She Can Not Live in The Grove of Ancient Cedars

Papa Bear kayaked my ass across the willapa, to the Island where whe ancient cedars grow, maybe, two summers ago. The air was hot and sweet on the island. There was no road-noise, or drunk squealing ladies, no bass tudding through the floor boards of any P.O.S. automobiles and/or houses.
Things left evidence of their presence- big, beautiful, scary things- like bears clawing the fine bark from the trunks of young cedars and pine, like big cats shedding their fur and leaving it in clumps.
Giant bull elk are so graceful despite their size, as they bend long strong necks to drink from the clean body of water. So much is left in it's right state around the protected cedars.

Lately I've been fighting with myself about the idea of relationships. It seems that in an intimate, romantic relationship, the pretense of social behavior sort of drops out, and the people involved relax and feel more like they can be themselves. At least I do.
In social situations, I just try to be polite. That's what I know how to do.
Reading queues, joining in on that 'giving you a hard time' catty banter- both fly right over my damn head.
I want to live in the special place in someone's heart, where things are untouched like on the island, by social stratus. But, I simply can not. There is no relationship worth climbing into that is not built on friendship, which is a bloody stupid social condition.
It is strange, that a person would have so much more difficulty developing social relationships than developing romantic ones, seeing as how there is always so very much more at stake in the later.

So-and-so is in town visiting, and I requested of him that I be allowed to pick his brain. (what a disgusting expression, by the way.) There is this chaotic flapping of bird wings going on inside of me, he is too good looking and talented, and experienced in some interesting things for me to not wake up in a cold sweat some mornings when I've let my brain wander- or have a fit of shaky-hands when I see him. But I assure myself, this is a social affair. His good-lookin makes things more difficult, but not impossible.
It's like a placement test, can I read the queues, be polite, and involved enough to interact with this tall, square jawed dream-boat?
So far, I have sent him text messages when I probably shouldn't- but I'm not too worried about it, they didn't say anything particularly bizarre or desperate, but that's about it. I'm keeping my mouth shut and expectations-if not low, as minimal as I possibly can. I figure, the dude is cool, I know his mother, we are bound to run into each other or meet again in the fall/winter when I wander toward the Puget Sound area, but if not, there are plenty of fishes for me to school with in that River.

P.S. The 'sort' of folks who come to this beautiful, magical, amazing wonderland of sand and pine- to litter it, to get and stay drunk all week so they can squeal, laugh, yell useless bullshit into the windows of my apartment, to blow up the sky till four in the morning- these people- SCUM OF THE EARTH. and I hope they all die in some horrific traffic accident on their way back to where they came from.
Don't mind the door hitting ya on yer way out!