Sometimes I get an idea, a feeling, a thought. Something strong and beautiful, complete. I have the urge to write it down.

For whatever reason, I don't.

I try to talk about it, to no avail. The words I am thinking are spoken, but what I hear sounds entirely different from the voice in my head.

When this sensation really gets to me, I write, and I feel better.

I read this somewhere else once, but it's perfect:

There are some people who take the heart out of you, and there are some people who put it back in.

My heart feels full and well cared for, sitting just inside right in its little place of honor, looking out, shining out at the big, good world.

I am writing a story:

I lived in New York once.

Looking back upon those years, I think what bothers me most is my inability to decide whether the attribute that defined them was intended to be a blessing or a curse. It may have been the greatest and most generous gift ever bestowed upon my meek shoulders, or conversely, the most maliciously and spitefully cast burden they have ever had to bear. And now, a decade later, I remain at a complete loss when it comes to determining which.

Remembering the woman to whom the origins of that blessing/curse can be traced fails to eradicate any of the unsettling ambiguity of its nature. I wish, now, that I could recall the conversation I'd written off as meaninglesss banter at the bar- where had she said she came from? North or south, and when she had said it, had she meant to reference the plane I'd so innocently assumed, the plane upon which we'd happened to meet? Or somewhere...else, transcendent, beyond, unknown?

I wish I could remember the color of her eyes, the inches of her height, the shape of her breasts- anything, anything at all, besides a disturbingly- but beautiful nonetheless; in fact if anything, only the more attractive for its strangeness...the word enchanting comes to mind, and in retrospect, I wonder how literally it might be applied- disarming smile, and her voice. There aren't particular words I recall, but just this certain lilting quality- like an ocean, carrying you far, far away, a lullaby sweetly sung under her breath...or was it a hex, hypnotically hummed? And how, how is it possible, that I, the recipient of the resultant beauty/beast, am unable to name its nature? What I can say is that the moment that peculiar melody entered my ears, and thus, its effect entered my life, I became a man defined by sensations the existence of which I had never, ever even begun to contemplate.

If I had registered a feeling of compassion or malice in that moment, although I would not have understood it, I would have eventually known what I needed to- that is, the nature of Her and the nature of what she'd instilled in me- but I felt neither. Instead, I was overcome only by an intense sense of relief. At the song's completion, she ran awkwardly/gracefully all at once, out the little door of my apartment, her purple designer purse flapping behind her elbow as if it bore some treasure- some identification, perhaps?- that, burdensome as it might be, simply could not be left behind. And that, a hand clinging to a flailing purple purse flying out my door, three and a half hours after I had first laid eyes upon the woman to whose arm it belonged, was the last I ever saw of her. As you might imagine, I thought it strange that such a moment would inspire relief. As the hand, the purse- as She- disappeared further and further into the night, or at least, out of my life, the relief faded too, pushed out by more appropriate and familiar seeming feelings- confusion, shock, even anger.

What I wonder, looking back upon that night in light of what I know about it now, is who that relief belonged to. Or perhaps a better way to pose the question: within whom had it originated? For that is what I would learn, how I had changed that night, the skill I had picked up that would shape me, make me, become me. From the moment I had heard Her song, the origin of an emotion ceased to define the limits of its affect. That is to say, whether the feeling began as mine, Hers, his, hers, yours- if it existed in my immediate vicinity, it was mine too.

Of course I didn't understand this immediately. I went to sleep that night confused and mildly bewildered, but prepared to move on and meet one more day in life as I knew it, come the sound of my alarm. For at least a little while, it seemed that this fate, mundane as it might seem, was in fact the one reserved for me, and I was okay with that, even pleased by it at times. I don't recall anything strange about that night or the next morning- some dreams, I guess, though nothing extraordinary, whole wheat toast, perhaps slightly burnt- but I liked it that way- apricot jam, a glass of milk to wash down a multivitamin, shirt, pants, tie, comb through the hair, shoes and jacket on, bag grabbed off the chair by the door and on my way.

The sidewalk was relatively empty, and as it turns out, most people on the sidewalk in Brooklyn at 7:15 in the morning feel something simliar- hurry, here we go anxious, brr-chilly!, let's go, let's go!- and because I didn't yet realize what had happened, and therefore wasn't yet attuned to the subtleties that had begun flowing into the amalgamated river of emotions that constantly coursed through me, I didn't notice anything- until I got into the subway station.

Calamitas Desitus

I remember the thought first occurring to me: "Good god, I am like a tornado!" and I remember, more acutely, the eerie sensation of realizing just how apt the analogy truly was.

For as long as I can remember, and before that for as long as anyone who can tell me about me can remember, I have had a way- a sort of spectacular way- of rolling through the world as this massive swirl of energy and sweeping up people who just can't resist being drawn up close, or worse, sometimes sweeping up those who, by force of random luck (the irony of random forces! do such things really exist?!?!), just happen to be in my path. I do not believe in self-deprecation for the sake of itself, so allow me to say: I think there are some fantastic things about tornados; in fact, namely just that- that they are fantastic. They are strong and spectacular, unstoppable energetic forces. When a tornado decides it is going somewhere, it goes, damn it. And then, of course, there is the amazing phenomenon of centripetal force. It is quite literally, irresistible. And as anyone who has a penchant for tornado-ness will tell you- if he or she is honest- when you are at your full strength, roaring along, and just radiating energy, you do in fact acquire this certain irresistibility and it feels, quite frankly, intoxicating. And amazing.

But then, a tornado is a tornado. And there are reasons that people everywhere have systems to alert one another when one is coming through, that people turn and run and tuck themselves safely away upon a mere warning of one's approach. When all is said and done, the tradeoff for a few moments of intoxicating energy is a lot of loneliness and shame- such is the life of a tornado.

I imagine it is not difficult to see why acknowledging the appositeness of such an analogy to one's self might be somewhat startling. Startling, but true, and calamitas prone though I may be- or might have been-, I am- and always have been- essentially incapable of dishonesty.

Which is why, last night, when I got over the shock of the realization that I had grown up and changed, that somehow, someway, I was a tornado no longer, although there was the faintest pang of something that can only be called nostalgia, I felt decidedly...good.

Bella was never meant to modify calamitas, although I admit there was probably a time when I was unsure. I tend to think that when you are young and you exist as a spinning mass of pure energy, when you are unstoppable and you are as yet unaware of the consequences of your own force, such a mistake is easily made.

It is nice- really, deeply nice- to have realized the error, and to be freeing myself from it. I am calamitas desitus, becoming bella in a life defined fortiter in re, suaviter in modo.

And what is perhaps strangest of all, and almost certainly most wonderful, I am finally, finally, FINALLY learning to be comfortable without all of the spinning.

Could I have been?