Saturday, 22 December 2012


The water contained jellyfish and him and me. His pale skin and poor eyesight made me feel like a graceful sea mermaid by comparison. I swam around him, encircling him, like the predatory shark I am, wishing to bite his milky flesh and taste his skin between my teeth. The waves fortuitously assisting me in my journey closer to him. Such a moment in life to be ablaze with lust for another, to swim and float around the one you desire with perfect weather, peace and white sand the only other companions for a time. I don't think he is as affected by me, as I am by him, but it doesn't matter, finding this passion within is to be treasured for the degree to which it warms me thoroughly and wholly. 

And then later, he offered me mango, and never has anything tasted so sweet. A fruit given freely by one you want. An offering never to be forgotten.

All these moments I am stealing from him as I can. Him helping me remove my shoes on a giddy walk home. Holding his hands briefly, hearing him sing in the empty piazza. A short ride alone in the lift. I can't breathe around him, I am wound tightly, controlling with such enormous effort my desire to thread my arms around his waist and plant my kisses on his chin and neck and nipples. The sexy words that come to mind in response to the silly things he says. I want so badly to seduce him.

How beautiful he is. But still, not for me, I must wait for one more appropriate, one who will adore me, as I adore him. Not this, me watching him, as he looks away gazing toward an obscured yet different horizon.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012


Sometimes I feel like there is a wreckless entity inside my body that drives me onward more frenetically than I would like. 

I think on some level I am very tired, and need to rest up, but I don't stop. I can't seem to put the brakes on, to pause. I feel I am not in control, the steering is faulty, gravity too strong and I'm on a fast paced track going god knows where. Like I'm clinging to this force that drives me, too afraid to let her go, lest she turns and destroys me. My muscles ache, my mind is cluttered with useless information, I need some loving. But I'm in constant motion, unstoppable. 

In which direction am I running? Am I suddenly so enamoured with life that all must happen with immediacy. Or is there some deeper instinct guiding me in this manic hurry. Is death chomping at my heels. Life feels different, I see beauty and connections between things, I am driven hard. I am sped up and out of control. 

My days suddenly feel precious, numbered, or is it just cherished. Maybe it's just coming to terms with mortality. Maybe I've fallen in love with life. Maybe my spirit is just roaring and exerting its will and expecting my body to comply without meaningful resistance. 

I imagine it as an out of control wildfire, but that's just perhaps wishful thinking. A more mundane restless spectre wandering aimlessly, carried along occasionally by a hot northerly wind.

Whatever she be, she be tiring me. 

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

The Lift

Standing beside me, upright yet relaxed, within the confines of the lift. Pressed against the wall by the bodies of others in the moving box, not that I notice them, grateful as I am for this small stretch of time when he is right beside me. I am acutely aware of the space he occupies, the contours of his body, the places where our skin might touch if I just shuffled a little more to the right, leant a little in his direction. 

Every day I see him, he looks more beautiful. It isn't love, never will be, but a highly concentrated, deliciously intoxicating desire.

His lips so full, that strong chin, and the vulnerable lilt under his deep story teller voice. A chuckle so fine, a rising delight from the centre of his chest. 

I watched him play his double bass in a concert recently, it was a mistake, made me overwhelmed with erotic notions of being in his capable arms, with those clever fingers, so knowledgeable, able to elicit such sounds from the instrument, making their way over my skin, playing me, in the same captivating way. I long just to touch those hands, put mine within them, as I have when I have danced with him. The way he commands such a large instrument, his chosen for its gorgeous deep red colouring, so easily for such lengths of time, is admirable. It is a show of fine strength. How many hours must he have practiced. I want to kiss those fingers that have worked so precisely for so long. 

The lion star sign. I see this shining in him, a confident leader. His stately and old fashioned  manner, wrapped in a clever and joyous humour, one based on the anomalies evident in every day living, or silliness, rather than sarcasm, or criticism veiled as a joke. His sensitivity disarms me. I have told him too much at times. 

How I envy the young beauty out there in the world that will win his heart. Not so much that I would want to prevent him from finding her, because he deserves to be loved by a fine soul. 

And I'm still comfortable to just enjoy the curiosity and the desire his presence arouses in me. A daily fantasy to keep me company while I heal my own sweet soul, depleted after long battles. 

And I do think about other things besides the sensuality of men's bodies, but it pleases me most to write of beautiful men, and of emotions and desire, rather than political or social issues, which others address with more adeptness than I ever could. 

What little stolen moment will tomorrow bring me that I can mythologize in my mind in the darker hours? 

Friday, 23 November 2012

Can't complain

So I can't complain. My words aren't flowing into this blog at the rate they did previously, it is the fault of the precarious state of happiness I am currently swimming around in.

I saw the sun, moon and earth in alignment.

I ran my race and it was bleeding hard, but to have finished was an accomplishment I am proud of. I am planning another run in May. Heading south this time, to a beautiful part of ocean road.

Went to the spectacular Coldplay concert. Colour me amazed.

Spent time with my boys, swam in two waterfalls with them.

Watched someone I think is beautiful play an instrument that I think is beautiful.

Have been using Instagram. I keep seeing beautiful moments everywhere.

I like being alone, the peace, enjoying seeing the world in this relaxed state. I feel kindness towards myself, and love for my friends and family.

But I know life, and that I'm an emotional woman, and I will be back here again soon, sharing.

I won't give these short interlude entries a number. These notes that are sweet.

Monday, 12 November 2012

Solar Eclipse

May tomorrow's solar eclipse inspire love in your heart, love for others, for our little Earth, and for your own self, as you are, right now.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012


I wonder if age difference should be an issue between lovers. And I mean lovers, not any kind of committed relationship. Of course, when the age is more than a decade there can be a notable difference in the nature of the body, the wrinkles, the musculature, the strength. But does that pale in comparison to differences in experience?  If I have suffered emotional burns, quite deep, is it unfair of me to place myself in the arms of one younger. Popular culture of late celebrates stories of centuries old vampires finding redemption and love in the healing arms of a naive and tender hearted young soul. The attraction between those polarities. Is it a noble pairing?

Of course, my reasons for these musings are obvious. My body seems to be drawn to a younger colleague of mine, particularly in the after dark hours when I find myself on the dance floor. So potent for me, dancing with him. He seems to like to dance in the old fashioned way, as a couple, with hands held, lightly embracing, all twirls and smiles. It is the classical musician in him I assume, the dancing that might accompany the orchestral music he plays so beautifully. My favourite instrument too, the big one shaped like the voluptuous body of a woman. I think of him playing it, and it makes me hot. Such clever fingers.

I told him I wanted to dip and I threw myself into it, not carefully, with complete abandon, instinctively knowing he would not let me fall. To me, it was a spectacular moment. I'm not sure whether it impacted on him. I can still recall being at full stretch, inverted, and safe.

I got more reckless as they night wore on, as intoxication overtook good judgement, more explorative, draped myself over his tall frame, I probably crossed a line of what's appropriate between friends. We were all on a bit of a drunken rampage, just one of those nights, and there was definitely a bit of wildness too it. I worry of course, that I'm some sort of leacherous she-cougar preying on the politeness of a gentlemanly young man. I have great respect for him, and don't want to step across boundaries and harm him. It makes me feel quite powerful though, to be the elder, the more sexually experienced, brings out a confidence, a wanting to take control, to shock, to blow his current conceptions of sensuality out of the water. Whether I truly have that power is debatable, but the feeling is an addictive elixir. I've had dreams about him, making love with him, taking him, riding him, always with me in control. I don't usually dream of people I know in that way. My dreams of sex are usually with a partner I can't quite see, a being of no real fixed form.

When I saw him the next day at another event during the daylight hours, I was concerned that things might be awkward, but we fell into companionable conversation easily. I felt I wanted to touch him, hold him again, as I had the night before while dancing, but this was not the place, and not acceptable outside of that context.  We had our photograph taken together, stood close, and I felt how my body just wanted to melt against his again. I didn't see the picture and I wondered if I would be shocked by it, by how much younger he looks than me. Baby faced boy. And whether we looked nice together.

It's not that I see him as some sort of prospective partner. He should have children and a wife when the time is right. But he's so beautiful in his uniqueness and I can't help but want to touch and play, maybe nurture for a time. But I worry that I am too shrouded in darkness, and that it would be stealing from him, to even entertain the idea of being lovers. Not the noble thing to do.

And at other times I believe my love is generous and warm and lifting, when I can give it freely, and I have started to trust myself again, and I believe I would have the wisdom and insight that comes with being older, to know whether I can help him by sharing my body with him, and when, and how often. I won't think on it too much. Maybe all our friendship will be is occasional bouts of exhilarating drunken dancing, and that's fine.

Probably better for us both professionally that way. But if he wanted my slightly older, yet still strong and sexually charged body, and a little of the loving kindness that brims from my heart, well he can damn well have it.

