. 

Walking through the keyhole shaped entry door of Casa Romantica, the first thing to call my attention was the vibrant tile work covering the floor under the arched walkways. The colorful, intricate tile, contrasted with the white walls of the “casa” making for a statement of life and passion. The outdoor fireplace room attached to the home, made me wish it was cold and that a warm, glowing fire was burning, but my thoughts were discreet and I kept on walking. The atrium, at the center of the casa, although very Romanesque, did not clash with the surrounding rooms; it supported them giving the casa a charming, subtle grandeur. The arched doors, leading to the view of the Pacific, played peekaboo with me—they teased me enough that I finally rushed past them to the veranda and almost fell to my knees. The view! The view took my breath away.

I drifted across the veranda and marveled at the view of sparkling ocean. The magenta bougainvillea, supporting and surrounding the property’s edge, complimented the shades of blue. It was surreal. From there I could see San Clemente’s pier.
I surrendered to a perfectly placed bench, and sat lost in the beauty of the present and flashes of the past. I imagined Ole, his family and friends enjoying the view and I was jealous but for a moment—because now I was the one lucky enough to take in the peace and beauty that surrounded me. 

I was finally pulled back by the heat of the midday sun. 

Reluctantly,I rose and made my way out of the casa marveling its well-cared gardens and paths. And, as I left Ole’s dream behind me and walked to the pier, I promised myself to return. 

It has been quite some time now, and the casa, still there facing the Pacific, waiting for me. 

  

I will always love you

I will always love you

No matter how close or how far

I will always love you

Rain or shine

I will always love you

Kind or wild

I still gonna love you

Dark or bright

Still in my heart

And then

When you think I may be gone

I’ll be still beside you

The Thief of Secrets Chapter 23

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Meeting My Assassin, 1991

I went back to Mary’s apartment and knocked on the door—the same door she had opened the night before, when I arrived with Roland.

“Oh honey, there you are,” Mary said when she opened the door. “I thought you were not coming back.”

“I told you she would,” Roland said walking behind her, looking into my eyes with a cold look on his face.

Mary led me to the living room and I apologized for abruptly leaving the house before they came back from lunch. I tried my best to compose myself and not let her know the fury which I felt inside me. “I did not want to overstay my welcome,” I lied to her.

“Oh, honey, just as I said before, Land’s friends are my friends. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to embarrass him in front of you,” she said, while she searched through some photo albums, which sat on the coffee table. “Wait until you see pictures of him when he was a little boy,” she said pleased that I was back.

“Honey,” she said, “Land told me that you are a collector?” She asked me with sweet questioning eyes.

I knew I was in trouble then.

“What is it that you collect?”

“She collects maps. Maps and coins,” Roland said hastily, forcing me to agree with him.

“Yes,” I told her looking at him, and I swallowed the knot in my throat that was making me sick. For now, I was playing his game.

It was not ok what he was doing to me. It was not ok what he was doing to the lady who absolutely thought the world of him.

“I am here because there is going to be an auction at the Ritz,” I said and I looked at him in defiance, showing him that I could play his game.

“Oh . . . the Ritz again, we don’t like it there do we Land?”

Mary walked into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room with the stranger who was playing a dangerous game with me. It was a dangerous game for him to be playing, for I had nothing to lose anymore. The only one who could get hurt was he. There were absolutely no more places for scars in me.

Mary came back to the room carrying a tray with the chocolate mousse from the night before. This reminded me that I had not seen Roland since dinner, when he answered the call and told us that he was going to step out for a few minutes—but did not come back for hours. I had hoped not to see him again.

I was feeling ashamed playing his game. Inside me, there was a fury waiting to explode. I was just trying not to do it in front of Mary. After all, she seemed like a kind lady, but did she really know her Land?

Roland ate his mousse while Mary insisted on showing me some old family pictures. She kept the albums like treasures, for they held the accounts of her Land’s life.

I vaguely remember the pictures, but there were pictures of Land steering grandpa’s boat; Land riding his bike; Land in his school play; Land blowing out ten candles; Land, Mary, Grandpa and Douglas.

Douglas?

I turned the page of the old yellowed album back and tried to focus on the picture where Roland was standing next to him. I could not believe my eyes. My heart sank, and together all my dreams sank with it. Who was Roland? Why was he in a picture with Douglas?

