If the VP of Finance had kept his promise to me, we would never have gotten divorced. The condition of our reconciliation was that we leave California all together and we move to Chicago. His 2 sisters wanted him home, my sister was there and needed support, my Nephews & Niece were there and his Niece & Nephews were there, it made sense for us to repair our marriage with the support of our families.
We reconciled in Chicago in August 2001. He had moved there in May 2001 when we separated because he could not bear to be in the same city as me. His youngest sister took him in and he was repairing his life. By August when I flew out to visit my sister, he had been in therapy for 2 months and was working part time. We met in Lakeview on the North Side of Chicago and walked the tree line streets. We went to Wrigley Field and walked around a street fair. I still have the wax gargoyle, the book of poetry and the scarf/halter top be bought me in Chicago.
He was a changed man. He had returned to the VP of Finance that I fell in love with 7 years prior; the man who saved my life, who took care of me and who loved me. I fell in love all over again in those few days with him. We agreed to move to Chicago by October at the very latest ahead of the Winter Snow. His sisters were screening houses for us in the Lakeview area. I insisted we move to that neighborhood because he was obviously himself there. I got my husband back. If keeping him in an environment where he was happy and himself meant that I move to Chicago to keep my husband and save my marriage, then so be it. I loved him dearly.
Three weeks after my return from my Chicago vacation, the VP of Finance returned to California, returned to my bed, returned to our marriage. The purpose of him returning was to help me pack up and move the house to Chicago. His sister continued to screen and view houses while we packed and I found a job out there. Our target date was October 1, and we were both scheduling phone interviews with companies based in Chicago.
On September 11, the Twin Towers were attacked and destroyed in New York City. It changed everything. The Aerospace Industry crashed due to the use of Commercial Airlines in the attack. The downstream effect this had on the Manufacturing Industry at large, and the trickledown to Suppliers was overwhelming. Jobs were drying up, unemployment skyrocketed and we did not move to Chicago.
I kept pushing through January 2002, but it was useless. There were no jobs, the housing market in Chicago was booming – it was impossible. We remained in the green house in Manhattan Beach, we remained in California. We went to Chicago again for the Christmas and New Year's Holidays in December 2002. I tried pushing again to move back to Chicago, but by then he had become resolute in remaining in California. By February 2003, he had gotten into an argument with his youngest sister's husband and it caused a rift in his relationship with his family. Ho no longer wanted to move back, he wanted us to remain in the green house in Manhattan Beach. Where he was miserable, angry, and depressed.
When I broke my ankle in March 2003 it was the final straw. He snapped. In 2 short weeks he returned to the nasty mean angry emotionally & verbally abusive man I through out of my bed just one year earlier. In April, with a cast on my foot, I left him and drove to my mother's house. I stayed there for a week. She convinced me to return home and I told her it was pointless. She begged me. He begged me. So I went home. Within a week we had another fight. I called my mother and told both her and the VP of Finance that when the cast came off I was leaving. Period.
The cast came off in May and we attended the Renaissance Pleasure Faire with my Family on closing weekend. I was still looking for apartments; he was sleeping in the office; mom was telling me my ankle was too weak for me to move out.
Then the Audio Thief emailed me the first week of June.
I had used Divorce Wizards to draw up the divorce papers in 2001. I revised them, updated them, and we had them Notarized. On June 30, 2003 I went down to the Los Angeles Superior Court and I filed them. I called Divorce Wizards from the court house steps and gave them my Case Number.
The next day, July 1, 2 things happened. The VP of Finance moved out, and I received email confirmation of the legal separation pending divorce with a final decree date of January 20, 2004. I handed him the legal separation papers as he carried the last box out of the house. He had 30 days to contest the Divorce, otherwise it would be awarded by the courts and the decree issued as stated. He took no action. We were legally divorced 6 months later.
If only we had moved to Chicago.
We never would have gotten divorced.
We would have stayed in love and stayed married.
If only he had kept his promise to me.
This past January we have been divorced 7 years. We were married for 10.
Showing posts with label Men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Men. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Love Letter to a Poet
The Guardian, Centurion, the Gestapo of my heart. She inspects all, she watches all, and rarely allows anyone to tread across the front lawn of my Heart's Home. Her ego is slightly bruised because you snuck in when she was digging thru her purse for that ever elusive cigarette lighter.
My Heart sits in her lovely home waiting, knowing there is someone out there capable of touching her soul. Someone not afraid to dive into her world head first, undeterred, un-intimidated.
She hides scars, defects, the ugly parts, in a closet at the back of the laundry room. That dark cold room where you usually keep ancient linens and last year’s Christmas napkins. The people who come in and out of this home are sorely disappointed when they find this room, as though it were placed there conspiratorially and deceptively by The Gestapo of My Heart. It is always there, you pass it every time you go into the Laundry Room, which is often in a home like this one. Why would it be necessary to point out the obvious? My heart has better things to ponder, like how to replicate the brown of your eyes into a marvelous and lustrous paint, and what could she use that paint on?
She has no use for telling you that there is a small but significant twist to the Laundry Room Door, because you already know the trick to opening the door carefully, and it would only insult your intelligence and bruise your ego. Besides which she wants to know what you think about when you are pondering pansies. (The flowers not the weaklings.) She's far too busy remembering the time she listened to you breathe in the pre-dawn hours of a misty morning in Spring.
It scares me that my heart actually considers examining these things about you. The Guardian is frantically pacing the perimeter, chain smoking and wringing hands. These emotions float by, and I know from experience that you will vanish into the abyss just as miraculously as you surfaced.
Twice I have loved unconditionally, and twice I was rejected. Twice I gave up my self in the name of financial security and twice I walked away in search of soul nourishment.
Ahead of All Parting. That's the name of my favorite works on Rilke. I wonder sometimes if anyone reading that title can appreciate what it really means, what it could mean contextually. I have stayed well ahead of all my partings. I've been the rejecter before being rejected. I've strived to no avail to be - to live up to the image he has of me, he had of me, they want of me. I have learned that remaining true to my heart, my soul, my self, always results in rejection.
I simply will not give up me to be loved by you. And so I stay ahead of the parting. We forever sit on the front porch, you forever sit on the front porch, never entering even the living room.
It has officially taken me 2 and one quarter hours to write this. How you make me struggle. How the Centurion baits me with distractions, tossing a lyric here, an image there. Any thing to stop the words from bleeding out of my mind.
The unconscious things I do ..... the subconscious decisions I make ...... all designed to steer you gently away from this house, this porch, this woman ..... are completely and utterly lost, because you silently step over them or around them. You made eye contact with the girl in the house, for just a brief moment, but long enough for her to see you ....
It is not fear when I refuse to feel afraid. Does it not then follow that it is not love if I refuse to feel? And how long could I keep that charade going? Would hours bleed into weeks bleed into years ....... or does the bleeding eventually stop and I am forced to accept my fate.
I admit I am afraid. I am scared. When one is counting days, how many is enough to say Yes?
You asked WHY?
Because I need to feel, I need someone to see me. Because I need to know that the worst pain I could ever feel is behind me, beyond me, and will never define me.
