






          **(Editor Note: Leslie's adventures will be
            (serialized in future issues of DREAM FORGE.)**











 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 TRAVELS WITH LESLIE
   by Leslie Meek
   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 The Adventure Continues,
 Part 3, (VII,VIII)
 August 11, 1993
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-



 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.
 ---------------------------------------------------------------------
 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!"
 =====================================================================

