Autumnal

Something Old

(silences)


It is quiet in this place.

Voices only an echo,
the birds
suspended.

The still before the storm.

A church after prayers are said.

The space between reality
and my soul.

G.

Going Going....

I am off.

May the pictures come.

G

Speaking of...

RASA (sanskrit):
the ‘taste” or essence of any impression;
the aesthetic experience in transcendence;
the emotional fulfillment of the soul;
the essence of Divine Love.

My head is in the stars tonight. Infinite signs of affection. Infinite possibility to feel the sharp prick of loss. Is it better to feel the knife or to avoid the sweet fruit you slice? These are questions we have asked ourselves before.

Love is not new. This too we have discussed. The word too pedestrian. The sentiment used to sell makeup and airline tickets. But if this word no longer fits, what shall we call it?
I said to J. “I adore you” and his response was “... but that does not mean you love me.” And here I thought it did.....

But then again, I foggily remember telling a lover I adored him to avoid saying the L word. How petty.

I have friends who search for love. It is the slipperiest of quarries. It is the man who is smoke. The figment of your night wanderings. Dream and mist. An idealized version of yourself.
Is not the one we love based on a version of ourselves washed clean and made pretty? In my case, I hope not. But that may be the product of hitting the proverbial bottom. When I met J. I had given up finding someone who was real.

The online dating world is another albatross to meander through. Liars and poets alike. How many times did I fall in love with words only to discover that the man behind the fingers was only clever, not beautiful? Perhaps this is why I liked J. He was real. And honest. And smelled good. Or maybe it is the way he does not call me baby.

In my heart of hearts. In the heart of my dark night sky. There is only one constellation that burns a million miles away. I only have the energy for one dying set of stars. How lazy we become as we age. Lazy like an old dog unwilling to get up and chase the stick as it arcs into the blue.

This may be the reason we have not invented a new word for love. Laziness. The old word works just fine.

Now I like the complexity of words strung together. Worry beads of love. Sixty two steps to the doorway of love. Sixty two words. Sixty two sensations. One million ways to share love.

Ten thousand miles couldn't keep you
For you were more like the wind
All my life I will seek you
Deep in the core of my within

If I tried to see you now
You'd be dancing across the sky
And you'd be wearing your gypsy clothes
You'd be wearing one of your smiles

For now, love will be the simple. Deviation is not in the cards.
G.

Lament

Summer is at a close and I find myself suddenly dazed, wondering where it all went.

Walking the serpentine paths of the park down the road, I was aware of the change in the light. The smell of September is already upon us. And now, sixteen days to my birthday, we begin the steady climb to Christmas.

Soon, I will be begging for the heat of summer again.

I leave for Montreal on the 12th. A city of delights. I plan on taking a million photographs. On buying at least one amazing pair of ridiculously impractical heels. I had wanted one night in the city on my own, but as it happens I will have company. Then to Ottawa. The city at the heart of this country. I will spend an entire day wandering the halls of the National Gallery. I love this adventure. I want to resume painting every time I see the brush strokes of Tom Thompson.

I have a thing for graveyards. I have three mapped out. Some of the oldest grave sites in this country. Some of our most sacred dead.

I will be easily distracted on my birthday day. I may even forget that I am growing OLD.

I have thought a great deal about Tennessee lately. The leaves will be turning.

My mind is always drifting these days. I am a leaf it seems, flittering amongst the trees. Perhaps I am ready for fall, so I may land. These next two months are my favourite. So really, I am not bitching too loudly.

We had planned on driving to Oregon this September as a reward for surviving summer. It was meant to be romantic and quiet. A reconnection of sorts. Now with J. back at work after being off since June, we are more focused on retrenching than getting away. Oh, how being an adult is over rated. Perhaps in early October. I would love to photograph the water and dunes. If we don’t head south, there is always Grand Forks. I have such wonderful memories of my first birthday with J. when we drove to Nelson. Although, I am sure there is only so many times I can photograph the ruined green house.

The garden is on its last legs and my lack of planning means the beds are void of any real color. Last year I had the dahlias... which I miss. Where did the time go?

Soon. Soon.

There will be the red maple trees to fall in love with.