Fresh Air and Spring Flowers
March 2004
My Heart sits in her lovely home waiting, knowing there is someone out there capable of touching her soul. Someone not afraid to dive into her world head first, undeterred, un-intimidated.
She hides scars, defects, the ugly parts, in a closet at the back of the laundry room. That dark cold room where you usually keep ancient linens and last year’s Christmas napkins. The people who come in and out of this home are sorely disappointed when they find this room, as though it were placed there conspiratorially and deceptively by The Gestapo of My Heart. It is always there, you pass it every time you go into the Laundry Room, which is often in a home like this one. Why would it be necessary to point out the obvious? My heart has better things to ponder, like how to replicate the brown of your eyes into a marvelous and lustrous paint, and what could she use that paint on?
She has no use for telling you that there is a small but significant twist to the Laundry Room Door, because you already know the trick to opening the door carefully, and it would only insult your intelligence and bruise your ego. Besides which she wants to know what you think about when you are pondering pansies. (The flowers not the weaklings.) She's far too busy remembering the time she listened to you breathe in the pre-dawn hours of a misty morning in Spring.
It scares me that my heart actually considers examining these things about you. The Guardian is frantically pacing the perimeter, chain smoking and wringing hands. These emotions float by, and I know from experience that you will vanish into the abyss just as miraculously as you surfaced.
Twice I have loved unconditionally, and twice I was rejected. Twice I gave up my self in the name of financial security and twice I walked away in search of soul nourishment.
Ahead of All Parting. That's the name of my favorite works on Rilke. I wonder sometimes if anyone reading that title can appreciate what it really means, what it could mean contextually. I have stayed well ahead of all my partings. I've been the rejecter before being rejected. I've strived to no avail to be - to live up to the image he has of me, he had of me, they want of me. I have learned that remaining true to my heart, my soul, my self, always results in rejection.
I simply will not give up me to be loved by you. And so I stay ahead of the parting. We forever sit on the front porch, you forever sit on the front porch, never entering even the living room.
It has officially taken me 2 and one quarter hours to write this. How you make me struggle. How the Centurion baits me with distractions, tossing a lyric here, an image there. Any thing to stop the words from bleeding out of my mind.
The unconscious things I do ..... the subconscious decisions I make ...... all designed to steer you gently away from this house, this porch, this woman ..... are completely and utterly lost, because you silently step over them or around them. You made eye contact with the girl in the house, for just a brief moment, but long enough for her to see you ....
........ to see you.
It is not fear when I refuse to feel afraid. Does it not then follow that it is not love if I refuse to feel? And how long could I keep that charade going? Would hours bleed into weeks bleed into years ....... or does the bleeding eventually stop and I am forced to accept my fate.
I don't want somewhere to run to
I don't want somebody I can shake
Lord I want my dignity again
Before I walk on fire
You gotta look me in the face
I won't flinch
And I won't turn away
I admit I am afraid. I am scared. When one is counting days, how many is enough to say Yes?
You asked WHY?
Because I need to feel, I need someone to see me. Because I need to know that the worst pain I could ever feel is behind me, beyond me, and will never define me.
Fresh Air and Spring Flowers
March 2004
10 Things I Like About Him
He is much smarter than he pretends to be
He has nice hands
He appreciates clever alliteration
He casually drops dead-pan puns
He drinks scotch (yes, I noticed)
He's tall
He's a gentleman
He asked before he kissed me
He looks great in a hat
He appreciates “Happy Pants”
Soooooooooo, I could probably make time in my schedule to see him again; reschedule this meeting, cancel that appointment, etc, etc, etc
And the technology thing is ok.... my girlfriend broke out in a rash when her husband hooked up cable, developed hives when he installed DSL - she HATES technology!! LOL
I’m going to stop talking now and hit the "send" button
March 2004
He has nice hands
He appreciates clever alliteration
He casually drops dead-pan puns
He drinks scotch (yes, I noticed)
He's tall
He's a gentleman
He asked before he kissed me
He looks great in a hat
He appreciates “Happy Pants”
Soooooooooo, I could probably make time in my schedule to see him again; reschedule this meeting, cancel that appointment, etc, etc, etc
And the technology thing is ok.... my girlfriend broke out in a rash when her husband hooked up cable, developed hives when he installed DSL - she HATES technology!! LOL
I’m going to stop talking now and hit the "send" button
March 2004
Monday, July 12, 2010
My Sin Eater – March 2008
It is always in the darkest hours of the night that these thoughts take form and I release them into the ether of the internet. Tonight's dark creatures take the form of the Sin Eater. (Look it up onWikkipedia)
This thought train began because my dear sister came to visit. Well, no, that is not entirely true. This thought train began 5 years and 3 months ago, approximately 2 blocks from where I sit, in the shadows, typing these dark thoughts. Because 5 years and 3 months ago, I ran away and hid from the world in the hopes that the cancer would simply eat me, swallow me whole and end my miserable existence.
Instead,the Audio Thiefthrew me out of his house and sent me back to Los Angeles.
So when my dear sister came to visit, I was able to show her my secret hide out for the first time. Suddenly, the story of my demise had form and contextual reference. For the first time, my sister could see that 'behind the waterslide and down the hill where heaven reaches'was a very real and tangible place. She finally understood where I was on the night when'land and time is left to float away'.
As I pondered the information from her point of view, I wondered how I managed to escape that mental and emotional breakdown. The Audio Thief who threw me out of that house and sent me back to Los Angeles for the required surgery, is now lying in a hospital bed himself, at Las Vegas UMC Hospital. He has been in an incapacitated state since November. His dog, who sat with me, lovingly sprawled at my side, be it sofa or bed, died two weeks ago. The cause was cancer to the throat. I, on the other hand, seem to get healthier by the day. In fact, since I have moved to Las Vegas, my health and my life have improved considerably.
So I sit and wonder. And I wonder. Was my illness, like a sin, eaten? Was that festering cancer ingested, swallowed whole and drank down with a six-pack of sale priced American beer? Did the very act of love and companionship given to me by that beautiful Hound result in the absorption of my cancer?
I went to see him. Before this latest turn of events, I went to the hospital on my way home from work one afternoon. I went because I thought he was dying then, and the notion of the sin eater had not yet crossed my mind. He did not know who I was when I walked in the room … or maybe he did. In any case, the impression I was left with was that this was a temporary condition. I was furious as I left the hospital, thinking it was yet another false cry of Wolf. I drove home in disgust.
Then I got the Instant Message late one week night, that he was back in the hospital and this time it was for good. There was no way he was recovering, yadda yadda yadda. I had actually begun to toss the notion of a visit around in my head. Should I? Shouldn't I? Back and forth. Somehow, I think I was hoping that while I tossed the notion, wasting time with each toss, he would either get better and go home or simply slip away in the middle of the night. Then I wouldn't have to worry about going or not going to the hospital.
