I can't erase the image of your fingers, wedding band catching the light, flat against the floor as you rise. Your wife below. And then as quickly as I caught the secret shadow of your lust, it is gone.
And you return to being just a man in a room full of men, teaching us the power of violence.
G.
January 30, 2010
January 03, 2010
Confession
Infidelity.
Define that in the world we live in. It seems like a simple enough task. ``To be unfaithful.`` Yes. It would appear so.
But now apply that to a relationship where the normal bounds are not easily defined to square edges. Where coloring outside the lines is seen as liberation from the normal day to day ideas of what is this and what is that.
Now infidelity is not so neat and tidy.
Love is an absolute. I can not like you. I can decide that your behaviour is bad. That there must be consequences... but I never stop loving. In that is the most painful reality. To be hurt by the one you love the most. Can it be forgiven... this is now the definition we need to write.
I have never faced this set of questions, this particular coloring book. Instead I have been lost in the dizzying array of colors, the scent of the crayons, and the rainbow of possibility. I have pushed for J to be as free, to be as creative, and somehow we forgot that even this liberty has boundaries.
We will be fine. More than fine.
But the question still lingers... what is infidelity in an open relationship. A debate that we will muddle through over the next coming days.
But my heart is bruised. I was angry. I was sad. I assisted in creating this mess. I gave permission to the one I love to wave that knife around and stab it into me. Oh the drama. (I actually laughed typing that.) Honestly, I am hurt. More by the recklessness with which my love lost sight of what was important.
Damn little head.
And so we move forward. There has to be forgiveness regardless of the questions. It is what we do when we color outside the lines.
G.
Define that in the world we live in. It seems like a simple enough task. ``To be unfaithful.`` Yes. It would appear so.
But now apply that to a relationship where the normal bounds are not easily defined to square edges. Where coloring outside the lines is seen as liberation from the normal day to day ideas of what is this and what is that.
Now infidelity is not so neat and tidy.
Love is an absolute. I can not like you. I can decide that your behaviour is bad. That there must be consequences... but I never stop loving. In that is the most painful reality. To be hurt by the one you love the most. Can it be forgiven... this is now the definition we need to write.
I have never faced this set of questions, this particular coloring book. Instead I have been lost in the dizzying array of colors, the scent of the crayons, and the rainbow of possibility. I have pushed for J to be as free, to be as creative, and somehow we forgot that even this liberty has boundaries.
We will be fine. More than fine.
But the question still lingers... what is infidelity in an open relationship. A debate that we will muddle through over the next coming days.
But my heart is bruised. I was angry. I was sad. I assisted in creating this mess. I gave permission to the one I love to wave that knife around and stab it into me. Oh the drama. (I actually laughed typing that.) Honestly, I am hurt. More by the recklessness with which my love lost sight of what was important.
Damn little head.
And so we move forward. There has to be forgiveness regardless of the questions. It is what we do when we color outside the lines.
G.
December 28, 2009
From The Shadows...
There have been nights of no sleep. Of wind on the roof and a dog pacing our bed. There have been days of droopy eyes and the lament of coffee long gone. There has been some laughter. Mostly, there has been this numb creeping of indifference.
My mother has been diagnosed with stage three cancer. I made the mistake of researching it online. I refuse to believe that she is going to be a statistic. There is no room for failure.
I flew to Ottawa at the end of November to settle her in for her first treatment, Christmas shopping, decorating, forced rally and tears. I returned to my own house, my own demands, exhausted. Someone said that Christmas was a whore who comes in all her finery but we don't see her slip out the back door... and I feel the coldness of her exit. This is usually my favorite time of year. I love the family of it, games and port by the tree. I love the careful preparation of dinner and wrapping... the meal planning and the execution of surprise. But all of this was swallowed by the creeping numbness and now it's after Christmas and I don't want to let go.
This too shall pass.
G.
My mother has been diagnosed with stage three cancer. I made the mistake of researching it online. I refuse to believe that she is going to be a statistic. There is no room for failure.
I flew to Ottawa at the end of November to settle her in for her first treatment, Christmas shopping, decorating, forced rally and tears. I returned to my own house, my own demands, exhausted. Someone said that Christmas was a whore who comes in all her finery but we don't see her slip out the back door... and I feel the coldness of her exit. This is usually my favorite time of year. I love the family of it, games and port by the tree. I love the careful preparation of dinner and wrapping... the meal planning and the execution of surprise. But all of this was swallowed by the creeping numbness and now it's after Christmas and I don't want to let go.
This too shall pass.
G.
August 27, 2009
When I Can't Sleep
The wind chimes are singing their off kilter song. The coyotes are loud and sound like they are laughing.