Something light and giggly and marshmallowy instead of having my heart falling out of my chest in wanting, because of being so starved for love. Yes, I still think of that other one some times. The emotional creative kind hearted spirit inside the court jester. I sense it's there, and wants to be affirmed, acknowledged, loved. By someone persistent enough, passionate enough, clever enough to slip past the protective jester.

Alas, I don't think he wants to be disturbed in that way by me. And I don't want to be disturbing. I feel so old fashioned using the word alas. So many men pass through my life every day but none seem affect me like he did. None cause that same erotic shiver and evoke the romantic poet. And as sad as I sometimes feel about my unreturned levels of attachment, as jealous as I am of the girl who has possibly made him hers, I miss the depths of that feeling, the life and body in it. But really, I own that feeling, it is my own emotional landscape, a creation from my swelling heart.

No point returning to a place you are just going to be a bother. I am more demanding than that. But gently so. And still afraid of consequences. Of the wrath of my children's father.

Safer then, for this old soul to seek inspiration from the light of a young man, who I have probably chosen as he is the least likely to pair with me, from all the ones in my life. A protective attraction perhaps, which won't bear fruit, won't be a possible poison apple. To watch from afar his graceful maturation until I am brave enough to move a little more forward into reality.

Friday, 26 October 2012

XXXVI. Mandarin Tree

Many years ago when my boys were tiny, toddlers perhaps, I took up gardening because I wanted them to learn about seeds and soil and roots and leaves and water first hand. I took some Lilly pilly berries from one tree I had, went through the process of growing teensy seedlings from those berries, with their seeds of life hidden inside, and as they grew larger, I transplanted them along the side fence to grow a hedge. Let them grow a little wild eventually, as I got busy with life outside the house. Overhanging the path so we could hardly walk that way. But I always loved the fact that I'd grown them from seed. 

There was three fruit trees in the garden too. Lemon, mandarin and orange. Those were there when we bought the home. Sweet little fruit bearing trees. The mandarin was prolific producing enough fruit year after year to feed us, and half the neighbourhood. Amazing tasting fruit, juicy and sweet. Tasting just like sunlight. Again, they grew big, overtaking our small lawn, but they were generous with their gifts. 

I admit I was not the most successful at keeping the garden manicured. The weeds they had their way. But I got no help from the other residing in the home, only criticism for the chaos I had created. 

One day, my husband declared that he was taking over looking after the gardens and a tree lopping friend of his arrived with his chainsaw and his truck. 

I knew what was coming, and I could have fought for my trees, but I didn't. I played the victim well and let those men tidy my yard with their noisy arrogant chainsaws. When I say tidy, I mean completely remove all the Lilly pillies that had taken years to grow to maturity, and the lemon, the orange and the majestic mandarin with its boundless generosity. Years of growing, rains, soils, children's pickings, all torn down in one afternoon while I hid anguished inside the house, too useless to defend those which I had helped nurtured. It was as though I needed that loss to power my growing rage against my partner. I think that was probably the last day that place ever felt like home to me. It was a betrayal. But the part of me that longed to leave rubbed her hands in glee at this further proof of how wronged I was, whilst another grieved the loss of my green leaved gifts. And I see that it's overly sensitive and naive to be so sentimental about such things, that to many people, this would barely cause the raising of an eyebrow, let alone feel like a betrayal, but I suppose I am a tree lover. I feel their life and acknowledge that my life is connected to theirs by the air that lies between us. There was a certain symbolic nature to it all that cut me to the core. 

Months later, after I'd left, he came to me and told me he'd had a dream that we were all gathered around the mandarin tree. My eldest still a young child was picking the fruit and peeling it, squirting juice into his fathers eye. He'd woken up close to tears.

And so he should. 

Thursday, 25 October 2012

XXXV. Mantra

I need a mantra.

On November 15 I will be in the North to experience a total solar eclipse. Or at least the shadow of the eclipse.

 "A solar eclipse occurs when the moon passes between the earth and sun close enough to block some or all of the sun’s direct light. A total solar eclipse occurs when the moon passes in front of the sun and blocks it completely, forming a shadow on the earth. For this to occur the sun, earth and moon come in a straight line in their orbits and it will seem like the moon has covered the sun."

And after this early morning eclipse, I am running in my first half marathon, signaled by this celestial starting gun. When I first heard about this race, many months ago, I was compelled to do it. I had this overwhelming feeling in my bones that I needed to travel North, to bear witness to this event, this alignment of Earth, sun and moon, and then to participate in this collective run. I made travel plans almost immediately. I have to say it is one of the more spontaneous things I've done in my life, particularly, as it was based purely on an instinct. Almost an inner knowing. An attraction equally to the astronomical, astrological and spiritual sides to the eclipse, as well as the challenge. It is a mythological undertaking, and apparently, my star sign has a tendency to mythologise life.

Since then, I've looked upon this event as a line in the sands of my life, the heralding in of a new beginning. Then I will run and run for 21 long Kilometres and let past hurts slide from my body, find my resolve to carry on in the heat and through the distance, and ultimately through the days of joy and hardships to come, and finish, exhausted but clean, and proud of myself for attempting this odd pilgrimage. It is my reptilian shedding of a skin that no longer fits. I'm committed to this process, ready for it. Trained my body and my mind. I look forward to it with hope in my heart.

I think I am lucky, to have been able to act on this impulse, to have had the resources, the support, to get me North. To be accompanied by my mother, and my children, throughout the journey.

So I want to have some short defining words to offer the moment the eclipse occurs. Something to tattoo on my soul when the suns rays burst forth once again from behind the beguiling moon. A promise, an offering, a hope, a kindness. A small naive gesture, but if a butterfly flaps its wings.......

Monday, 22 October 2012

XXXIV. Yin and Yang

The yin and the yang. How I love this symbol. Admittedly I do not have a comprehensive understanding of its cultural and spiritual context, but instead draw my own meaning from it, steal its beauty for my own inspiration.

I have been reading, doing my time in the self help literature (as well as reading To Kill a Mocking Bird) and I understand that I must be at peace within myself, accepting of who I am, courageous, expressive, assertive and kind to my heart to get along peachily in life. I think there are peaches in my heart now, always has been really, just lacked the skills to properly handle my situation and the people in it. I feel an overarching joy in life, amidst the busy times, the pressures, the pace, the battles.

Within me I am as whole as I can be right now. I am not looking for completion, I'm looking for a soul outside myself to press, butterfly kiss lightly, upon. I still can't help but feel I am a yin who seeks to find balance with my yang. 

A beloved, not just a lover, those are easy to find, but one who fits with me in the best of ways. Touching, with equal opposing pressure, considerable care taken to remain poised gracefully in balance while moving through life independently. Neither one overpowering without consent or agreement, pressing together, moulding perpetually, shifting and interlocking. Masculine, feminine, light, dark, water, fire. 

One day I will embrace a beloved, and we will be beautiful, like yin, and like yang. 

Friday, 12 October 2012

XXXIII. Breaking and Entering

My house was broken into this week. During the day, while I was out working, trying to earn a quid.

The door was kicked in, breaking the architrave - its a basic house, and someone/s entered my house, the one I have spent the last 4 months making into a home, went through my drawers, cupboards, jewellery box looking for some fast cash and small valuables. They found very little. Took an Ipod with its carefully assembled collection of songs, and some jewellery, my lovely freshwater pearl earrings, which I have worn far far more than any other pair of earrings I own. My most loved earrings. Things of small economic value, but great sentimental value.

I was relieved. Relieved they hadn't taken more, or vandalised my home. Relieved, because its taken an extraordinary amount of courage and determination to make a new place for myself. And I was starting to love it here. I just don't know if I could have handled that been taken away from me. My placemaking efforts. The way I arranged my collection of ginger jars upon the antique court cabinet. The new doonah covers I bought my children.

I know where they traversed in my house. They left a trail of open cupboards and drawers, some discarded jewellery and items on the floor. Were in my eldest sons room. Touched the photograph of him signing his senior leadership agreement. He gives a genuine smile in that photo. Unguarded, natural, so beautiful, his natural kindness shining through. Sometimes that expression gets lost in his posturing, his little bit of arrogance, an attitude that painfully reminds me of his father. But not in that photo, tipped over by my intruder and later fingerprinted by the police. For a few days it was as though I could feel their signature in the house. As though they left behind a disturbance in the very air I breathe. Their bodily cells marking out the territory in which they walked. I didn't know I was so particular about my home. That having an uninvited guest would feel like such an invasion. I'm not particularly attached to the concept of ownership. But respect is important to me. Still, if I can withstand contuinual disrespect from the one who was supposed to love me, a little bit from a stranger is really nothing.