Now, with the notion of the sin eater bouncing off the walls of my mind and invariably banging up against the Vault door, I fear a visit. I've read the folk-lore and the cultural significance of the sin eater. I have to assume that the disease eater works in much the same manner. There is nothing in the folk lore regarding the deceased miraculously rising from the grave, thereby justifying the Watcher's sixpence, and encountering the sin eater. No one talks about what may or may not happen.
What remains now is that I am free. The sin eater, or the disease eater, ate my disease 5 years and 3 months ago in the house with the waterslide and set me free. And let's face it, this may be Las Vegas where you take a gamble, but there are some risks, some bets, I am just not willing to make. So until I can shake this notion of the sin eater from my psyche, I will remain apart from that hospital bed and the man who threw me out of the house will not receive a visit from me.
Yes, it's selfish, but like I said, this is Vegas, baby.
This thought train began because my dear sister came to visit. Well, no, that is not entirely true. This thought train began 5 years and 3 months ago, approximately 2 blocks from where I sit, in the shadows, typing these dark thoughts. Because 5 years and 3 months ago, I ran away and hid from the world in the hopes that the cancer would simply eat me, swallow me whole and end my miserable existence.
Instead,the Audio Thiefthrew me out of his house and sent me back to Los Angeles.
So when my dear sister came to visit, I was able to show her my secret hide out for the first time. Suddenly, the story of my demise had form and contextual reference. For the first time, my sister could see that 'behind the waterslide and down the hill where heaven reaches'was a very real and tangible place. She finally understood where I was on the night when'land and time is left to float away'.
As I pondered the information from her point of view, I wondered how I managed to escape that mental and emotional breakdown. The Audio Thief who threw me out of that house and sent me back to Los Angeles for the required surgery, is now lying in a hospital bed himself, at Las Vegas UMC Hospital. He has been in an incapacitated state since November. His dog, who sat with me, lovingly sprawled at my side, be it sofa or bed, died two weeks ago. The cause was cancer to the throat. I, on the other hand, seem to get healthier by the day. In fact, since I have moved to Las Vegas, my health and my life have improved considerably.
So I sit and wonder. And I wonder. Was my illness, like a sin, eaten? Was that festering cancer ingested, swallowed whole and drank down with a six-pack of sale priced American beer? Did the very act of love and companionship given to me by that beautiful Hound result in the absorption of my cancer?
I went to see him. Before this latest turn of events, I went to the hospital on my way home from work one afternoon. I went because I thought he was dying then, and the notion of the sin eater had not yet crossed my mind. He did not know who I was when I walked in the room … or maybe he did. In any case, the impression I was left with was that this was a temporary condition. I was furious as I left the hospital, thinking it was yet another false cry of Wolf. I drove home in disgust.
Then I got the Instant Message late one week night, that he was back in the hospital and this time it was for good. There was no way he was recovering, yadda yadda yadda. I had actually begun to toss the notion of a visit around in my head. Should I? Shouldn't I? Back and forth. Somehow, I think I was hoping that while I tossed the notion, wasting time with each toss, he would either get better and go home or simply slip away in the middle of the night. Then I wouldn't have to worry about going or not going to the hospital.
Now, with the notion of the sin eater bouncing off the walls of my mind and invariably banging up against the Vault door, I fear a visit. I've read the folk-lore and the cultural significance of the sin eater. I have to assume that the disease eater works in much the same manner. There is nothing in the folk lore regarding the deceased miraculously rising from the grave, thereby justifying the Watcher's sixpence, and encountering the sin eater. No one talks about what may or may not happen.
What remains now is that I am free. The sin eater, or the disease eater, ate my disease 5 years and 3 months ago in the house with the waterslide and set me free. And let's face it, this may be Las Vegas where you take a gamble, but there are some risks, some bets, I am just not willing to make. So until I can shake this notion of the sin eater from my psyche, I will remain apart from that hospital bed and the man who threw me out of the house will not receive a visit from me.
Yes, it's selfish, but like I said, this is Vegas, baby.
Trouble is her only friend, and he’s back again – November 2007
So I let Crazy pull me in
Then I let Crazy take his spin
Kicked off my shoes
Shut reason out
He said
"first let's just unzip your religion down
Heard that you were once Temptation's girl"
The ghosts of my dead lovers haunt me. The boys who loved a girl, long since placed in a grave, wander through the laundry basket of my mind, sorting through memories and sifting them out, checking their worth.
My bedroom has become a void. I can't bear to be in that room. And the only thing I keep coming back to is, night I saw you after a 9 month absence. I want to tell you how much I miss you and how deeply I love you, but something is stopping me. Just like something is stopping me from unpacking my bedroom.--> --> --> -->
Significantly, this is the first time we've been together and I haven't been a basket case for 2 weeks after you return home. And then I realize that I haven't slept in 2 days and haven't gotten into my car in 5 days. Let's face it, you make me full on crazy. And my patient little Ims and voice mails drive you crazy. The difference is you are better at it than I am. You are better at closing the Vault door and stashing the key in an old faded pair of jeans that you toss nonchalantly on the bedroom floor.
I guess in the long run, my getting on that plane was the best thing that ever happened to you. Imagine what might not have been had I gotten into your car instead. The fact that we are still here is probably a testament to something. I'd like to think it's something about true love. The sad reality is that it's probably something about a testament to Insanity.
I've been thinking about this for the past day now and I really need to say this.
I just can not fathom how you can focus on something that happened so long ago, between two children, when you have such a charmed life. The fact is, you've seen things and done things other people only dream of. You have a wonderful career and a potential opportunities project, you've flown in Air Force One and met an American President, you've traveled the world, and at the end of the day you are bemoaning the loss of a love 20 years ago.
And despite it all, you refuse to see that had I not gotten on that plane, had I instead stayed with you and married you, none of the fabulous experiences you've had would be a part of your reality.
You sound like a spoiled child. I hate to say such a harsh thing, but maybe you need a stern reminding of how great your life really is.
I think the sad truth here is that you simply aren't interested in knowing who I am as a grown woman. Even now, you are still in love with a girl who died 5 years ago. Who I am now is nothing like the girl I was, and while I think she was spirited, head strong and wild, I also think she was brave, I am no longer that girl.
It makes me sad to realize this truth. I wish you did have an interest in knowing the woman I am today.
******************************
Instead, you disappear for 16 months at a time without a word, and expect me to take you in like a lost and bedraggled animal… or is that Animaul? Either way, it is the sort of behavior that makes me Crazy.
And as soon as you have rearranged
I thought I had gotten over Crazy.
I truly believed thatTHIS TIME, yes this last time, I had finally conquered the Crazy Demon from my past. But, alas, no.
After being told how wretched I am, and how much you want me away from you and out of your life –DING!– another email from your sorry ass, and here I am, fighting off the Crazy Demon with a flimsy pipe cleaner and a used coffee filter.
Full on Crazy.
Angry. Hurt. Sad. Depressed. Furious. Insane.
All the wonderful emotions that run rampant when you come back around.
You look so Sane.
You sound so Well Adjusted.
But we all know how deeply disturbed you really are and how your particular brand of Crazy is as contagious as the Black Plague in Paris.