G.

Take Nothing Serious

Old Barn Doors



(I had this feeling when) He said
“take this and throw it like a stone,
further than the last”,
(trickery)
so I
would stand still long enough
for stars to dissolve the night sky.

Dreams are just forgotten
reality, (fantasy and reality
are too far apart, I lie)

when released, they stretch out
across the thousand light
arcs of heaven, and feel the latch
to the door I keep closed

(just against the cold, I lie)

(just against the loss in the dark,
I truth)

He feels the barn door in me,
the reassuring iron taste
of the old latch tempts me
with a familiar safety;
but this
silent ease with which
we unstring our remembering
is more gentle in the soft
light of the new moon.

The door is open,
letting in the ripe summer sky
and the quiet of emptiness.

American Propiganda

Well, I have had more traffic in here than when I blasted the American inaction with the Katrina victims. What does that say about us?

I pulled Christopher's name. Not because Holly emailed me twice this morning (and again from her blackberry, requesting I no longer post her responses.) No. I did this for Christopher's wife. She does not deserve any more heartache than what I have already caused her.

But I do have to ask ... and so do a few others... why on earth was Holly so interested in Christopher that she was googling him? This seems to be the million dollar question.

The purpose of the exercise is complete. Now I feel hungover and worn out. And fuck... I can hear Katydids in my head.

My god. What an amazing, powerful and omnipotent power this has over us.

G.

Beauty in the Breakdown

Oh how we, as humble human beings, love drama. It seems my post has received some attention because I posted Christopher's name. Does everyone not see this was intentional?

Holly S. wrote me to tell me the following:

G,

You dont know me but I came across your blog about an affair you had with Chris. You are very detailed in this blog and you even have his first and last name as the title. I think just out of consideration for him and his family it would be best if you remove his name from the title of your blog. I am a freind of Chris's and I know he is a good person and does not deserve to have his personal affairs exposed to all on the internet. I would sincerely appreciate you doing this just so noone one runs across this again. I understand you were just expressing yourself but I noticed you named your current boyfriend J. and did not show his full name but you did not do the same for Chris. You went as far as to his full name and where he lives ****** That is pretty obvious. Not a whole lot of Chris F's reside here in Memphis. That is exposing something very personal and hurtful. I was shocked when I came across it and I am sure his family would be too.

Thank you,
H

Knowing me as you do now, you know that I could not stay still... but had to respond. I am a woman of words.... and I think my response says it all.

I appreciate your writing me to voice your concerns. Part of why I posted his name in this way was to reach out.

I am not sure if you have experienced the kind of loss Christopher and I went through... I hope not. But there is always this lingering question... "Is he ok?" We did a horrible number on ourselves and those that we loved. I am not attempting to hurt anyone further, but instead... this was much easier than calling him at work, correct? I think if you read the post with an open mind, you might understand that this is not a post about Christopher so much as about me.

He and I both know that there is no going back. You would understand, if you have lost someone.

Nothing is accidental. I was reaching out into the dark looking for information. And look what I found. You. But it's unfortunate that you hold judgement in your heart. Act shocked all you like, it was not a secret then.... and even though we all have pushed what happened into the past, none of us has forgotten. And hurtful is not the intention.

It's the truth. And the truth can be ugly and beautiful. It's all about perspective.

Perhaps you will have the courage to tell him some crazy Canadian posted in an anonymous blog about him. If you do, congratulate him on the birth of his second child for me. And tell him I am ok with things the way they are. That there should be no shame, what does not kill us makes us deeper, richer. That being awake is wondrous. And so is moving on.

Or did you miss that part in the blog? The part where I commend him with rebuilding his marriage. His wife is an amazing and forgiving woman. Oh wait... you judged me without reading past the "affair" part. Did you read that my own marriage ended? Did you go further back in the blog to discover that J. is not just a "boyfriend" but my life partner?

I feel sadness that it's you that will be the one to deliver my message. I had hoped for someone with a deeper sense of understanding. If you aren't going to send it on, that's fine. I will wait for someone to reach out who will.

Again, thank you for the time it took to write the email. I wish instead, I could have thanked you for reading it.