I've told my friends, colleagues of my break and enter. Expressed concerns about my vulnerability as a woman living alone. It did make me feel that way, vulnerable. And glad to have made the decision to have returned to my martial arts training. No one will bring me down without a fight. My best fight. The fight of my life. What I didn't expect was the lack of empathy for the person who kicked in my door.

Bastards, scumbugs, friggin arseholes, were all names thrown about. I don't particularly feel anger. I feel sorry for someone who feels that kicking in someone's door, a barely living above the poverty line someone, is an acceptable life choice. There are some many beautiful things to do with your time in life, how sad to choose to do this. I want to intervene. To give them an indication of a better path. To trace back to the point in their lives where it went wrong, and fix it. I am sure that once, that this person, was once a beautiful, innocent child. What have we done?

Naive I am, to be sure.

So as I type I have timber boards across my front door, as it is broke, reminiscent of some crumbled war zone home and I try to discern what is it that I should learn from this experience.

No matter what is thrown at me, the optimism in my heart, my very soul, will prevail. Thus endeth the lesson.

Saturday, 6 October 2012

XXXII. Ceremony

Solitude. Alone, at last. Restoration. The need to return to myself, to align my soul and the vibrating buzzing restless electrons of my cells with the invisible timeless patterns of the universe. Find chaos and embrace her, plant my kisses on her rosy cheeks and slip into ecstasy.

The need, urgent and demanding, overcomes me and I drop my pallid household chores and my bare feet take me to my bed, my body already vibrating toward its release. I lay back and open, my knowing hands work in tandem with my cunt. The source of my womanhood and scarcely expressed potential feminine power. I join all my isolated parts, they have become flung around, loose, lost, disheveled, stretching away from me by the processes of the daily grind. I am one body now as I begin to sweat, become more fluid, wet, a connecting river running through me, carrying richness to every needy part.  I am no longer pointed toes, lipstick lips, muscled arms, exposed throat, suckled breasts, I become unified, there is no longer a need to label or dress my parts and I open to the ultimate lover, the universal spirit. 

My imagination plays its role in this private dance creating elaborate fantasies, always varied, sensual, rarely focussed upon any one person or place, this isn't me wishing to be filled by a treasured lover, or a one on one union, it is a celebration of my body and it's ability to experience euphoric pleasure. A homage to the life force within me, to my sexual self, my wild beauty, defined wholly and solely by me. Orgasm always come to me, without fail, sometimes quickly, other times more commitment is required, but it comes nonetheless, like a volcano of purest white magma, made of fused earth and light, sometimes spreading through me slowly, sometimes like an uncontrolled fire and I contort and bend under its speedy release. Sparkling, blazing diamonds, shining secretly from their natural resting place, still safe, untouched, by the greedy hands of men. 

In these lasting moments, I break through boundaries, barriers are torn down, and I come face to face with the beauty of the intangible. And then I am at peace. Balance within restored. Butterflies would land on my fingers, hummingbirds on my shoulders, flowers would grow around me, stems threading their way through my hair. My ceremony of self love complete, I rise, my heart content, not lurching outward away from me, or shying away from external pressures, and I pick up the basket of washing discarded earlier, and I fold. 

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

XXXI. King Tide

I knew the feeling described in the last post would be fleeting, just as I know it will return again. It is my king tide, my hope rising to its highest peak, cyclic, governed by forces outside my control, set to recede after its flash of powerful elegance.

I'm on holidays right now, with my children and one of my best friends and her family. We have come to this same spot year after year. I'm settled outside my well assembled tent, my children over at my friends camp, as I catch a quiet moment. I love this time of rest, no timetable to stick to, the days filled with spontaneity, swimming, sun, running on the beach. Last night we ran fast as we could along the beach under the moon, in a wild playfulness. 

I couldn't make this trip on my own, and that does make me feel a little vulnerable, dependent on my friend and her family to help me set up camp, put up our protective shelter, their company, cheerfulness. I know they think of me as family, and have proved many a time that they love and care for me, but doubt about how much I can respectfully lean on the kindness of their hearts remains. It highlights to me that I am on my own, no capable loyal man to help me on my way, to collapse into, plant sweet kisses on, to bring to his knees with my touch. To shift and slip back and forth between quiet shared moments of understanding and fiery slices of sexual pleasure. And finally, to argue with over which tent pole goes where. In choosing the path I have, I need to be that little bit stronger, to have that willingness to put myself out there, to try and fail and pick up my own pieces. To get used to certain disappointments that come about by just not being able to do everything on my own. I'm not diminishing the wonderful relationships between my lifelong friends and me, I am blessed here, loved by a handful very close to unconditionally, but it is different to the partnership that can exist between lifelong lovers. And at times I am haunted by the ghostly spectre of a partner I do not have. 

I am responsible for the lives of two precious children, lovely lovely they are, the stakes could not be higher. Falling down is not an option. So when this fear, this floating debris of self doubt and grim solitude winds it's way in, I just need to remember that eventually the king tide will arrive, in all it's glory, and wash it away once again. 

I wax and I wane. As I should. 

Saturday, 29 September 2012

XXX. Message in a Bottle

There is a feeling inside my body. It's dancing, turning, growing, giving me warmth. I think it is a kind of joyfulness. I'm not celebrating my circumstances, these are still a little tough, but I have a hopefulness in me, a growing creativity, and a fast fading fear of expressing myself. I'm feeling authentic, in charge, whilst still acknowledging the spontaneous and unpredictable nature of external forces. I'm not in control of my destiny, but I'm poised, gracefully, to manage what comes my way. If that is death even, I will face that knowing I tried my best to follow my inner guide, my heart, in life. This strange gorgeous feeling makes me feel I could walk tip toe on the finest of tightropes, spiderweb thin, in a long flowing dress, with my toes pointed to full stretch, my arms steady in balance position and my hair a windswept mess, and I would not fall. It is conviction, it is self belief, and I have it in my little hand right now. Fleeting this feeling may be, but I've captured a speck of it, put it in a digital bottle, snapped the lid on, and I can now take out this memento when I falter once again, like a tourist revisiting their travels.

Wednesday, 26 September 2012

XXIX. Words

I've been on a two day intensive training course at work. My mind is completely fatigued but also I have been challenged in a positive way, am intellectually sated, and have had a few of those light bulb moments. The training related to having conversations, in our case specifically referencing clients, but the learning really can be applied in all relationship types. We've spent the last two days deconstructing conversations, language and how it's use and application can hinder or enhance a deeper understanding between people, and how to really cut through surface level talk to gain insight into what another person really needs help with.

I feel I've been given a gift that I really wanted. 

Communicating well, without harm, but still reaching to help people, even with uncomfortable issues really is a great art. So much good intent gets thwarted and turned sour because people haven't learned to properly articulate what it is they are trying to say.

And sometimes we are just so focussed upon our own objectives that we just don't listen, don't see the hints, the clues, that people lay at our feet to try and indicate to us what they really want to say. Sometimes they might not even be consciously aware of their need. We were given the space, the time, to practice listening, to drop our egos, insecurities and agendas, and let another's words come through. 

As I've been doing so much thinking about language lately, particularly in its harmful uses, the kind of deconstruction of conversations and outcomes of different ways of questioning and responding was welcomed. 

I got thinking about a conversation I had had that morning with the children's father. My eldest son now has an IPod touch and he and I have been trading iMessages. He seems to really like communicating that way, sharing little bits of information with me in messages, that he wouldn't normally. So I've been really try encourage the dialogue. I sent a sweet message to him this morning, something like 'Good morning gorgeous. Mamma has just been out running along the river :) Have a kickass day and I'll come pick you guys up after work.'

Shortly after I got a call from my ex-partner, "you can't send a message to ___ (eldest son) and not call _____ (youngest son)."

In an admonishing tone. It was delivered as a scold, and the phone was handed to my younger boy, who I of course I had a little chat with. 

I have to wonder about the reason for this call. Had my youngest really indicated that he had felt left out? I find this hard to imagine. And even if so, wouldn't it be preferable to call me and say, '_____ felt a little bit left out, so I thought I'd give you a call so you can talk to him' or something. But instead, it is framed in this negative way, as though he is the authority figure, and I the misbehaving child who has disregarded the rules. I almost laughed at his phrasing. Why does he feel he has the right to judge me for the decisions I make about my communications with my children. Or is it a failure of language? This isn't his first language, is it a failure in translation, or does his native tongue, lack the subjective tones that our language has and he has no way of expressing thoughts in the more subdued way I require. Is his true intent to try and control me, by putting himself in an imagined position of superiority or is he trying to communicate something else, less sinister, but lacks the skill or courage to communicate it. 