I loved you once. And I was willing to make room for you in my life under the conditions I gave you in October 2005. So far, you can't seem to leave the drama behind and are unable to act like a mature, 42 year old man. Getting drunk and playing the "You broke my heart you bitch" soundtrack is really not something I want to hear again and again. Your stories are so weak and pitiful, I am embarrassed for you when I hear them. For someone with so much talent, I would expect you to put a little more effort into your lies.
I can only imagine what story you have this time. I bet it's going to be a whopper!
I loved you… but I'm not sure that I love you anymore. You always forgot that I have always loved you. I wonder if this time, you forgot for the both of us.
Then I let Crazy take his spin
Kicked off my shoes
Shut reason out
He said
"first let's just unzip your religion down
Heard that you were once Temptation's girl"
November 2005
The ghosts of my dead lovers haunt me. The boys who loved a girl, long since placed in a grave, wander through the laundry basket of my mind, sorting through memories and sifting them out, checking their worth.
My bedroom has become a void. I can't bear to be in that room. And the only thing I keep coming back to is, night I saw you after a 9 month absence. I want to tell you how much I miss you and how deeply I love you, but something is stopping me. Just like something is stopping me from unpacking my bedroom.--> --> --> -->
Significantly, this is the first time we've been together and I haven't been a basket case for 2 weeks after you return home. And then I realize that I haven't slept in 2 days and haven't gotten into my car in 5 days. Let's face it, you make me full on crazy. And my patient little Ims and voice mails drive you crazy. The difference is you are better at it than I am. You are better at closing the Vault door and stashing the key in an old faded pair of jeans that you toss nonchalantly on the bedroom floor.
I guess in the long run, my getting on that plane was the best thing that ever happened to you. Imagine what might not have been had I gotten into your car instead. The fact that we are still here is probably a testament to something. I'd like to think it's something about true love. The sad reality is that it's probably something about a testament to Insanity.
I've been thinking about this for the past day now and I really need to say this.
I just can not fathom how you can focus on something that happened so long ago, between two children, when you have such a charmed life. The fact is, you've seen things and done things other people only dream of. You have a wonderful career and a potential opportunities project, you've flown in Air Force One and met an American President, you've traveled the world, and at the end of the day you are bemoaning the loss of a love 20 years ago.
And despite it all, you refuse to see that had I not gotten on that plane, had I instead stayed with you and married you, none of the fabulous experiences you've had would be a part of your reality.
You sound like a spoiled child. I hate to say such a harsh thing, but maybe you need a stern reminding of how great your life really is.
I think the sad truth here is that you simply aren't interested in knowing who I am as a grown woman. Even now, you are still in love with a girl who died 5 years ago. Who I am now is nothing like the girl I was, and while I think she was spirited, head strong and wild, I also think she was brave, I am no longer that girl.
It makes me sad to realize this truth. I wish you did have an interest in knowing the woman I am today.
******************************
"Trouble is her only Friend, and he's back again"
November 2007
Instead, you disappear for 16 months at a time without a word, and expect me to take you in like a lost and bedraggled animal… or is that Animaul? Either way, it is the sort of behavior that makes me Crazy.
And as soon as you have rearranged
the mess in your head
He will show up looking sane
perfectly sane
If I know Crazy
I thought I had gotten over Crazy.
I truly believed thatTHIS TIME, yes this last time, I had finally conquered the Crazy Demon from my past. But, alas, no.
After being told how wretched I am, and how much you want me away from you and out of your life –DING!– another email from your sorry ass, and here I am, fighting off the Crazy Demon with a flimsy pipe cleaner and a used coffee filter.
Full on Crazy.
Angry. Hurt. Sad. Depressed. Furious. Insane.
All the wonderful emotions that run rampant when you come back around.
You look so Sane.
You sound so Well Adjusted.
But we all know how deeply disturbed you really are and how your particular brand of Crazy is as contagious as the Black Plague in Paris.
I loved you once. And I was willing to make room for you in my life under the conditions I gave you in October 2005. So far, you can't seem to leave the drama behind and are unable to act like a mature, 42 year old man. Getting drunk and playing the "You broke my heart you bitch" soundtrack is really not something I want to hear again and again. Your stories are so weak and pitiful, I am embarrassed for you when I hear them. For someone with so much talent, I would expect you to put a little more effort into your lies.
I can only imagine what story you have this time. I bet it's going to be a whopper!
I loved you… but I'm not sure that I love you anymore. You always forgot that I have always loved you. I wonder if this time, you forgot for the both of us.
"Trouble is My only Friend, and You're back again"
The Man Who Gave Me a Garden – March 2007
In between the VP of Finance and the Engineer, woven opposite of the Audio Thief, there was the English Teacher.
I met him at a time in my life when I was unsure of my status as an animated being. He convinced me that a glass of water in a public place was no risk and did not constitute a commitment. Being in shock as I was from having woken up from yet another life threatening surgery, the proposition left me without a retort. How could I argue? And so it began.
I placed all these silly boundaries and restrictions upon him.
Me: You can come to my house for coffee, but I won't have sex with you.
Him: But we can make out a little, right?
Me: Oh, of course.
I told myself the boundaries were important because he was so overwhelming. He stood 6' 4" and was broad shouldered. He was the first man in many years who towered over me, and made me feel petite and vulnerable.
It was not long before we fell into a weekend routine of all night sex and fabulously long leisurely breakfasts on the front porch together. I relate cooking and eating to sex – after all, they do hit the same erogenous zones and have historically been linked. I figured the cooking on "the morning after" was simply an extension of the previous night's glorious adventures in pleasure.
He taught me the secret to making strong bold "starbucks" coffee at home. He showed me how a small amount of chopped bacon could transform boring scrambled eggs into a gourmet meal. He educated me in the divinity of seasoned salt. I think I was most surprised by the biscuits.
One morning he declared that he was done with toast. Go take a shower, he commanded, the biscuits need to rise. When I came out, freshly washed and smelling less like sex and more like a girl, there were six freshly baked biscuits on the counter. I can't remember now if my shock was for the actual appearance of home made baked goods in my domicile, or the unholy mess he had made of my kitchen in the process of baking said biscuits.
It was a time in my life when I had no money and lived on a meager allowance at the fringes of the San Pedro ghetto district. We watched TV together, and attended matinees. We went for walks in the park. We drove around the beach city at night with the top down. The spring air and the scent of night blooming jasmine intoxicating us. More often than not we ended up on a deserted side street, alone under the oaks trees, lips locked, arms wrapped and the smell of jasmine wafting around us. The usual passionate kisses inevitably turned steamy as our hands were all over each other. Reaching under and up and down and around, touching and caressing each other.
Our birthdays were very close together. I bought him a heavy zippo lighter. It was a smokey brass large men's lighter engraved with his initials on one side and a favorite line from the poem "Variations" by Frederico Garcia Lorca… "under a thicket of kisses".
The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.
The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.
The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.
Two weeks later, for my birthday, he gave me a garden. He had arranged a tour of the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena on the day of my birthday. It just so happened to be the birthday of Jane Goodall, being celebrated at the Gardens. There were "Happy Birthday" banners and balloons all over the Library grounds.
