Good friends and finding something new

Well, it seems I have completely screwed up the only thing incredible to have ever come into my life. As some know, I have been waging an on again, off again war(mainly due to me) with the one that I finally decided to give my heart and soul too. It seems the war is over and neither of us is the victor. I'm usually the one that can say good riddance, and walk away without a problem, but I don't see that happening this time. I do know, though it's sad to say, that I tend to keep my heart to myself for a very long time. I just don't see that it's worth giving it away. It will always come back to you anyway, either damaged or broken, and life is just too short to have to feel that much pain.

So my plan is to get back into the hobbies that I have(Funny how once you meet someone those things just kind of fall to the side) and spend time with friends. Going to the nationals this weekend with the birdman and a few others. Gonna get back onto a workout regimen, start playing basketball, finish up all of my flying and the two things that i'm most looking forward too. Starting to play my guitar again, Yes, i do play guitar, and Yes, i suck. Doesn't matter, it's a freakin Les paul, it'll make me sound at least OK. The second thing i really look forward too is finishing my Bug. I bought my dream car, a 1963 convertible beetle, about a year ago and have been slowly tearing it down to it's bear bones so i can build it back again. Still deciding on whether i should go full resto or a mild custom resto. Not sure yet, but i'll keep you all posted and get some pics up pretty soon.

I want to end this post with my one of my favorite poems from my favorite poet, Rod McKuen. I hope all you aviators like it. It fits with the theme for today.

I stood watching
as you crossed the street
for the last time.
Trying hard to memorize you.
Knowing it would be important.
The way you walked,
the way you looked back over your shoulder at me.

Years later
I would hear the singing of the wind
and the day's singing would come back.
That time of going would return to me
every sun-gray day.
April or August it would be the same
for years to come.

Man has not made the kind of bromide
that would let me sleep without your memory
or written erotically enough
to erase the excitement of just your hands.

These long years later it is worse
for I remember what it was
as well as what it might have been.