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TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
  by Leslie Meek
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Adventure Continues,
Part 3, (VII,VIII)
August 11, 1993
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       **(Editor Note: Leslie's adventures will be
         (serialized in future issues of DREAM FORGE.)


August 22, 1993

  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- Nothing can knock you off the self-pity
pot faster than a letter from a good friend.

  "If it is true that `the calm always precedes the storm,'
then the same must hold true for silver linings and clouds," writes
a special lady named Becky in response to my account of August 14.
"After all, a proverb is a proverb and we cannot or should not be
selective in our discussions of them."

  I moaned and groaned in Travels number 5 about my problems in
applying Chinese and American proverbs to my ongoing effort to
confront and deal with my emotions. Quoting the proverb above I
mentioned that if I tried to think myself better the future looked
pretty bleak. The future always appears grey from the perspective of
the pity-pot and those who choose to sit on it can always find
evidence in words of another. From where I was sitting that day the
world looked glum.

  Becky set me straight on that one. The world is always gonna be
what we perceive it to be; if I wanted a cloud with silver lining
all I had to do was stand up . . . then look up at the sky. In
seeking a solution, however, Becky drives the nail further into my
logic with yet another direct hit:

  "And though sometimes I do find myself involved with the paranoia
associated with things going a little too well in my life, or, as I
like to call it, the `waiting for the other shoe to drop' syndrome,
I try to force myself into the more realistic thinking pattern that
tells me how little meaning there is in tomorrows anyway," she wrote.

  "All we have is today, cloudless, stormy or otherwise."

  All journeys, great and small, are "one day at a time"
adventures. I spent four years of my life hoping tomorrow would be
better. If I am to recover from the aftereffects of that relationship,
I must keep what Becky has to say in mind. I can only grow one moment
at a time . . . today.

  This morning I woke up worried about what I had to have done
by this afternoon and pondering what I would tell this guy who wanted
to take me out tonight. I grabbed the express mail envelope with my
Missouri mail inside and walked to the beach in despair. I sat down,
dug my bare feet into the sand, and daydreamed about walking hand in
hand with a friend in Seattle. When a fleeting picture of a
nightmarish morning two years ago on another beach flashed into my
head, I opened the envelope to escape. Inside, with other stuff, was
Becky's letter. I read up to the "today" part.

  You know, Corpus Christi is a beautiful city. Downtown
skyscrapers literally run up to the bay. The sun warms before it
colors the gulf. Seagulls spend more time silently studying you
before they beg for food. Dolphins play in groups not far from shore
while pelicans practice "touch and goes" on the glassy water. Moist
sand feels wonderful between your toes.

  Pouting little girls look pretty small and inconsequential on
beaches of this size and splendor.

  "Your writing inspired in me a need to look beyond my simple
little world to a place far removed from where I am at the present
moment," she continued. "It makes me think, though being the
emotional invalid I am, this is not your written word's greatest
claim to fame. Thinking, as you say, is what gets me into trouble in
the first place. No. It is not my thought processes that are the most
effected, but, rather, the emotional reaction I have to the story you
tell. And though . . . I've tried to put into words just what this
reaction is, I seem to fail miserably in the discourse. For someone
like me, the inability to express myself verbally causes a certain
amount of emotional insecurity, and it is through this feeling that I
am most affected and the growth you so desperately seek is allowed
to take place."

  I laughed out loud (through my tears) at the last line. Trouble
expressing herself, I told the birds, yeah, right, sure. Becky writes
beautifully.

  "You see, the answer to your own search is right under your
nose. . . . Though filled with clouds, I tend to see sunshine
filtering through your words as you seek to find the answer to a
problem that has haunted you for years. You come to terms with the
ordeal at Hilton Head, perhaps not so much as to the whys, but,
certainly with regard to understanding how the situation came to
pass."

  Becky understands bars and couples who stay in them too long.
She goes to explain that perhaps I cannot be expected to understand
the strangers who lurk outside . . . "but you can come to terms with
the role you played and forgive yourself for being unable to predict
the outcome of your actions," she writes.

  "Que sera, sera," though not Chinese, contains a few truths in
itself. And though I am a true believer in taking responsibility
for my own destiny, I am also painfully aware that none of us can
predict the future. Not for our own lives and especially not for
anyone else's.

  "By the way, I believe there really are happy people out there,
holding hands and walking along the beach. And though their happiness
may be as fleeting as their footsteps in the sand, they are truly
blessed for the short time they were able to feel joy and love in the
presence of another human being. And if they do go home and fight,
and are forced to feel the low that comes with dying love, they can
take solace in the fact that another high, another day, and, with a
little luck, another walk on the beach is just around the corner."

  I got up and walked back toward the motel. I had a phone call to
make. And I had to finish my work so I'd be ready for my first "date"
in four years.

  Thank you, Becky. For all the things you say and do, this day is
for you!