That night we made passionate love in his loft apartment, with the scent of night blooming jasmine floating in through the open windows.
One evening after he had put on a particularly chivalrous display of manliness, we ended up in our usual spot against the tile of my oversized shower. Under the waterfall of the shower head, I accidentally told him that I loved him. I meant it in the endearing, "Oh I just love lemon meringue pie". I understand the mistake, we were naked, in the shower. Behind all that steam a person can become quite misled.
We went along at a frantic pace, having passionate sex, eating fabulous food and lounging in each other's arms on warm spring mornings. It was only a matter of time before the accidental declaration in the shower became a hardened reality.
He gave me a garden and I fell in love with him.
After the passion faded, I was left with his friendship. I moved into the apartment next to his when it became available. I wanted to be in the one place I had truly fell and felt in love. I wanted to be reminded of the late morning love making, with music and strong coffee. It was no longer about the English Teacher, it was about reclaiming that feeling of being in love.
After many long lonely years of not knowing what love felt like, of not having any idea of love, I had finally found my way back to the emotion that had abandoned me.
It was not about love, it was the idea of love. It was about the idea of the Garden.
I met him at a time in my life when I was unsure of my status as an animated being. He convinced me that a glass of water in a public place was no risk and did not constitute a commitment. Being in shock as I was from having woken up from yet another life threatening surgery, the proposition left me without a retort. How could I argue? And so it began.
I placed all these silly boundaries and restrictions upon him.
Me: You can come to my house for coffee, but I won't have sex with you.
Him: But we can make out a little, right?
Me: Oh, of course.
I told myself the boundaries were important because he was so overwhelming. He stood 6' 4" and was broad shouldered. He was the first man in many years who towered over me, and made me feel petite and vulnerable.
It was not long before we fell into a weekend routine of all night sex and fabulously long leisurely breakfasts on the front porch together. I relate cooking and eating to sex – after all, they do hit the same erogenous zones and have historically been linked. I figured the cooking on "the morning after" was simply an extension of the previous night's glorious adventures in pleasure.
He taught me the secret to making strong bold "starbucks" coffee at home. He showed me how a small amount of chopped bacon could transform boring scrambled eggs into a gourmet meal. He educated me in the divinity of seasoned salt. I think I was most surprised by the biscuits.
One morning he declared that he was done with toast. Go take a shower, he commanded, the biscuits need to rise. When I came out, freshly washed and smelling less like sex and more like a girl, there were six freshly baked biscuits on the counter. I can't remember now if my shock was for the actual appearance of home made baked goods in my domicile, or the unholy mess he had made of my kitchen in the process of baking said biscuits.
It was a time in my life when I had no money and lived on a meager allowance at the fringes of the San Pedro ghetto district. We watched TV together, and attended matinees. We went for walks in the park. We drove around the beach city at night with the top down. The spring air and the scent of night blooming jasmine intoxicating us. More often than not we ended up on a deserted side street, alone under the oaks trees, lips locked, arms wrapped and the smell of jasmine wafting around us. The usual passionate kisses inevitably turned steamy as our hands were all over each other. Reaching under and up and down and around, touching and caressing each other.
Our birthdays were very close together. I bought him a heavy zippo lighter. It was a smokey brass large men's lighter engraved with his initials on one side and a favorite line from the poem "Variations" by Frederico Garcia Lorca… "under a thicket of kisses".
The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.
The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.
The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.
Two weeks later, for my birthday, he gave me a garden. He had arranged a tour of the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena on the day of my birthday. It just so happened to be the birthday of Jane Goodall, being celebrated at the Gardens. There were "Happy Birthday" banners and balloons all over the Library grounds.
That night we made passionate love in his loft apartment, with the scent of night blooming jasmine floating in through the open windows.
One evening after he had put on a particularly chivalrous display of manliness, we ended up in our usual spot against the tile of my oversized shower. Under the waterfall of the shower head, I accidentally told him that I loved him. I meant it in the endearing, "Oh I just love lemon meringue pie". I understand the mistake, we were naked, in the shower. Behind all that steam a person can become quite misled.
We went along at a frantic pace, having passionate sex, eating fabulous food and lounging in each other's arms on warm spring mornings. It was only a matter of time before the accidental declaration in the shower became a hardened reality.
He gave me a garden and I fell in love with him.
After the passion faded, I was left with his friendship. I moved into the apartment next to his when it became available. I wanted to be in the one place I had truly fell and felt in love. I wanted to be reminded of the late morning love making, with music and strong coffee. It was no longer about the English Teacher, it was about reclaiming that feeling of being in love.
After many long lonely years of not knowing what love felt like, of not having any idea of love, I had finally found my way back to the emotion that had abandoned me.
It was not about love, it was the idea of love. It was about the idea of the Garden.
May 26, 2007
Tell him I still love him.
Remind him that I am still here
Still in love
Still waiting.
Your skin has the same scent as his skin,
But you are not him.
You taste like him,
Your saliva leaves his taste on my lips,
But when I open my eyes,
I see you are not him.
I can close my eyes
When I am in your arms
And pretend I am with him.
For a few moments
When we are together
I can pretend he is still here,
Still loving me.
Remind him that I am still here
Still in love
Still waiting.
Your skin has the same scent as his skin,
But you are not him.
You taste like him,
Your saliva leaves his taste on my lips,
But when I open my eyes,
I see you are not him.
I can close my eyes
When I am in your arms
And pretend I am with him.
For a few moments
When we are together
I can pretend he is still here,
Still loving me.
Dead Flowers on the Doorstep – February 2007
For the past 5 years, I have been a devoted DirecTV subscriber. It would be an understatement to say I have formed an intimate relationship with my TiVo. Unfortunately, I have rented a condo that has a blocked view of the South Eastern Sky, and an HOA that forbids satellite dishes on the roof. Alas, I am cut off from my orbital entertainment and confined to earth-based television.The upside to this shift in perception is that I am forced to view my surroundings from a completely different paradigm. Maybe pulling my head out of the clouds and firmly planting my thoughts on the floor of the desert valley is a good thing.
Then again, maybe not. I can't relate to earth-based television.
The clarity this move has brought me is quite stunning, and yes, very disturbing. I have started to wonder what it would be like to live free in all the aspects of my life. Looking down the hill on the lights and the beauty of the Strip at night, I have begun to wonder... what if?
I have begun to question the validity of friendships and the requisite drama that comes with them. I am more cynical about religion and the religious. And most disturbing, I have begun to wonder what it would be like to live my life as if I were the nefarious woman so many people believe me to be.
I have always believed I had a terrible poker face.Each and every time the gossip mill starts it's engine, I am underestimated. At first it was disappointing. Now, as I look out over the valley, I realize the inner Me is so much more evil and cunning, there is no way the rumor machine could possibly know or anticipatemy next move. I am aghast at the new found ability to not only recognize what I am capable of, but also how close to becoming her that a really am.