Whilst not his first language, he has holds an undergraduate degree in English literature, so I'm not inclined to give him the benefit of this doubt. I've been too cleverly constrained by his words, tensed, forced, into an unwanted shape, unrecognisable at times to myself, that I can't risk going back by shows of unwarranted empathy. This body of blood and ideas and passion and water has finally burst under the pressure and flooded outward, freely across freshly imagined landscape, finally quenching the parched landscapes of my dearest dreams.

This deconstruction of communication, does makes me wonder about what I write here. Should I be more cautious, consider what the people in my life that have featured in my words might feel should they ever read  them. It's not out of the question that this could occur somehow. Or is writing of them a part of letting go, putting them behind me, an acknowledgement that I no longer care what they think of me? Do I not mind that I could hurt my ex with my, possibly incorrect, insights that he has a tendency to hurt deliberately with his words, and do I no longer care if my old cyber friend comes to learn that I was incredibly overcome with a possessive and irrational completely constructed love for him, because I've finally accepted that I'm not in his heart and mind and into my past my dream of putting my hand in his can go. Although, I think he would understand that it is the wannabe artist in me that has called forth my favoured muse to inspire some of these more soaring, explorative words of devotion, something that is quite distinct from me as a woman who appreciates the simple, sweet friendship we shared during a time of difficult change, when what I needed most was comfort, from afar, without expectation. Still, it seems so sad not to ever know what it is like to kiss someone that has stirred my mixed up soul so pleasantly.

Oh words. I think I might go draw a picture.

Monday, 24 September 2012

XXVIII. Mother Lion

Immediately after the birth of my second child my mother in law came to stay with us. This is eight years or so ago now, but an overwhelming sense of hurt still marks my memories of that visit. Her stay lasted four months. That's four months of having a woman I had met only twice before come into my home and spend almost every moment of each day with me. A woman from a vastly different background with beliefs so far from my own, and with a significant language barrier between us.

A pious loving person, who from the outset told me I was not her daughter in law, but her daughter. Who thought it her job, and mine, to cater to my husband's every need. And tolerated his sometimes curt disrespect silently. I had my issues with the way they interacted, it made me feel uncomfortable. I would not let my own mother serve me, wait on me, pamper me, the way he permitted, but their way was different. 

I couldn't really leave the house without taking her with me. I had a shadow, watching my every move. Yes, she was trying to learn, to experience, but I was questioned, not necessarily in judgement, but questioned, on every thing I did, every household chore, every mothering activity, while I learned to balance the care for my new baby, and toddler. 

All that, I could manage, but what was the hardest for me to accept, and it was in no way malicious, she thought she was being helpful, being the best 'Dadi' that she could be, was that, to a certain extent, she began taking over the care of my sweet new baby. I use the phrase 'taking over' because to me, that's what it felt like. He was always in her arms. She would sleep on the couch with him, she would carry him wherever we went. I struggled at times to feel that I could prise him from her arms. I started to feel ursurped in my role, helpless, I didn't get support from my husband, it was my problem, I was being ungrateful for her help, unappreciative of the fact that my son also belonged to his 'Dadi' and she might not get to see him for years again. I understood this intellectually, but inside me was a wounded mother lion crying for her lost cub. I felt uncertain, confused, ashamed about the feelings I was having about seeing my son in the arms of someone who seemed to have such a different world view to me.  Even though it was someone who clearly loved him. My neighbour, without prompting, commented to me one day, in a rare moment without her presence, 'She acts as though he is her baby. I don't know how you can put up with it'. Such relief I felt upon hearing that. I wasn't some crazed jealous new mother, my feelings, dismissed by my partner, were understandable, at least by another woman of my culture. Another person may have stood up for herself, been more demanding, put this strange lady in her place, kicked her back to where she came from after three weeks. But I didn't. I swallowed my bitterness, carried a tension in my body for four months, and tried to not let this feeling of being suffocated in my own home by other peoples values, ruin my first months with my beautiful boy. So lucky I was that he had the nature he did. A calm sweet baby, not demanding like my first charismatic son. His nature allowed me the room to deal with my emotions as best as I could. 

All she was doing was trying to shower me with love and it nearly broke me. It was the only thing that let me hold it together, her intentions were so good, but she had no awareness as to the personal boundaries she was crossing, painfully for me, every single day for four months. I just needed space. To breathe and bond in safety and in peace. When she left, I felt utter relief. But also, in time, remorse that I had not dealt with the situation better. She loved me because it was her duty to do so according to her religious upbringing. I wish I had been better equipped to return that love. In time, and there were one or two lengthy visits after that one, but none that took their toll as this one did, I have found that I can think of her with some affection. 

Friday, 21 September 2012

XXVII. Rockabilly

I had a perfect Friday night.

It's nights like these that are helping me recover. 

An acquaintance of my friend has written a book for younger readers so we went to the launch of the book in an uber cute bookstore in the inner city. Set in refurbished old house, typical of the architectural style of our region. I thought my children would like the story, so I bought a copy and had the author sign it. I can tell them that the author is a young man that lives right in our maturing city. 

Also prominently displayed front and centre in the store was Naomi Wolf's new book, Vagina. I bought this also and am hungry to read it. 

Met two lovely people at the launch, one who told us about his month long meditation retreat in India and another who told us about the three years he had just spent living and working in a remote indigenous community. 

We then hopped on a bus, a rarity for me, to the city to attend a small art space/ laneway coffee shop opening where my partner in crime's friends were playing in celebration. A duet, clearly in love, he tall and thin with a young man's beard and she plentiful in flesh, an ample cleavage that anyone would want to use as a pillow, and quick witted. A live wire. 

I saw a woman there, beautiful, like Gwen Stefani. Dressed rockabilly style, immaculate. I didn't know if I wanted to be her, or be with her. But she stopped me in my tracks. Girl crush moment. 

After the gig we went out dancing, my friend, the duet musicians and me. First just next door to the laneway to a pub, where we didn't last. There was plenty of dancing but it was beyond trashy. I thought I might go in for that sort of thing, the band wearing their undies, a swearing lead singer, and beefy blokes rubbing up against you as you danced, but I recoiled pretty quickly and my tolerance wore thin.

So we went back to an old favourite spot and danced away. The lovely singer told me I was one of the cutest women she had ever seen, I found her choice of words funny, because I was ten years her senior and quite a lot taller, and yet she played the mother hen role with me. Maybe I've been emotionally stunted by my experiences and she saw a childish nature in me. Or maybe, I am cute. 

XXVI. Pill

I've never taken the contraceptive pill.

Of all my friends, whom I know well enough to exchange gossip on these things, I think I am alone in this.

I am superstitious, suspicious of it. A thing that changes the outcome of such a profound physical event must have ramifications that are equally as profound. And I fear that we have just not learned yet to measure what these changes are. If my ovaries are meant to release an egg every month, in mystical and physical coincidence with the lunar cycle why would I ingest synthetic hormones to prevent this natural occurrence. Suppress this natural release. Well, I suppose the prevention of unwanted pregnancy is an admirable reason. But there are other birth control methods that don't drastically affect hormonal cycles. It seems to me it would take a powerful force to make an otherwise fertile woman, effectively temporarily infertile. A powerful package in such a tiny pill. I don't think I would like to render myself infertile, even for a time, as I am afraid what psychological change that might induce. Fertility makes me feel empowered. A giver of life. I understand the anguish a woman must experience upon discovering herself infertile. There are different joys to life to find for those women. 

My view on the pill is probably archaic, witchcrafty, a gut response, and I do endorse wholeheartedly a responsible approach to conception. Children should be wanted, received into loving arms. Sex should be able to be enjoyed without fear of pregnancy. 

I can see I have a sort of superiority complex about never having taken the pill. A sense of purity, I have seasoned and matured with regard to my sexuality in a natural state. I am a glorious reaching ghostly gum tree with roots plunged into a rich organic chemical free soil. My leaves fall freely to the earth.

I had both my children by Caesarian section, not by choice, but by necessity, and had a small amount of angst over the fact I never experienced labour or natural childbirth, so I need to celebrate these small feminine victories, the many eggs, the many menstrual cycles, through lame tree metaphors should I chose. 

Thursday, 20 September 2012

XXV. Internet Dating

I joined one of the country's biggest Internet dating sites about six months ago.  Put my cutest pictures up and wrote a zappy tag line. Turned my decades of living into an advertisement. Been out with a few guys for coffee, dinner, walks, because of it. Haven't met anyone I'd make permanent room in my life for this way but it's an interesting way to meet new people. Men you wouldn't normally cross paths with in the course of your life. It's nicely uncomplicated too, but strange. Inorganic. Not quite a part of the natural rhythm of life. You try each other on for size, do some simple things together to see if a spark might ignite. Got to be a bit thick skinned through it all, but you know pretty quickly whether you might like someone or not, and if they reject you, well it's not like you can fall in love after three dates. It's all very practical and efficient, and helps some corporate matchmaker get rich no doubt. 