And just for your information, there are many Chris' in Tennessee.


G.

Christopher - Tennessee

I woke this morning from a dream of my old lover. He pulled me in like old times, I tucked my chin into his neck like I used to. Like not a breath has pulled us apart. There was none of the sadness as we made love under the stars. I did bring J. into it though, he was a constant nagging thought "How am I going to explain this to him?"

I took him to a lake in Whistler I know, to swim. I could feel his eyes on my body, feel the cool of the water as it took me in. His lips were warm when he handed me the towel.

Dreams like this confuse me. Are they an exercise, a test?

I called Christopher's family home three months ago and spoke to his mother. I had to ask myself why I needed to call, what purpose did it serve. His mother told me he was happy and they were expecting a second child. Judge me how you will, I did everything I could to convince him not to go back to her... but now, I am amazed that they have made it work. July 22 is their 8th wedding anniversary. My own marriage lasted a year. They should be proud of the world they rebuilt, of the children they love... of the challenges they have overcome.

But then, why do I still dream of him?

There were times in my affair when I would wake knowing he was thinking of me. Or sudden understandings in line-ups or reaching for a bottle of jam in the grocery store, where his presence would hit me, I could smell the warmth of his skin. We had ourselves convinced that these moments were connected, that we were that connected.

It's a hard superstition to shake, even after six years. My god, I type that and am shocked. My entire life ended and began again. This survival of one another, of the experience... of finding myself and losing him.

What purpose does it serve to dream of him. Of the way it felt to be held by that all consuming fire of love.

Now I feel like I must say this. I love J. We have a wonderful life together. Laughter. Adventure. Solid sex and passion. Yes, we have the mediocrity of the everyday. But there is always beauty in the breakdown. Do I know J completely? No... Do I want anyone else? Sometimes I want the sex and fire of someone new. But this is a something everyone feels when committed, isn't it? Do I want to build a new relationship from the ground up? No. Fuck no.

The dream about Christopher is a reminder perhaps. Or maybe it is a product of the book rolling around in my head. Maybe it's my needing J. to love me a little more right now. Perhaps I am needy. (God forbid a woman need a man.)

Today is a beautiful day. We are heading up to the lake this afternoon to swim and laugh and love. Christopher will go back to the shadows.

Maybe, in this crazy world, these words will touch him. And if he was thinking of me this morning, laying awake watching the leaves dance on his ceiling... Christopher will know I was there too.

But life is powerful. That life goes on even through a fire like ours.

G.

First Kiss

A million years ago. Fifteen. Sun drenched, safe on the lake I grew up in. His blond hair, the setting sun... a game on two rocks in the water. Then, when courage overtook me... a kiss.











If only he had known it was such and not me trying to knock him backwards.












With the advent of underwater digital cameras, the rock in Hicks Lake.













G.

What Has Been Keeping Me Busy

Lucy. (Her recall is so great with this name, we are reluctant to change it... Lucy would not have be my first choice.) Lucy is 10 months old and has made her way to us from Regina. Her previous family could no longer take care of her ... if you know Jack Russells you know how intense they can be.

Friends of mine drove out with her on their vacation. Included in this was another Jack, Cooper. (Cooper started this entire love affair for me.) Two women. Two Jacks. One crowded van. I had many texts along the way...

When she arrived it was instant love. I saw only a few pictures of Lucy prior to adopting her, but it was the ears that did me in. It is her imperfection and one of the reasons she is considered "pet stock". And we all know how I feel about imperfections.

When she curls up beside me I am reminded of the black and orange caterpillars that turn into a ball of prickly soft color when touched. Lucy is a caramel version.

Happiness is coming home to a wagging tail.

G.

The New Trees

Have I mentioned J and his love of spending money? We are now the happy parents of not one, noooo... but TWO exquisite Japanese Maples.

But then there was the drama of securing them in the truck, in a downpour, for the long trek home. Yup. All to J's exacting standards of "I am man, this is how you tie down a load." Oh, but a domestic in the middle of town would not be so pretty.

Did I mention, I love him?

G.

Beauty in the Breakdown

Haunted Houses

We attended the Gwynne Vahn Park garden party as has been the tradition for the last few years, but this time it was a torrential downpour.