It could not be. I looked at Roland and tears filled my eyes. He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out the door, giving Mary some excuse, which I could not comprehend; my brain had detached from my heart and all reason had vanished.

He pushed me inside the elevator, which felt claustrophobic, and he closed the iron door behind us. The sound of the old metal door being slammed was terrifying. As I watched the floors through the elaborate iron door as we descended in the old building, I felt as if I was going to throw up. I was light headed and my knees were going to give up on me. My heart started to race as he tightened his grip. It was the same feeling from the day before, while flying from Morocco next to him.

I obeyed him and followed him out of the elevator and out through the huge iron doors which guarded his home. I tried to take a breath, but instead I choked on my tears as he pushed me against the building’s wall where he held my other hand and pressed his body against mine. Now, he had both my hands and his face was inches from mine. I finally gave in. My knees gave in, and he pressed his body harder into mine so I would not fall to the hard ground. He let go of one of my hands and touched the back of my head. As he did so, my chin fell on his chest and I felt beaten. I did not know what to do.

Not Like Art

He is famous 
He is rich 
and he doesn't give a shit about you or me. 

I’m never gonna forget the day I met him.
How could I forget a man whose passion drove me insane?
A man whose self-absorption took me out of my comfort zone to an unfathomable world of solitude?
The day we met was gleeful but breezy
with waves and turns that only now as I sit by my “own” desk
I comprehend.
He stumbled upon my way by mere coincidence
or so I like to believe.
From behind the reading glasses
his eyes were grey
and without announcing he decided that he wanted my story.
He reeled me in with the strength of an old man at his sea, and the stories that came after became his most prized possessions.
He drove me to his home where I would become his mate.
As he opened the opulent gate guarding his territory I thought I had entered Shangri-La.
The greenery surrounding it, protecting him from curious eyes was lush—it gave him
The aristocrat
Lord of his own kingdom
an air that exhaled from his skin.
We walked together through his gardens 
down the path to his writing cottage.
He told me that he loved the place and that he hated when he had to leave it
We walked on.
“He is well travelled,” I was told.
Yes he is well travelled and proud of the poor painter’s art that gives life to his lifeless walls.
He told me that the woodcarving sitting on the corner of the living room was from Africa
the colorful acrylic canvas where kids were flying kites was from Brazil
the Herman Miller chair next to his writing desk was good for his back.
He showed me around and offered me tea, very English, though he was born far from there.
He told me that the bread was fresh and that he had baked it himself.
Perhaps he was trying to sound normal.
As I walked on the beautiful polished wood floors, I admired his lean body and his dark hair.
Not bad for his forties but too untouchable and intellectual, I thought.
As he showed me his bedroom, where he sleeps and dream—I captured a glimpse of him.
The bed was heavy, made of hardwood with intricate carvings, embellishing it—it told me that he just lays there, staring at the ceiling or at the green view beyond his bubble glass window.
There was no sex in that room
there was no passion.
And I wished I could lay in the hot tub; soak myself on the warm water and watch him create his next masterpiece.
But he took me away as if afraid of the evident contradiction of sex and no sex.
The brisk walking out of his bedroom clashed with his earlier posture 
it let me in in his secret.
He was afraid of me.
I followed him to his desk where I saw his true love
the one that takes him away from you and me
the one that lets him dream.
It lays on its surface, untouched, waiting for his long fingers and the ink of his writing tool to caress another story, another glory.
He treated me like a house guest, not a mate or a friend and I saw him through.
I understood why he took me to his room.
he wanted me to dream.
Dream about him lying there, solitary, closed and distant
That's how he is.
Tirelessly he took bits of me and with it he took my years and my freedom.
He took my dreams and turned them into his.
He wrote stories while I wove them to him
then he would bake the bread and brew the black bitter tea, while, all the while, all I wanted was to soak in the tub, and wash what was left of my dreams.
There were the questions
and I gave him the answers
then, he would go back to his love of making people dream and distort my answers to his questions.
And I?
I saw him through.
The everyday teatime became scalding, with the warm bread melting the butter—suffocating.
Unconcerned he continued writing my stories while I became a lifeless carving sitting in the corner of his room.
Not like art; bringing life to his walls,
but a chronic, tied-down anchor, afraid to stop the dream and flee
afraid that there would not be another story
for you or me.