There's no falling in love helplessly and irrevocably and painfully and then spending your days wondering how to form a lasting bond with your chosen one. I think I'm done with that kind of love. I'm clearly too obsessive. A general love of the universe and compassion for all and sundry is better. And some window shopping for dates. Lovers not love. Too easy. 

A nice tall guitar playing man has made contact with me through the site. He wrote me a very short message. And in return, I wrote him a ridiculously long message with a fair amount of randomness thrown in, as is my way. Just because I was in the mood for writing. I got carried away and forget who the audience was for my words.  I may have scared him off. Do I care? Not in the slightest. Well maybe a little, I actually thought I was being charming. I suppose I'm an acquired taste. Maybe one day I will care more about these prospects, as I get older and wrinklier, more desperate for the caresses of a lover. Or perhaps time will find me even more flippant and disregarding and depersonalizing. I know for a fact that people do form lasting relationships meeting this way so I'll soldier on and try to remember to have a little fun along the way.

Or throw in the towel. Get a cat? 

Saturday, 15 September 2012

XXIV. Compost

"Fear, even subliminal -- like when your shoulders clench when he drives up -- blocks passion."

I've been reading about verbal abuse again, online articles.

One one hand I don't want to start demonising my ex-partner by recreating a scenario that didn't exist, painting a layer of abuse over it, so as to alleviate myself from guilt.

But let's just say for a moment, that's not what I am doing. Let's trust my instinct and what it tells me as I look back over my relationship. If I can send all undermining thoughts from my mind, then it's truly time for me to admit that I've been the victim of years, many years, of verbal abuse. And let's say that's true, then it's highly likely, that I am far more fucked up than I originally thought. Bugger.

I do fear him. I have a physical reaction, a recoiling of the muscles, in the period of time before I am to see him. It is as the quote says. A subliminal fear that blocks not only passion, but empathy. He induces in me only a self protective stance now.

I find this recognition, this acceptance, also freeing in a sense. I see now that I have been harmed and recover I must. And some of my risk taking behaviours of late are as a result of this. Part of the rebellion. I must let my loving friends and family help me. Lay my head on their shoulders, cry if I need, have my hair brushed, be fed, wrapped up. I'm not being selfish in requiring these small affections, I just simply won't rise from the oily black if I deny myself the healing process.

But I refuse to point a finger at him and say, this is your fault. He grew up in a war zone. He's had a gun pointed at him. Seen dead people. Had a mother, who martyred herself for her family, as is the cultural expectation. Excuses a plenty there are. But I don't need to sit at the end of a long chain of cruelty. I can't. I reached absorption capacity. I have to let the destructiveness that has entered my veins seep out. Flow outward into the earth, where she will break it down to compost, overpower the chemical bonds forged in hatefulness and make this energy native and neutral once again.

The human world is in need of some healing.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012


It's time I bought a bed.

I've furnished the rest of my little house quite nicely but there is one purchase I haven't made yet.

I've been sleeping on a double bed mattress on the floor since I moved into this current house three months ago. Been broke, had to buy a fridge, washing machine and other essentials, and decided to make do for the time being with a mattress on the floor borrowed from my parents.

A lot of folk wouldn't find this acceptable (and yes, there are some who would die for the pleasure of sleeping on a comfortable matress in a warm room), but for some reason it was fitting. A sense of impermanence, makeshift. I wasn't ready to make the commitment to buying a new bed for myself. Suddenly, I find that I'm ready. It is the final jewel in the crown of a new life. It's me saying, the past is over, I sleep here now, in this bed, and it alone is mine, to share as I see fit. It is a fresh start, clean sheets.

Besides, what will any would-be lovers think if I brought them home to my crappy mattress on the floor.

I'm going to be fussy about this bed. Going to look around, find something special, different. My unique nest. A place to sleep in peace, and a place where I imagine that one day I might make amazing love to a terribly kind hearted man. I want it to be a very feminine bed. Light and natural. Not dark heavy timbers. Perhaps a white frame. With some white floral sheets. Like sleeping on a cloud or in a field of wild flowers. You can still have all manner of wild sex in a field of flowers.

Let the bed shopping begin.

XXII. No more

I'm feeling lighter. Through these written entries, and some additional thinking, I've taken out little pieces of hurt I've been holding in my heart and examined them, blown them full size.  Seen the connections, the spaces in between the elements, the interplay, the drama. I've come to understand the nature of the hurt, and given myself permission to take comfort and recover and let go. Just let it fly from my finger tips. My broken parts stitching themselves back to a stronger cohesive whole.

Some of this has come from getting to a point where I feel more confident in expressing the fact that I was in a relationship with someone who has a destructive personality. Someone prone to using very sly forms of verbal abuse and guilt inducing tactics to try and maintain, unnecessary, control. A victim of his upbringing perhaps, yes, but there comes a time, when that can no longer be an excuse. For so long I took on everything on my own shoulders, laid nothing at his feet. Because he so vigilantly took no responsibility for our problems, for my despair. I am not without my part, and I accept that, but I will no longer buy into his web of self deception. That time is over.

My mother passed me an article recently. I know it pained her to do so, because she doesn't like to lead, or judge, but it was an article titled 'Steps to protect yourself from abusive people'. I was surprised she would be so bold, like all magazine articles it simplified the topic but I nonetheless identified with a lot of the content. I will rephrase some of it here, just in case this entry finds its way to another beautiful woman like me, suffocating, being suffocated,  unable to break free due to self doubt. 

These are some of the things the author cited as traits of someone with a negative personality. (I find it difficult to use the term 'abuser' but the author did.)
  • They appear arrogant and self confident and feel they are better than you.
  • They may verbally put you down leaving no trace of bruises or injury, but the abuse is harming to the soul. (I was told I was selfish so many times that there was a time I felt like I couldn't do anything just for me because to do so would be self indulgent and that's not what good mothers do.)
  • They act as if nothing happened, in order to excuse their behaviour, and always manage to justify their actions (Sideways criticisms would be directed at me, and if I tried to stand up to myself, I would be accused of incorrectly interpreting his very innocent remarks. The problem was mine.)
  • They are jealous and possessive
  • Domination and emotional attachment: abusers expect complete attention and support from their partner/friends/parents and demands complete control and submission on the part of their victim. (As long as I fell in line with what he wanted I was the beloved angel, but if I disagreed or held my ground, he would turn, so rapidly against me. I never felt secure, always waiting waiting for the moment when I would disappoint, fall short.)
  • They are unable to understand or recognise their problem.
  • Manipulation: they know how and when to make someone feel guilty. 
  • They stalk you. As an undercover method of maintaining control, abusers will stalk or follow their partner from afar. 
As I said, simplistic, and this isn't supposed to be a factual blog, it's supposed to be a creative work based on my experiences, a filtering of those through a language lens, which I hope will get better with time, but I wanted to put this up in case it was needed. I do kind of hate the way I put my pieces of  'evidence' in brackets after each point but I am just trying to show how readily I could identify with these. Perhaps everyone can to some extent but you know deep inside when lines in your soul have been crossed, made a mockery of..

If you recognise the behaviours above, really recognise them, it's possible you are not being treated as you should be and it's time to say 'no more'.

I was told I was loved. In his way. But sadly love becomes meaningless when expressed in destructive ways. No more, ever again. 

Saturday, 8 September 2012

XXI. Red

Hair like burnt red autumn leaves, chaotic with its ringlet curls. A life of its own, with it's own stories and history reaching in multiple directions. Blazing, frazzled, glorious. And her bluest eyes, bloodshot like she's been up crying all night, but never darting, always focussed. She strides when she walks, stretched proudly to her full height. But she must leave the lightest of footprints in the sand.

I knew I would give my time freely to her once I had met her. That I would help her in the small ways I could with the little suite of tools that I possess. And sometimes just showing up is help enough. It says I believe in you, and what you are trying to achieve. I think she needed that.

She knows what she wants, for a moment. And then it changes. The vision is clear, but the path to its execution difficult for her to choose. She's not fickle, it's just that decision making pains her as she examines almost every option. 

There's a problem with her health, I can see this in her eyes, and in the frailty of her figure. She is stick thin. She has none of the strength and power that I have in my body.  I could push her over with my pinky. But there is strength elsewhere in her. A hidden reservoir. Got her through a maddening episode recently where she felt her physical vulnerability, knew she was overpowered. Faced the black, faced the cruelty of men. But her life went on and the vision continued to be brought to life despite a residual anxiety. 

There are people you will follow willingly, even when they come undone, or their dreams fail, because seeing someone giving everything is worthy enough a cause. For me, she is one. 

XX. Talking

I talked today. To many people, some strangers, extras for the short film I spoke of earlier, and a colleague, who until today, I hadn't had the time to talk with at length, properly.