  (Author's note: Becky Blanchard logs on to the Outland BBS, FidoNet
   1:280/68, (816) 747-9478)


The Quest Continues:
August 23, 1993


  CORPUS CHRISTI, TEXAS -- I spend lots of time in a little marina
across the highway from my beach front motel here and I've discovered
that fishermen disagree over methods, tides, times and tools. Each
has their own idea of what works best.

  The man who boasted the most about his luck used a single, red rose.

  I like to sit around the shrimp boats and listen as the fishermen
repair and hang their nets. They tell long, robust stories. They ask
very few questions. Their eyes and hands are busy with their work so
they are safe, fare for a nosy blonde with time on her hands. They
like where they are so they don't try to invade my space; I can leave
without owing.

  I found the rose Friday after I returned from the marina. It was
on the windshield of my van, along with a short little note: "I have
been watching you and wondering why you seem so thoughtful. I hope
we can get together someday and have dinner."

  It was signed, predictably, by "a secret admirer." I checked the
locks on the van and, rose and note in hand, climbed the stairs to my
room.

  The motel where I am staying is four stories high and the
stairwell is on the outside. It's one of those zigzag, fire-escape
designs that force you to announce your presence to the world. Every
guest can hear your progress, secretly making bets with themselves on
whether the footsteps will stop at their floor or continue to the
next one. You do things like that when you're cooped up in a motel
room.

  I did not speculate on which floor housed the man who left the
flower but I was positive that he was also a guest at the motel. The
intention of the gift was also obvious and there was no mystery
surrounding even the man who left it. Although he was both nameless
and faceless to me, I had met him many times before.

  As far as I was concerned, he would have to pin all his hopes
on that old adage about there being lots of other fish in the sea.
This stuff was not going to work on me. Although new to being single,
I am an expert on gifts given by those who expect something in return.
This was just the first installment in the obligation game and I
decided right then that I wasn't playing.

  Once I got into my room I startled myself by noticing that the
rose was not the kind they sell in all night convenience stores. Up
to then, all the flowers given me were bought after the bars closed.

  Interesting.

  I flopped down on the bed and resolved not to make any changes
in my daily routine. Even on the road, I keep weird hours. I work
throughout the night pounding on my computer. Long distance rates are
cheaper after eleven p.m. so I can log on to a Bulletin Board Service
without pledging my first born son to Ma' Bell. My best writing flows
out in the hours just before sunrise.

  I wasn't going to let this guy change any of that. I couldn't sit
around worrying about the inevitable phone call. When he called, I
would tell him in no uncertain terms to get lost. As it turned out,
I worked through the night without incident. The phone never rang.

  Strange.

  When the sun rises, I begin my walk. I use this time to slay
the dragons I have conjured up during the night and set my margins
for the reality of life. I've learned only recently that the
sentences cannot be longer than one day. It is my time to spend with
me -- a way of fading from isolation to being alone among birds, trees
and strangers.

  I tapped down the stairs as quietly as possible, glancing
subconsciously from side to side for the stalker. It figured he would
be somewhere watching. It would be some time before he would give up
his one-way window and let me see him.

  I walked the hundred feet or so to the beach, removing my shoes
as I went. I headed North on the sand toward the skyline of downtown.
It wasn't a destination -- just a compass point. I noticed with
satisfaction that, besides a speck that represented a sole human some
thousand yards away, I had the beach to myself.

  The ocean has a way of giving you a perspective on your own
importance. If you do much beach walking, as I do, you learn that you
are just about as important to the universe as one grain of the sand
beneath your feet. I wandered with my memories.

  My ex-lover and I were just friends -- very good friends -- when
we walked this beach together years ago. It was to be another two
months before we shared the same bed. That would happen on yet
another island and set in motion the roller coaster ride that, for
me, was an "E" ticket to hell.

  But the memories of what we shared on this beach were beautiful
and I got lost in them as the spec got larger.

  Before I knew it, I was on top of him. He sat with his legs
crisscrossed, staring at me. I wasn't close enough to see the color,
but his eyes were large and expressive. He was a good looking guy
about thirty-two or -three, broad shoulders and large hands. He had
dark hair neatly groomed but still blowing in the wind. He sat with
his back erect, silent.

  I immediately veered off toward the water and began my U-turn to
head back to the motel. It was best to ignore him. I had to.

  In front of him, stuck in the sand, was a single, red rose.

                               {DREAM}

  (Get the next issue of DREAM FORGE to follow the continuing saga.)

Copyright 1995 Leslie Meek, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Leslie has been searching and in her travels relates to us what she
has found so far. Warrensburg, Missouri is where the travels have
begun and there is no telling where her search will end -- if ever.
Perhaps leaving was her first step to realizing -- she was *there* and
already knew. She's eager to hear from her readers and can be reached
via: U'NI-net's Writer's Conference and regularly logs onto  Crackpot
Connection (816-747-2525). She likes to chat, if you catch her online
-- tell her Rick said, "Hi!"
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