Take for example the Holiday season of 2004, when I was accused of harboring violent tendencies towards the Audio Thief. It would be two full years, 24 long months, before I would learn the genesis of those accusations. What troubles me is not the accusations themselves, but that the idea of impending violence against him never crossed my mind.
I feel cheated now, of an opportunity to bring harm which was wildly anticipated, talked about, built up and whipped into a frenzy. An opportunity to bring harm, without repercussion. I was cheated out of a free ticket without consequence.
But… because I am not that woman, and I had never considered being that woman, it never even occurred to me to bring harm, or impose myself forcefully and violently upon him.
Ah but those who know me are very well aware that my intellect would have precluded an act so bereft of personalization. Now, if the dead flowers somehow were placed inside the house… that would have been far more sinister, far more threatening, and far more representative of my abilities.
Especially if they were placed in the very location where I broke the glass, dragging his mind back to that night 'behind the water slide' and his thoughts back to the night when 'land and time is left to float away'. My act of violence would tear at the tissue of the mind, and rip at the flesh of memory. Certainly, it would strike closer than the doorstep of an entry never used.
I guess the point is, this valley has made me consider possibilities that have never occurred to me before. The paradigm, like the view, has changed.
This desert has been calling politely for at least 3 years. Now, I feel like patience ran out and I have been dragged across the desert by my hair.
I find myself living on the edge of civilization and I have never been happier. The move here was probably the most frightening thing I have done in over 20 years. I still don't know how to feel about this move to Las Vegas, other than I can't help to get the queasy feeling that I am dealing directly with a deity who will one day require a sacrifice from me on a scale I have not yet experienced. The very real truth is that this move is all I've got. Every chance I have taken since December 15, 2006 has paid off. Every gamble has been a winning hand. And yet, it's the only move, the only card, I have had. There was no other option than the path I have taken.
Why am I being pushed into the desert? It's not like this environment is foreign to me, I grew up in this type of setting. So the move is not completely out of character. There is a direct correlation to the desert, and to Las Vegas. My grandparents owned property in Perris California, and I went with them to the desert regularly. I grew up in Death Valley, Victorville, Barstow, Baker. My mother went to school here in Las Vegas, my grandparents owned a bar off the strip.
Maybe it has something to do with being happy. When one is content, and the tiresome burden of melancholy frees the imagination to wander, there seem to be no boundaries. There is no telling who I will become as I settle into my hillside condo. I do know that sitting on my favorite couch and gazing out over the sparkling color of the valley below has brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.
Then again, maybe not. I can't relate to earth-based television.
The clarity this move has brought me is quite stunning, and yes, very disturbing. I have started to wonder what it would be like to live free in all the aspects of my life. Looking down the hill on the lights and the beauty of the Strip at night, I have begun to wonder... what if?
I have begun to question the validity of friendships and the requisite drama that comes with them. I am more cynical about religion and the religious. And most disturbing, I have begun to wonder what it would be like to live my life as if I were the nefarious woman so many people believe me to be.
I have always believed I had a terrible poker face.Each and every time the gossip mill starts it's engine, I am underestimated. At first it was disappointing. Now, as I look out over the valley, I realize the inner Me is so much more evil and cunning, there is no way the rumor machine could possibly know or anticipatemy next move. I am aghast at the new found ability to not only recognize what I am capable of, but also how close to becoming her that a really am.
Take for example the Holiday season of 2004, when I was accused of harboring violent tendencies towards the Audio Thief. It would be two full years, 24 long months, before I would learn the genesis of those accusations. What troubles me is not the accusations themselves, but that the idea of impending violence against him never crossed my mind.
I feel cheated now, of an opportunity to bring harm which was wildly anticipated, talked about, built up and whipped into a frenzy. An opportunity to bring harm, without repercussion. I was cheated out of a free ticket without consequence.
But… because I am not that woman, and I had never considered being that woman, it never even occurred to me to bring harm, or impose myself forcefully and violently upon him.
Ah but those who know me are very well aware that my intellect would have precluded an act so bereft of personalization. Now, if the dead flowers somehow were placed inside the house… that would have been far more sinister, far more threatening, and far more representative of my abilities.
Especially if they were placed in the very location where I broke the glass, dragging his mind back to that night 'behind the water slide' and his thoughts back to the night when 'land and time is left to float away'. My act of violence would tear at the tissue of the mind, and rip at the flesh of memory. Certainly, it would strike closer than the doorstep of an entry never used.
I guess the point is, this valley has made me consider possibilities that have never occurred to me before. The paradigm, like the view, has changed.
This desert has been calling politely for at least 3 years. Now, I feel like patience ran out and I have been dragged across the desert by my hair.
I find myself living on the edge of civilization and I have never been happier. The move here was probably the most frightening thing I have done in over 20 years. I still don't know how to feel about this move to Las Vegas, other than I can't help to get the queasy feeling that I am dealing directly with a deity who will one day require a sacrifice from me on a scale I have not yet experienced. The very real truth is that this move is all I've got. Every chance I have taken since December 15, 2006 has paid off. Every gamble has been a winning hand. And yet, it's the only move, the only card, I have had. There was no other option than the path I have taken.
Why am I being pushed into the desert? It's not like this environment is foreign to me, I grew up in this type of setting. So the move is not completely out of character. There is a direct correlation to the desert, and to Las Vegas. My grandparents owned property in Perris California, and I went with them to the desert regularly. I grew up in Death Valley, Victorville, Barstow, Baker. My mother went to school here in Las Vegas, my grandparents owned a bar off the strip.
Maybe it has something to do with being happy. When one is content, and the tiresome burden of melancholy frees the imagination to wander, there seem to be no boundaries. There is no telling who I will become as I settle into my hillside condo. I do know that sitting on my favorite couch and gazing out over the sparkling color of the valley below has brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.
The Ex is Grandfathered In – June 2006
The ex is always grandfathered in. Guiltless sex with someone other than the person you are currently exclusive with.
Let me define exclusive it means you are only intimate with, make love to, or any other manner of naked bodies and molestation, with each other, no body else. Thats where the grandfather clause comes in. The ex is always grandfathered in.
So when the Silly Engineer finally realized that the truth was the only way to fix my raging fury, he informed me that the lip gloss belonged to the ex. One can only imagine the anger-interuptus which occurred within me. I mean, I couldnt even be righteously indignant over the whole thing. Because the ex is grandfathered in.
I wanted him to be a cad. I waited a very long twelve months for him to be a cad. Frat Boy. Silver Spoon. Spoiled Child. Sexist. Elitist. And I am stuck here forced to think about who he is and how that reality conflicts with the box I have used to frame him.
She is the ex.
I am the ex.
Everyone is an ex at some point.
Its just inevitable.
Or maybe this is just my own way of making room for the Audio Thief. Its not the first time Ive used the clause to accommodate him. Seems to be a routine of mine. That is, if a routine can be synonymous with convenient.
So if its on my terms, by my desire, then why am I feeling so insecure about the Audio Thief coming into my space? Why am I having such an issue with the prospect of his physical presence in my apartment?
Im inclined to believe that the problem lies not with his presence, but instead, with the idea of another person read: human being in my life.