Everyone has their stories. Their yellowed skeletons in rustic cupboards. Some of us just perhaps have a few more.

It's not unusual to have parents you are a little embarrassed by, their quirky ways, idiosyncracities. Part of growing up is learning to see your parents for the meagre flesh and blood that they are. Then there are parents who you love and are loyal to, but are damaged, lost or sad and who aren't like a lifeboat at sea on a moonless night, they are the too-heavy anchor that will pull you down to drown, if you aren't forever vigilant.

They aren't the ones who you can bring your shining beau home to, or who will praise you for your hard works or offer you some tea and a kind word when they know you are spiralling down. Not when their own pain, the wilderness of their own minds destroys their capacity for the unconditional love required in parenting.

My own father is lost in his pain, physical pain and grief caused by an accident in his youth which left him disabled, stuck in the past, with alcohol his constant companion now and destroyer of the spirit that once brought him back from the brink of death. I can understand why he has become the swearing, uttering, swaying, drunken fool he has, he lost so much, so young. His once athletic and abled body, destroyed. It is rare to get over something like that. So I forgive, and love as I can, but I keep my distance nonetheless. So right now, at this point, his story runs separate to mine.

But imagine being a young adult, unable to move from home because you have been cast in the role of carer, and not being able to invite a friend in for a cup of tea who has driven you forty kilometres home, because your mother, who has lost her grip on the rainbows of this world, waits inside for you to come in, and participate in her obsessive daily rituals, and you don't dare upset the precariously balanced calm by introducing a friend into what is supposed to be the sheltered space you call home. You tip toe and tip toe and tip toe because if you make a wrong move, your mother will begin the process of hurting herself.

My dear friend, the poise with which you carry this load is commendable. And so painfully unfair.

My most creatively driven friends, my artists, always seem to have the very worst stories.


I have a weapon in my stash that I have not used. Yet.

But if he keeps pushing me, acting as though he still has the right to judge me, insult me, attempt to exert power of me, then I will use it. And when I do it will destroy every last pointless hope he has of a reunion. His coservative upbringing will force him to cut those last ties. But I don't throw it, because I am afraid that without those ties that bind him to me, I will fight a losing access battle to my children. Because they are boys, and he is a man who knows how to deploy an army of guilt to get his way. If I struggled for years to stand up to him, I can't expect my boys to do that at their age, for me.

I have some stories about cooking and totems and meditations and a chef that will blow him right out of my life. I must be teetering on the edge of pulling my gun from its holster if I'm writing this here. Testing out the feeling of letting go fire.

I can just hear the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears.

Shhh now. I haven't given this entry a number. Because in time, I think I will make it disappear.

XIX. Swirling

Out dancing I went again. With him. The barely a man with the old soul.

He lights me up. Brings my smile. Somehow just being in his company is healing for me. Latin music. So he spun me round, spun himself round, I spent some time in his arms, followed his awkward lead, laughed at his antics. Laid my hands on his body. Light caresses, but lingering. I could feel the slight softness of his body under my hands. He is strong, but not chiselled, soft, like his heart, I think. It was hard to stop touching him, once I had started. Once I knew that he permitted my little explorations.

I didn't want more. I'm the protector here, not a prospective lover. He is one who I would paint, if I had a way with a brush and an eye for colour. Our difference in age allows this mild flirtation, without it being interpreted as anything more. I can't help but admire him, his silliness, his disregard for social norms. He is so fearless. So bright. And we moved well together. Because when I dance, I too am carefree.

Just thinking of it makes me flushed.

Touchy feely woman I am.

PS. But what endeared me the most that night was that he ate my leftover dinner. And it was tofu.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

XVIII. Islands

I haven't spoken much about my day to day life, not with all the pathetic heartache blurring my vision and colouring my every word, but I will now. I worked on a short film shoot today. It's not my usual job, but something I've been doing as a bit of a side project. My role is little, because my time has been limited but like every system, every element contributes to the health of the whole. A varied crew, and even from my small observations from the far sidelines I could see the personalities circling, struggling, trying, sizzling in the intense melting pot. 

People function differently with varying degrees of ease when outside of their comfort zone. In fact, the point at which people enter an area out of their comfort zone is also distinct. I tend to quieten, watch, listen and start forming connections one person at a time till my reach has spread through the network and I've found that spark of understanding with each.  Others are more brash in their approach, and announce their arrival with gusto and enthusiasm. Some form their cliques and take opposition against others in the larger group. All this was particularly apparent because of the slightly remote location we were on. (I had to take four boat trips back and forth!)

I really get excited by new circumstances, people, but it's tiring too, because of my need to form safe connections. I came on to set a bit later than most, missed the introductory days and felt a bit awkward and shy because of this, but also alert and interested in seeing something different operate. Seeing a group thrown together for a week in a makeshift environment, struggling to mesh, not completely effectively, but gather momentum nonetheless, toward the making of beautiful images. 
Inspiring to be part of something that at least is making an effort to produce meaningful stories. 

However, tomorrow I look forward to returning to the security of my normal day job, with my familiar faces and cherished personalities where I've already done the hard yards in relationship making and I can just bunker in and be industrious, do some good works. And feel a little less lonely because of it. 

Monday, 3 September 2012

XVII. Repitition

I'm not sure you will find a bigger fool for love than me. Or anyone who can perpetrate such ludicrous lies upon her own heart.

I heard his voice again. Been a long time. But I had to know, had to pull back the sheet on some of the mystery of recent events, told myself it was to just make sure that there was peace in the air but what I really wanted to know was a pathetic 'Do you care for me?'.' Nope, he don't. Could hear it, no quaver, no desire to carry on talking, no future plans with me in it. Just dead air. White noise. Apathy. Absence. 

He has moved so far past that it was bothersome to him to recall the speck of time we conversed together, saw each other. While I yearn for it every day. 

Why must I be the one stuck in the blood red maze. Travelling, turning and running into steadfast walls, dead ends and hidden traps. And repeating it on a perpetual journey of destruction. I will wear myself thin, old, strong flesh will age and wither. I will appear grey and lose my parts in this maze. I'll scream to be let out but no one will hear because my voice won't carry because in my heart I know the only way to keep him with me is to keep running in the maze. I find my way out, then he is gone from my mind, and I am alone without the warmth of the false cloak to protect me. 

I'm wasting time and energy on a dead dream instead of nurturing my fledgling human children into beauties never before seen on this planet. Beauties of spirit, that will shine through their flesh. 

I must keep turning away, keep up these notes to self to remind me that I must not think of him anymore. I don't need his image in my mind anymore. I've got this. He doesn't belong to me. I am an oddity he feels sorry for. A piece of roadkill, flattened, but not destroyed, by his male arrogance and ignorance. 

I need to swim back up to the surface, breath in the sunshine, fight, eat, smell, and care and teach.

I'm a mother. Not a lover. Because my lover is a conjured projection that does not exist. His voice told me so.

Saturday, 25 August 2012

XVI. Wolf

I don't know why I keep putting my hand in the fire. The outcome is just so predictable.

Do I expect one who burns with destructive and defensive fires to change, to warm and not burn me.

He cannot keep his weapons stowed away. His fight impulse is just too strong, too hardened. Wicked judgmental words spew forth before I have the chance to raise my shield, run for cover.

I am wounded, bleeding. Tears come, stupid sobbing. And for who, for what. To keep the tiger at bay. He is like the turning wolf, except I have no moon to preempt his gruesome transformation. We can accustom ourselves to change when we know the signs. The tidal patterns, the seasonal progression, the rhythm of the day but sudden unexpected onslaughts will often do us in. Death in thousands comes with being unprepared.

But I can't run from this. I must take my rest, recover. Remember that ex-lovers don't become friends and I have to put my children first, always. Even if if means placing my fingers in the flames and embracing the pain. 

Friday, 24 August 2012

XV. Storyteller

I should stop wasting the time that I'm dedicating to writing this blog with my shameful laments about unrequited love. I'd like to exterminate the wellspring of hope that resides within me that one day I will see him again, perhaps an accidental bumping into on the street, where he will suddenly realise that he no longer wishes to live his life without me. And I have not one shred of evidence that supports this childish daydream. The contrary in fact. I have without a doubt been forgotten now, passed over, discarded from the mind. I obviously don't have much capacity for rejection. I conjure up these ridiculous reunion stories rather than accept that I spent months writing my heart onto a page for someone with naive abandon and came up against a burning red stop sign.

And I'm hard on myself about this inability to let go of the trashy romance novel dream. Wildly angry. I want to scratch it out with my findernails. Well, if I had some. My fingernails are ugly, bitten back things. Yet, it is very human, and I adore the literature of those who lose themselves in love. So I continue to circle around myself, loving, trying to forget, loving, trying to forget. One day this cycle will cease. Surely it won't perpetuate for too much longer. Time will dilute things. And my wellsping of hope cannot be eternal.