I lost two hours and thirty minutes of my life. Erased. A black hole where there was no comprehension of my existence. I have a hard time thinking that there was nothing in my mind, only that cold, quiet darkness. Was there at least one dream?
Leading to the surgery I dreamt in vivid color, exact detail. I was stood up by a ten year old boy in a parking lot, his hands holding a red Swiss Army knife. I can see the locks on the door as the police officer secured him. I purchased baby clothes for a friend, not knowing the sex of the child. Soft green and yellow.
Was this close to cramming for an exam?
I have had a troublesome few weeks. Maybe this not sleeping is a culmination of all these things rattling around in my sleep deprived mind.
A dear friend left his wife recently. A story I may tell more of later. But my own understanding of sacrifice, of destiny, of loss and longing have all been shaken.
And then there is the pain. I wish that old woman would quit gnawing on my body like a chicken bone. Let me free already. Push away and let the wind chimes sing me to sleep.
And I miss you. I miss you. Fragile as I am, it's hard to not. Everything feels more empty. Silent. Or is that the witching hour talking?
Send me peace. Make the laughing dogs rest.
G.
I lost two hours and thirty minutes of my life. Erased. A black hole where there was no comprehension of my existence. I have a hard time thinking that there was nothing in my mind, only that cold, quiet darkness. Was there at least one dream?
Leading to the surgery I dreamt in vivid color, exact detail. I was stood up by a ten year old boy in a parking lot, his hands holding a red Swiss Army knife. I can see the locks on the door as the police officer secured him. I purchased baby clothes for a friend, not knowing the sex of the child. Soft green and yellow.
Was this close to cramming for an exam?
I have had a troublesome few weeks. Maybe this not sleeping is a culmination of all these things rattling around in my sleep deprived mind.
A dear friend left his wife recently. A story I may tell more of later. But my own understanding of sacrifice, of destiny, of loss and longing have all been shaken.
And then there is the pain. I wish that old woman would quit gnawing on my body like a chicken bone. Let me free already. Push away and let the wind chimes sing me to sleep.
And I miss you. I miss you. Fragile as I am, it's hard to not. Everything feels more empty. Silent. Or is that the witching hour talking?
Send me peace. Make the laughing dogs rest.
G.
July 29, 2009
And here we are...
The heat has pulled me from my slumber. Hardly sweet... my heels have been sticking to the pavement as I move from one air conditioned bliss to another.
I am tempted my my neighbour's pool. They even have the honeysuckle that goes with it.
Sitting here, in the mid dark while sipping a glass that is mostly ice, I am reminded of how dreams cannot be merely pushed away as a used toy. How pervasive they are, whispering to us constantly their lover's lament of being forgotten.
I have such a dream.
The universe sends us signs, a good friend told me. There are guides along the way. If we turn our eyes from them, they too will eventually fade into the background. We see the signs, the path is well lit for us and yet we would rather choose the darkest corridors. The harder path. The one that contravenes our souls song.
It is so easy to muffle that sound. To turn away, resisting the climb.
Life is beautiful. Distracting. These last few weeks have been about the sensation and less about the mechanics of paying attention to the reality. This heat, the gentle desire of my mind, fingers, mouth and teeth. These desires haunt me. Now, is the loudest voice. The greatest music. The dream is lost in the heat of a summer night. (Notice how it sinks into your skin? Can you feel that pressure to lay down and just ... give in?)
But fall will come. She will come and shake the flowers from our hair. And then, and only then it seems... we will focus on the music of our soul.
First, we must dance with the seductress, desire. All 39 degrees of her.
G.
I am tempted my my neighbour's pool. They even have the honeysuckle that goes with it.
Sitting here, in the mid dark while sipping a glass that is mostly ice, I am reminded of how dreams cannot be merely pushed away as a used toy. How pervasive they are, whispering to us constantly their lover's lament of being forgotten.
I have such a dream.
The universe sends us signs, a good friend told me. There are guides along the way. If we turn our eyes from them, they too will eventually fade into the background. We see the signs, the path is well lit for us and yet we would rather choose the darkest corridors. The harder path. The one that contravenes our souls song.
It is so easy to muffle that sound. To turn away, resisting the climb.
Life is beautiful. Distracting. These last few weeks have been about the sensation and less about the mechanics of paying attention to the reality. This heat, the gentle desire of my mind, fingers, mouth and teeth. These desires haunt me. Now, is the loudest voice. The greatest music. The dream is lost in the heat of a summer night. (Notice how it sinks into your skin? Can you feel that pressure to lay down and just ... give in?)
But fall will come. She will come and shake the flowers from our hair. And then, and only then it seems... we will focus on the music of our soul.
First, we must dance with the seductress, desire. All 39 degrees of her.
G.
November 10, 2008
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.
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.
September 12, 2008
September 06, 2008
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.
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.
September 02, 2008
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.
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.
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