For example, I have girlfriends and buddies sleep on the couch all the time..
Oh right, its about the bed.
So whats the big deal? Why am I so freaked out that I agreed to see him? The Silly Engineer and I have parted ways, in a manner of speaking, so theres really no agreement with which to apply the clause. *shrug* So its not about guiltless sex.
I think there is a possibility that the issue is with the fact that I am well. I am not ill, not sick, not dying, not undergoing treatment, or getting shots. I am well and he is near and this frightens me.
So in the end, the ex is grandfathered into the agreement I have with myself.
Let me define exclusive it means you are only intimate with, make love to, or any other manner of naked bodies and molestation, with each other, no body else. Thats where the grandfather clause comes in. The ex is always grandfathered in.
So when the Silly Engineer finally realized that the truth was the only way to fix my raging fury, he informed me that the lip gloss belonged to the ex. One can only imagine the anger-interuptus which occurred within me. I mean, I couldnt even be righteously indignant over the whole thing. Because the ex is grandfathered in.
I wanted him to be a cad. I waited a very long twelve months for him to be a cad. Frat Boy. Silver Spoon. Spoiled Child. Sexist. Elitist. And I am stuck here forced to think about who he is and how that reality conflicts with the box I have used to frame him.
She is the ex.
I am the ex.
Everyone is an ex at some point.
Its just inevitable.
Or maybe this is just my own way of making room for the Audio Thief. Its not the first time Ive used the clause to accommodate him. Seems to be a routine of mine. That is, if a routine can be synonymous with convenient.
So if its on my terms, by my desire, then why am I feeling so insecure about the Audio Thief coming into my space? Why am I having such an issue with the prospect of his physical presence in my apartment?
Im inclined to believe that the problem lies not with his presence, but instead, with the idea of another person read: human being in my life.
For example, I have girlfriends and buddies sleep on the couch all the time..
Oh right, its about the bed.
So whats the big deal? Why am I so freaked out that I agreed to see him? The Silly Engineer and I have parted ways, in a manner of speaking, so theres really no agreement with which to apply the clause. *shrug* So its not about guiltless sex.
I think there is a possibility that the issue is with the fact that I am well. I am not ill, not sick, not dying, not undergoing treatment, or getting shots. I am well and he is near and this frightens me.
So in the end, the ex is grandfathered into the agreement I have with myself.
Hate Me – March 2006
Im so terrified to look at the IM logs or to open the archived emails. My entire body shakes at the very thought of seeing the words and phrases, and then hear them put to music. The Audio Thief has struck once again, and I come upon his crime by happenstance.
It used to be that the Thief would throw the evidence at me like a monkey throwing poo at the glass window. He instinctively knows not to throw stones. Yet he was ensured I knew what he had done and how he had done it. It scared me just as much then as it does now, but this time it seems different. Im scared because this time the evidence wasnt thrown in the usual manner. Instead its lying around in heaps of IM archives and email archives and journal entries, not locked away in the Vault.
And I was so arrogant in my belief that it was curiosity over the Dumb Engineer that he wandered back onto the IM list. Silly Me. He is busy promoting now. Of course hes back on the radar. Of course he knows I will eventually hear, make the connection, and then, inevitably, freak out.
My god, when you said you were sorry, sorry for involving me in all the things you had done for your own gain, financial and otherwise, I had no idea what you were up to. I cant imagine that you thought I knew what you were doing. Now I get it. 3 years later I get it.
Not that this changes anything. We will still remain apart. You can produce as much as you want, it doesnt change a thing.
That is why I am not going to read the logs, or the emails or the journals. Because it doesnt change a thing.
It used to be that the Thief would throw the evidence at me like a monkey throwing poo at the glass window. He instinctively knows not to throw stones. Yet he was ensured I knew what he had done and how he had done it. It scared me just as much then as it does now, but this time it seems different. Im scared because this time the evidence wasnt thrown in the usual manner. Instead its lying around in heaps of IM archives and email archives and journal entries, not locked away in the Vault.
And I was so arrogant in my belief that it was curiosity over the Dumb Engineer that he wandered back onto the IM list. Silly Me. He is busy promoting now. Of course hes back on the radar. Of course he knows I will eventually hear, make the connection, and then, inevitably, freak out.
My god, when you said you were sorry, sorry for involving me in all the things you had done for your own gain, financial and otherwise, I had no idea what you were up to. I cant imagine that you thought I knew what you were doing. Now I get it. 3 years later I get it.
Not that this changes anything. We will still remain apart. You can produce as much as you want, it doesnt change a thing.
That is why I am not going to read the logs, or the emails or the journals. Because it doesnt change a thing.
Not for You – March 2006
It wasn't the messenger tone that made me catch my breath, it was the name in the notification window. I found myself staring at the notification, completely still, not even breathing. The window sank into the system tray and I exhaled.
16 months nearly to the day since I last saw him......
14 months since the last time I got a text message from him......
I had been successful in surpressing all thought of him for nearly 10 months when the window popped up and invaded my screen. I had finally accepted the fact that he wasn't going to call or answer my calls; email or answer my emails... As I pondered the notification window, I had a momentary revelation that I had even gone days at a time without his face
running through my head or remembering how great we were when we were a "we". Why now? Could he sense my withdrawal? Did it suddenly dawn on him that the status messages on my Messenger were not meant for him? Did he wonder about the man I was giving my x's and o's to? Was he afraid he might actually be losing me this time?
After the window sinks away into the system tray, I regain my clarity. I know that he does not want me - because he doesn't... it's that he loves me to love him and he doesn't want to lose the coast line I allow him to navigate from, the safety net I provide him with when he starts to get nervous about another gig in another far away country.
He builds his self confidence at the expens of mine... but not anymore!
I know I am supposed to do the girl thing, the submissive thing, and IM him. Inquire about his health, his success, his manlihood. But I just don't have the energy. For the first time in my adult life, I can not think of a single thing to say to him, and don't care to come up with anything witty. I think about the possibilities and I am overwhelmed with a feeling of apathy. Because I just don't care. For the first time since coming back to California, I can say I don't care.
The very thought of allowing him access to the intimacies of my true self is frightening. I just can not give up me to be loved by him. I don't even want to be his friend, that's how far I've come in nearly 2 years.
About the only pang of sadness I feel when recalling those days is for 1k. How much does that really say about the deph of my emotion?
My need to hide from him outweighs my desire to communicate with the cute engineer, and so I change settings and I cease the status messages. Or am I just continuing to wait........
16 months nearly to the day since I last saw him......
14 months since the last time I got a text message from him......
I had been successful in surpressing all thought of him for nearly 10 months when the window popped up and invaded my screen. I had finally accepted the fact that he wasn't going to call or answer my calls; email or answer my emails... As I pondered the notification window, I had a momentary revelation that I had even gone days at a time without his face
running through my head or remembering how great we were when we were a "we". Why now? Could he sense my withdrawal? Did it suddenly dawn on him that the status messages on my Messenger were not meant for him? Did he wonder about the man I was giving my x's and o's to? Was he afraid he might actually be losing me this time?