I'd like to instead use this time to create a story that helps and heals. To give someone that gift that I have recieved so many times in reading. I'm not sure whether I have the power or mind to do that. But I feel compelled to try. I've never wanted to build bridges, or work in a shop, or sell things, or count money, or drive buses, but I've always wanted to write, to see the less obvious truth of things, and to help people in a more spiritual or psychic way. A story teller.

I am afraid of trying of course, self doubt creeps in, what hardships have I really had to endure that give me the right to act as a voice for humanity, what do I know of life having never know hunger, or lasting pain or discrimination. But I suppose I don't have to have all the answers, and I don't need to reach every person. Narrow my aims, write something the resonates within me, that I think is beautiful, even if its sad and awkward, underdeveloped and poorly expressed, just to create something that is solid and firm, and starts and finishes and is complete. Like nothing else I have done in my life thus far. I have to stop sitting on this barbed wire fence. Its starting to get uncomfortable.

So I'll write a few ideas here and there include them amongst my Crossing Spain entries. No really, I will. I promise myself. 

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

XIV. Money

I can feel the dying embers of my bank account haunting me.

That fear I have of having no money is starting to find its thwarted gravelled voice.

I know I have more opportunities than many, due to my so called first world citizenship. But the fear remains, of failing, probably more so then, of starving. Of not having the money to give a life of love and happiness to my children. Of not ever acheiving even a handful of the things I dreamed of. So it is my arrogant ego then, my fear of becoming a desperate poverty stricken tracksuit pant wearing, bad haircut having outer suburb single mother. I may as well start smoking.

Money won't cure my shallowness in wanting to defy a stereotype that can only touch me if I permit it.

And I'm not one to chase money. In reality though, we all chase it. According to some grand scheme devised by a number of uber-wealthy leacherous soulless greedy world dominators. So say the conspiracy theorists.

Do I really have no individual power? Am I a mind numbed slave to a system I can't even see. Stepping blindly down the predetermined path for me. Exchanging my one shot at life for cash. If that's the case, it makes me sad.

And so does my bank account. Like I'm looking over my shoulder when I step out the door. Life costs. I can't say yes freely, there are sums to do first in my head. I see now why my grandparents were so different in spirit, they lived through a major economic depression and it changed them.

Again, I come back, to finding the light of life within me as my guide. I must shirk this heavy cloak of desire for material wealth and remember the simple aspirations. Remember my grandmother's resourceful hands fixing all manner of broken things.

Remember the beauty of inexpensive rituals and games. Remember I no longer have to bear witness to my naive oppressor. Remember that the freedom to be yourself, even if that self is ill-defined, shaky, brittle, running on an oily rag, is better than living a life in a state of constant negativity and a vigilant resistance to your attempts at self expression. Or have I just swapped one kind of oppressor to a more systematic one?

I'll turn my back on that thought. Knife hand strike through its threatening heart. I will be budget conscious. And fabulous. And jump and jump and not be worried about always landing on my feet.

Thursday, 16 August 2012

XIII. Secrets

seem to have a penchant for secrets. Small packages of information I keep for myself, within my imagined velvety red breast pocket, or perhaps under my pillow of softest feathers, to take out and thrill over when I need the hit.

Like reading erotic fiction late at night when all are sleeping, like pleasuring yourself when no one is home, like having a secret virtual friendship under the domestic roof, like walking home alone in the middle of the night, and of course, like writing an anonymous blog about highly personal issues. Little secrets. Am I cowardly not to be open about these things, afraid of being shamed. Or am I creating a sense of rebellion,  resisting those who will define me. Issuing a haughty fuck you to those who seek to entrap me by their own definitions. Women can get lost in the textural forests of their sexual desire.  And love it. My secrets are my catch cry. I am malleable, a chameleon, a changeling, a performer and you will not stop my whirling motion. The part of me that is constant is small and deep within. My very core. My visceral home. It is mine alone. 

In my whirlwind, I try things on for a time, costume myself, perform, and I seek to be watched and visible. Every performer wants an adoring audience. I was in an elevator this afternoon with several men and I happened to be sucking on a lollipop. I put on an innocent little show. Subtle, but thrilling, perhaps cliched. But even reenacting the stories of cliche can provide some pleasure. Like walking on the wrong side of the tracks. 

Would I want someone to be able to read my mind, to have complete openness, a channel of free flowing communication. One being you would perhaps become. Is mystery the active ingredient in love? The cosmic black holes of another's soul that you pour yourself into. 

Well now, look at that, obviously I'm not so great at keeping my secrets. 

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

XII. 23

He is an angel with perfect skin yet faulty vision. His birthday today. 23. Vulnerable, silly, the quaintest way of seeing the world. Old fashioned, like a loving grandfather, in his charm. I would have him read me story after story with his soothing voice that covers the spectrum of emotions so carelessly, effortlessly. He elicits my smile, one that reaches my eyes. He is like a campfire that people want to gather around to warm themselves. Not a raging fire that burns the skin and causes smokey harassment to the eyes, but a gentle steady vulnerable one, likely to be snuffed out with the wrong kind of weather or bad conditions. I see he is unique, I see an important future for this child man. He rouses in me warrior like feelings of protection. I would fight those who seek to dampen the warmth of his soul. Get my already gnarled dry hands dirty. I have fallen so far from my path already that I cannot return and be the inspiration to people that I once hoped to be. I have become corrupt. Let him have a life like the one I once dreamed of, a life of honour, should he chose. Let him rise like a mythical tree. I would climb into the arms of that tree like a baby if I could and touch its gentle healing strength but I am afraid of sapping its life source with my greed. No, instead I wish to be his fairy godmother in black mascara.

Sunday, 12 August 2012

XI. Destruction

How do you remove someone, or even some belief that you have held in your mind for a long time, so it or they cease to commandeer your attentions?

Do you need to unravel each fleshy thread of thought that binds their image in your mind, carefully unpicking the most stubborn of knots, wearing your fingers bare from effort until all those threads are free, swishing in the winds of possibility waiting for you to put them to better use. A process that would consume considerable time and take concentrated effort.

Do you simply take out your metaphorical shining blade and slice the threads that tie you to their image. Unleash the deadly guillotine, cut them off and let them sail far away from you so you can no longer see them. Careful here, you might still sense their presence clouding the otherwise perfect horizon. And if you haven't done thus properly, if even the tiniest of threads remain, you'll spend great energy trying to sight them, and pull them back to the mothership, with otherworldly binocular vision and strength.

Do you create a door of the strongest substance and close it with all your might. Lock it, throw the key. Until you muster up another door and fly right through it in a tide of loneliness

Do you gather up all the thoughts you can like chasing a suitcase of money opened and scattered in the wind. Hold them down and throw a match in, watch them burn and bang the drum, beat the earth, dance around that fire until only the lightest ash remains. Your energy expired in the ceremony, you are forced to reach out and grab on to something new to fuel your mind.

Do you jump in the mud of your dreams and roll in it, stuff it in your pores, your mouth, breathe it in, until you can't stand the filth and you are ready to wash yourself clean with warm pure water and dry in white light.

Do you run, so fast, so far, build your endurance, burn your excess, strengthen your muscles, use your lungs, blister every inch of your feet until there is no chance of that ghostly spectre sinking into your imagination again.

Do you take aim with your bow and arrow, and shoot, and keep shooting until you find the perfect missile, with the right aerodynamics released along the correct flight path, in the right time, at the right speed to pierce your hated memories in the weak spot, the deadly strike, the fatal blow.

Perfect destruction.

Yesterday I was willing to try all of these. And then I meditated. For a number of hours. Something I have not done properly for a long time. And I realised some things.

I am not a destroyer, and I don't need to arm myself with countless weapons against past experiences. Already, they are over. Instead, I will trust my mind to heal itself of my supposed loss. It will repair and shape those memories so I can see their beauty and not have to hide from their blinding pain. I just need to breathe in. And out. Yes, I am alone without the vibrancy of my imagined romantic love. But I have life, and my children. And my lifelong friends. And I can walk alone with pride and passion and in beauty and leave my arms open for those who need me.

And if I am not needed, well, I will just soak up the sun, and the moonlight, and the stars, and shine.

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

X. Me and The Hill

I seek small time adventures. The simulation of danger and excitement within the reaches of safety.

I like to feel the fast thumping of my heart, my lungs screaming for sacred O2, the uncertainty as to whether my thighs will support me in just one more step, lunge, stride.

I have a trainer. A kid really at 19. Who makes me run up a hill. As fast as I can. Many times. It's a beautiful hill, gently sloping at first, gathering incline, challengingly steep at the top.