I don't mind returning there, I have good memories of the old Victorian lady... but I also see her as being a prison I lived in for five years. I did my time and I ain't goin' back. She seems less dark than when we lived there... the trees seem to hug the walls a little less closely. I would have taken a full photo of the grounds but unfortunately, there were tents set up in the front garden room...

How strange to see everything with this disconnection. With fondness. I can hear the ghosts in the magnolia trees... feel the echo of our lives around me. Somewhere under the maple tree, my amethyst ring, the cat's grave over there, this is where I told him I was going to St. Louis. This is where my son stood, naked as the day he was born, speaking to the Sunday churchgoers on their family stroll.

I am relieved to be done. How cellular it was to live in those worlds, rattling around in the one-hundred year old dust.

Now it's time for just remembering without the sticky nuisance of emotion.

Hall-e-fucking-lujah.

G.

This is...

Where the pictures I took on the way home should be.... if only I could get them off the phone.

Clouds. And the afternoon commute.

Tomorrow?

Besides, we have things to celebrate. Today is the third anniversary of meeting J.

G

Sparrow Suicides ~



Light play, the soft
brown of wings (delicate
belly) reaching
into broken sky
(wing tip to tail feather)

fall

sweep across the
(grass ditch)
country road, to
flash by my purposeful
hood (narrow
luck) and
miss

I calculate distance,
(check for survivors)
wonder if birds
are thrill seekers,
competetive (free
fall) racers
who enjoy tormenting
evening commuters.

(who can translate
the tricky body language
of birds)

I then (startled)
understand:
I have witnessed

mating.

Confession

Words do not come easily these days, yet they are the shadow that follows me. Elusive golems. I write in my head; the music bringing them, the pale green of freshly cut hay, the morning sky fighting the great guardian Mt. Cheam. There is something in the world I move through, beauty and pavement. In the eyes of those I walk past, the simple fact of knowing I am ok.

There is so much to be thankful for. This past fall had me in a dangerous place. There were nights when I could not articulate the mediocrity and loss of hope I felt in my daytime reality. The whore I was reduced to. The money I took on a check with my name in small print under the greedy fat heart of my employer. The soul eating day in and day out.

And then there was the snow. Erasing all of the brown shit that had started to pile up in my path.

Then, the ultimate revenge. Promotion.

April has seen me exhausted, but deep in the heart of hearts... bliss.

A wise woman once said that only I could change the path I had taken. I cleanly stepped off that LA sidewalk and into the arbutus lined pathways of Galiano.

Just
like
that.

But the words still taunt me. Only when I can’t pin them down with a pen, do they come. Beautiful and sad, beautiful and bliss filled. None of it seems to matter. Not the pretty paper I coax them with or this silent world of digital font.

There is such a wonderful sense of coming home to my life. Fragile as it may seem some days, we move through. I have to ask myself if the lack of words is due to the bright sunlight of happiness. Do I prefer the deep blue of midnight?

Three sky blue robins eggs nestled in the soft of cottonwood spun with the gentle fronds of grass. See it? Fragile. Life in that thin shell. Something the cat could get at; we struggle to protect its future. See the mother arcing above, calling out against our intention. We are the best we can be then. Communication. Collaboration. To save the miracle of three sky blue eggs.

The human spirit only needs hope. Hope. The almost, not quite tangible, promise. This will work. We made a difference.

I can
step off
the pavement.

The words have not left me. And I hope that they soon quit flirting and step out into this sunshine.



G

The Distraction on Monday

And Remember When...

It's been so long. So long. I had forgotten the way the words felt on my fingers. The way the voice coils inside me, slowly at first... then with a sudden holler, too loud to ignore it pushes out into this world of dark and light.

I heard strange music and it woke the part of me that wanted to sleep. And as a bear wakes from winter, I cleared the film from my eyes and stumbled here. Half instinct. Half purpose.

There are so many things that need to be said. So many mundane stories with the hidden heart. I have been a poor lover to my voice. I have been a poor friend to myself.

One step. One word. One broken light. And here we are... once again. Sharing secrets only seen out of the corner of our eye.


G.