After the window sinks away into the system tray, I regain my clarity. I know that he does not want me - because he doesn't... it's that he loves me to love him and he doesn't want to lose the coast line I allow him to navigate from, the safety net I provide him with when he starts to get nervous about another gig in another far away country.
He builds his self confidence at the expens of mine... but not anymore!
I know I am supposed to do the girl thing, the submissive thing, and IM him. Inquire about his health, his success, his manlihood. But I just don't have the energy. For the first time in my adult life, I can not think of a single thing to say to him, and don't care to come up with anything witty. I think about the possibilities and I am overwhelmed with a feeling of apathy. Because I just don't care. For the first time since coming back to California, I can say I don't care.
The very thought of allowing him access to the intimacies of my true self is frightening. I just can not give up me to be loved by him. I don't even want to be his friend, that's how far I've come in nearly 2 years.
About the only pang of sadness I feel when recalling those days is for 1k. How much does that really say about the deph of my emotion?
My need to hide from him outweighs my desire to communicate with the cute engineer, and so I change settings and I cease the status messages. Or am I just continuing to wait........
More on Love - March 2006
I am not full of virtues and noble qualities.
I Love, that is all.
But I love strongly, exclusively, steadfastly.
-George Sand, Paris 1837
I Love, that is all.
But I love strongly, exclusively, steadfastly.
-George Sand, Paris 1837
Love is not something you feel - March 2006
"Love is not something you feel. Love is something you do. And if you're with someone who doesn't want to do it with you, then save it for someone who does."
Warm & Familiar - January 2006
Sometimes a shitty relationship just becomes comfortable, safe and easy. Rachel said it's completely understandable, because Shit can be comfortable.
Yes, Shit can be comfortable. Afterall, it's warm and it smells familiar.
Yes, Shit can be comfortable. Afterall, it's warm and it smells familiar.
The Staggering Presumption of Love
The Staggering Presumption of Love
Do any of us,
except in our dreams,
truly expect to be reunited with our hearts' deepest loves,
even when they leave us only for minutes,
and on the most mundane errands?
No, not at all.
Each time they go from our sight we,
in our secret hearts,
count them as dead.
Having been given so much, we reason,
how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer
for the staggering presumption of our love?
Stephen King, The Dark Tower VII "The Dark Tower"
I have been in love with Rowland since I was 19 years old. If you are old enough, and read the First Edition when it was the only one available at the local Crowne Books or if you were a snooty Pasadena girl, then at Vroman's on Colorado,you may remember the original art work, the original Rowland.
Do any of us,
except in our dreams,
truly expect to be reunited with our hearts' deepest loves,
even when they leave us only for minutes,
and on the most mundane errands?
No, not at all.
Each time they go from our sight we,
in our secret hearts,
count them as dead.
Having been given so much, we reason,
how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer
for the staggering presumption of our love?
Stephen King, The Dark Tower VII "The Dark Tower"
I have been in love with Rowland since I was 19 years old. If you are old enough, and read the First Edition when it was the only one available at the local Crowne Books or if you were a snooty Pasadena girl, then at Vroman's on Colorado,you may remember the original art work, the original Rowland.
I have been here before
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
The Famous Blue Sweater
All this time I believed it was the Audio Thief.
How many years ingrained in me to notice the signs & the timing.
That's why I kept the sweater for so long. The Famous Blue Sweater..... The sweater I wore the night I got out of his Porsche and onto the Plane.
Yes, THAT famous blue sweater.
And, yes, the genesis (Genesis?) of the reason I believed it was he who was following, watching.... waiting.
Only now to find out, no, not the Audio Thief. Not at all.
Instead, it is Hermes who has stolen what I would have given, freely.
Still haven't recovered my slipper.
And so I return to my Temple
to heal my wounded .... pride.
to restore my Bridle
And live to try again another day.
I left my famous blue sweater in a tiny loft apartment in Long Beach
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Famous Blue Sweater
All this time I believed it was the Audio Thief. How many years ingrained in me to notice the signs & the timing. That's why I kept the sweater for so long. The Famous Blue Sweater..... The sweater I wore the night I got out of his Porsche and onto the Plane. Yes, THAT famous blue sweater. And, yes, the genesis (Genesis?) of the reason I believed it was he who was following, watching.... waiting.
Only now to find out, no, not the Audio Thief. Not at all.
Instead, it is Hermes who has stolen what I would have given, freely.
Still haven't recovered my slipper.
And so I return to my Temple
to heal my wounded .... pride.
to restore my Bridle
And live to try again another day.
I left my famous blue in a tiny loft apartment in Long Beach
Thursday, July 31, 2008
I'm Not Livin to be the Mrs.
You can bring your dog
I got three
He can play the wolf for the evening
If you were to get lost behind these locks
Ain´t that a good thing
Ain´t that a good thing
Ain´t that a good thing ´cause
I´m not makin´ any promises
I´m not livin´ to be the Mrs.
I´m not makin´ any promises honey
But you still got that somethin´ pretty boy
You still got that somethin´ as a man
You still got that somethin´
Of this I know
Of this I know
That one fancies herself
as a black lab
I hear that your old flame
is a pure breed
Me? I guess you could say
I´m a Siamese
Ain´t that a good thing
Ain´t that a good thing
Ain´t that a good thing ´cause
I´m not makin´ any promises
You´ll be too busy boy
to sue her for damages
I´m not makin´ any promises honey
But you still got that somethin´ pretty boy You still got that somethin´ as a man
You still got that somethin´
Of this I know
Of this I know
You can bring your dog anytime
You can bring your dog
You can bring your dog
You can bring them all
You can bring your mom
Bring your dog
Baby Baby Baby
Please now
Bring your love
Monday, May 5, 2008
Always the Bad Guy… er.. Girl
In every relationship, I inevitably come out as the Bad Girl. No matter what happens, no matter how much I 'let go' or how often I 'just let it slide', in the end, I am the Bad Girl for getting angry when I have had enough. Every negative emotion, statement, or state of being in the relationship is my fault when I stop 'letting go'. Because, after all, how dare I stop 'letting go'. I am the easy going girl who lets it all slide. It's all good, baby.
Maybe it really is Eternal Sunshine of the Spottless Mind :
I can't see anything that I don't like about you.
But you will! But you will. You know, you will think of things. And I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.
I can not escape this pattern. Despite my owning my own shit, I consistently choose men who are incapable of owning anything, let alone their own emotional and psychological shit. It's frustrating as hell, because on the surface, or rather, in the beginning, it all appears to be quite stable. And then…. And then six months into it, every single solitary thing that is bad or negative or whatever, is laid at my feet.
I thought I had put a moratorium on rescuing injured animals and lost boys. I thought I had torn off Wendy's dress and told Peter to get the fuck out. Then I wake up one day and discover that Peter is slouched on the sofa drinking a beer and watching football or Nascar, or cartoons. How in the hell did that happen? Then I kick Peter out and I'm the bitch for causing the dumb bastard to be homeless. I just don't get it….. and I probably never will.
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