Something Blue

For J.

You are there, (I can't see you
but know you are close
your laughter rings in my ears)
watching out for me.

Why is it
when I want you
you are never

right

here.

All the pretty ones
like you (and what you hide
in your swagger)
and I fight through
the waves to touch
that face that has said
(a hundred
thousand times)
my name.

I am yours.

Yet, let you drift out again
on the sea of flesh
knowing this thread is spun
with hours of confession
and stories of
every day moments.

I want you

right

here.

Kiss this frown
between my brows
and tell me
we have all of it
(tomorrow)

and that you are
not only mine, but
a prince
of whores.

Confession

It is my birthday.

I am one year older. Crushingly. Funny how a number can do that. Make you wonder if really you are beautiful, vital, a part of this world. It is only a number, really. I know this in logical terms. I am what I will myself to be. And so it seems dangerous to feel older, to give in to the temptation.

I have noticed though, that people (men) seem to have a vision of what 39 looks like. The "ridden hard and put away wet" type. In our lifestyle it seems more so. Or is it just me? Seeing the world in the way I want to see it.

Again with the fucking box of my own creation.

I don't feel 39. And yet I am thankful for my perspective. I know myself. I know the wants and ways of my body. I have a voice and I know how to use it. I have followed a few unusual paths and come out with only small scrapes. The deeper cuts give me more character.

So really... it's not so bad.

Well. There was the being stood up on Friday. Oh yes, there was that. But that was not my fault, now was it?

So. Happy Birthday to me. You are someone I want to know.

G.

Something Blue

For C.F.

Ten Years

I turn
seeing (or thinking
I have) too late.

Gone (was it only
a hitch in my breath?)

Your flesh turned to
leaves (something
adrift on the light)

words a clothesline
strung tight between
two trees (shifting
lightly)

figments of what
I(mis)understood it to be

each time
I turn
a new
(found),
impression
of not
(knowing)
now.

G.

Something Blue

And so we set sail.

B.

From across this little space

I feel the sparrow lifting

upward (small and
light

she arcs

silver brown against
flesh)

A slow dance in indigo,

taken under the last fading summer

sky.

Later I seek

the promise of kisses,

in my own (lonely)

dance, it is your name

I trill.

Confession

There is something I have learned over the last year.

I am good at sharing but not my self. No, that is not a typo.

J and I have agreed to open up again and invite others into our world. Before you judge, you should know it's a sign that we trust one another. That love is not possessive. Instead love is patient and ready to move outside the simple definitions you scribble out in the bright light of scrutiny.

Call it an itch. Call it whatever the fuck you want. What matters is how we communicate what we want to one another and the honesty that it takes to stand up and say, "Please, this would make me happy."

I have learned a thing or two, yes. Not about us, but about me. This small box cannot hold me anymore. I want something more and I feel like the time is right to spread my wings and take flight into that deep azure of summer twilight. I am sick of being told it's impossible, that I am too old, that I am too young, that I am too too too.

There are some things I am better at then others. Some things I enjoy more than other things. Like the thrill of being new. Or tasting the forbidden for the first time. Feeling the fleeting thrill of adventure.

Perhaps I will bash around like a junkie after her fix, but who gives a damn. I am escaping the box. I am reaching out and I can feel the wind in my feathers, something far off is calling my limbs to unfurl and get on with it.

I am ready to live.

Come here, I want to touch you.

G.

September, Blackberries, and Tall Grass

So here we are once again. Like years before, I fought the coming of fall. I resisted the dying of the summer flowers and looking at leaves changing on the hills as I drive in to work. Oh, and the rain, I kept out one pair of sandals...



Another birthday has gone by. I am just that much older. Am I wiser though? I hardly feel like it. I wish I could say I was a great beauty, that with age comes more refinement and grace. Yes, grace would mean that I would not fall down the last two stairs on New Years in my three hundred dollar shoes. Oh and that I would not accidentally pour tea into my purse and kill a cell phone and a hands free device. Oh dear lord, I am so without grace. (Maybe next year?) But since I am not a great beauty, graceful or wise I have to revel in the things I am.



1. I am generous and have great empathy... unless you have cut me off in traffic when you are in a hurry to get to a meeting that you COULD have gotten up ten minutes early for but instead chose to take my spot in the line.

2. I have wonderful friends. At a recent dinner party I observed the wide range of women I have collected over the years, wise and funny all of them. Thank god... this means there is someone to show me the way.

3. I keep a clean house. Thank you mom for showing me that cleanliness is godliness. I don't think she taught me to have an OCD moment though when the leaves are tracked in on the floor. This might be part of not having any grace.

4. I have a great eye for shoes. No need to say more. This is a skill that all women either envy or develop.

5. I am clever. There is something to be said for clever, never underestimate it. I would rather be clever than beautiful. (Both would be better...) Clever means I can make my own luck.

6. Cooking to me is an art. And I am damn good at it. I love to feed my family and friends, to break bread is a communion of sorts.

7. I still think that sex is fun. And I am a fantastic kisser. And I am not one of those people who just says that. (I taught J. everything he knows.)

8. After 30+ years, life still fascinates me. I am infinitely curious.

9. My life partner loves me. No one in my family is a criminal. (This generation at least.) No one is in pain or lost or angry. Family is love.

10. The world is a breathtaking, vivid and utterly beautiful place and I live here. (Not really about me... but this is my birthday rant, so forgive me.)



Recently I have reconnected with a friend from high school. (Thank you Facebook?) We had been room mates in college, best friends and inseparable. But then something happened, many things happened and we drifted into our own lives. I saw her ten years ago and sent a wedding invitation which went unanswered. And here we are, years after that. She has become more beautiful with age and seemingly lost sight of who she was over the years. There are no photos of her in a white wedding dress, no conventional adornments. No career deciding where she stays or goes. Am I jealous? It would seem that I am... also a bit awe struck. Who knows what would have happened if if if. Who cares. I would not be me. I may not have such a great eye for shoes.



Life. A puzzle. I am hardly the one to figure out the riddle all be it I am clever. Who would want all the answers?



I will just be happy with the scent of the blackberries in the air, the shifting leaves and my love of words. For the things that make me the woman I am who stops at the drop of a hat to photograph grass fields and sunlight.



G.

The Littlest Birds

Something Blue

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.

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.

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.