And when you reach the top, and you feel like you have no more, like you are ready to give up and lie down and let the world just run you over, you turn and see a majestic view of a sparkling bay. The ocean has never ever looked so lovely. And you look down the hill at the kid, who is yet to learn about the real hardships of life (I assume) and he calls to you to jog back down because you needed to do it all again. And you borrow from his youth and his innocence and his conviction you can do this, because you can learn from everyone, even the youngest child, especially the youngest child, about the creative nature of people and you can recall the unfaltering self belief you can have in youth, and you make that trip back down the hill to begin the journey again.

With each trip up you grow stronger, you your will becomes more decisive and you take that feeling, that you conquered the hill, you ran it up more times and faster than you thought possible, you take that feeling of possibility, fueled quite possibly by the magic of endorphins, adrenaline and serotoininv surging through your body, your mind and you know you won't ever just lie on down.

But help, sometimes, even from a boy and a hill,  is needed to remind us of the things we should intrinsically just know.

IX. Design People

At work, I'm surrounded by drawings, marked up maps, trace, pencils, computers, music, windows, quirky fashions, hot cappuccinos and people.

Design people.

Those who create our built environment, our structured landscapes, our streets, our infrastructure.

Who take an idea, a sparkle, a speck and make it tangible. Who talk with passion and inspiration. Where making the world a better place isn't an idea to be scoffed at.

What a place to be every day.

I don't really know what I do there. I support, I administrate, try to facilitate. The creative process.

This has been a hard year of life and I've drawn strength from being there. In the big smoke. In my heels and lipstick playing with software and trying to bring out the best in people. If not myself.

Without this inspiring reason to wake up at the crack of dawn, aside from my beloved brown eyed buttons, I think I would have drooped, sagged, buckled under the weight of the emotional warfare I was engaged in.

There's not a one amongst my design peoples who can't make me smile.

Sunday, 5 August 2012

VIII. Too hot to handle

I went soaring off the cliff of reality in my last entry. Carried away by the evocation of unrequited love and sexual possesiveness. My feelings were not consistently so strong for my coveted virtual counterpart but I suppose I slipped my toe in that water at times. I also chose to keep him at a distance, and to use the strength and intense energy that I was able to muster by thinking of him as a catalyst to launch my exodus from my under water marriage. My muse, and I told him so. I moulded him to perfection, to give me power. I was a creative genius in my contruction, my fabrication. But love? No, love requires flesh and attachment.

I need a different fuel now. Or I need to remove the need for fuel. Tap my own fire, integrate my parts, stop thinking that I am alone encased in this skin that grows more flimsy with each day. Be at peace, alive, a gradually evolving, dissolving, remoulding part of this earth.

I went out dancing Friday evening, fired up a little on alcohol and anger.

A man I know whispered in a reverrant tone to me on the dance floor that I was too hot to handle. An awkward phrase delivered in a drunken haze but I was pleased nonetheless with this. I think I have a marauding inner vixen who hungers for every man to fall at her feet and declare their besottedness. BUt the more gracious side of me, who wants to inspire people with her shows of kindness and love, doesn't believe I should desire that kind of attention. Not because of shame of my sexual nature, but because what I seek is power over another individual, to elevate myself, through sexual seduction. To fill some sort of dark void within my soul. To be needed, to be an essential element of the universe. To be greedy for ownership of the hearts of men. To fuel my childish ego.

But hush now, vixen, I want to enjoy expressing my sexuality without having to become the seductress that harms.

Perhaps I'm castigating myself unecessarily. Perhaps it's the years spent living with a judgemental person that has caused me to doubt what is merely natural. I talk about having two sides to myself - the sexy vixen and the heroine of good heart. Why can't these be integrated? Meshed. Interwoved into a striking pattern of femininity.

Woman in Western culture are taught from a young age that they should make attempts at desirable. I rebelled against this in my university years, following my understanding of a feminist ethos. Made myself as unattractive as possible refusing to shave my legs, wearing torn camouflage pants, demanding to be judged by my intellect. It was my very own version of a Burqa, with a different set of cultural implications. A sartorial rebellion. But then motherhood came along and wreaked some havoc on my body and I lost any pride in the way I looked. Became invisible to the eyes of men, and this time, not by choice. It was, surprisingly, hard to take, and not assisted by the overwhelming return of my sexual drive once my babies became young children, and my increasing resentment of my husband, who I hid my sexual self from, less he ridicule me.

And I did not like it. Rightly or wrongly, I craved a lustful gaze. So I fought my way back. Trained harder than I ever had before. Watched what I ate. Learned what make up was for and fell in love with dresses. Reached to be beautiful, desirable. Too hot to handle.

Thursday, 2 August 2012

VII. Addicted to Romance

Cyberspace, once just a glint in its mothers eye, now a fully fledged digitized beast.

A place where relations that might once have just simmered under the surface unacknowledged can slip somewhat sideways and transform slender elegant tendrils of attraction into creeping musculated emotional spines crisscrossing a darkened cyberscape. A space for explorations in romancitism, not romance, without fleshy boundaries.

We had a bit of a student-teacher type relationship in real life. I saw him frequently but we were distanced. I was atuned to his presence, flushed by his attentions and I wanted to use my body and all its power to draw him to me. It was Wrong. I couldn't resist reaching to him nonetheless.

And so it was, occasional business as usual emails turned to longer narrations, which changed to occasional online exchanges to daily exchanges until you find yourself falling asleep each night with your instrument of choice in your hand. The tool that connects you to him. Your iWhatever.

Thousands of written words filtered through the cyber realm between us, mine were awkwardly disguised love letters. My girly attempts to seduce, to romance, to attach, to enter under his skin sideways. I wrote myself, my heart into everything I sent him, even in the most frivolous of messages. I opened, I floated in the safety of his acceptance of me, I played with my words and thoughts, I blossomed under his attentions. And he took it all, chewed it up and grew fat on it. But perhaps it's like hurling a large ball of barely held together stardust through the realm. By the time it reaches it's destination it has dissipated to a speck. A poor incarnation of what it was intended to be. Dull chatter, not the gorgeous deep sea I was swimming in. I know I veiled the intensity of my feelings, hid it within my words, but I thought he would understand. That our connection was balanced. I was incredibly foolish in my investment.

What was probably just a fairly innocuous friendship was elevated in my mind due to the extreme circumstances that swirled around it. Firstly by my anonymous attacker who somehow had insight into our fledgling friendship, and then by my ex-partner's anger at the perpetuation of the virtual friendship after I removed myself from physical contact. It was cruel and selfish of me to continue but my need had become greater than either my empathy or good conscience. It was a panacea to the pain of having separated from my children, part of the time.

Time passed, words flowed and I longed to touch, to pass back over to the other side but his desire was insufficient, his courage lacking and there were risks, threats. I was trouble with my vengeful ex-partner monitoring my every move, invading my private world, when the opportunity arose. That was my fault, my loyalty, my passive nature and even my fear of the unknown didn't allow me to strike a final killing blow into the heart our marriage. Small deceits instead, which barely perturbed his pursuit. So in the dark, in the realm he kept me like a shameful secret.

I am many things and I have taken my knocks. But I require more than that in return for my affections. And I sensed, there was another in his life, the real life, which I was now removed from. And in anguish I shut the door to protect myself.

Retrospect pains, I see now that he was just passing the time over the months of our writing to each other, waiting for the slight blonde girl he really wanted to become his. Whose arms I imagine he rests in now. Whose hands he took in his in the sunshine while I was left holding the weight of those disfigured emotional cyberspines that each now led to a dead end. And I held on to them for far longer than I should have until a chef, of all the trades, showed me how to let them go. When a virtual friendship ends, there is nothing to show that anything of value ever existed. Doubt about its authenticity and meaning hovers. Our friendship was invisible but has nonetheless left scars, created with the white hot crystal forged in the digital realm.

My love thrown into the vacuous winds threading through the valleys of the cyber realm like predators. What a waste.

But I learned that I can be the lover. And I found some long forgotten parts of myself through our exchanges.

Tuesday, 31 July 2012

VI. Disappearing footing

I need to disentangle.

I need to stop taking walking towards him only to find he has, even without knowing, laid a very simple trap for me to fall through. And I go down through the same old dirt every time, dust and anger coating my tongue. Blood sometimes too as I bite down to temper my retaliation.

The fact that he is not really aware of what he does, makes it harder for me to recognise. There's no preemptive signal to guide me. I am travelling safely and then I am gone. I am weak, susceptible, playing the victim. I am an open, trusting and simple. Or perhaps lying to myself. He's labelled me a cheat, he's labelled me selfish, a bitch. Who am I to say otherwise.

What I need to understand. No, more than understand, believe with every fibre, is that our two realities don't need to align. His structured view of the world, borne from a strongly indoctrined and stringent world view doesn't allow for my different way of seeing the world. When he judges he does so with convinction that he and he alone is right. I have no such convictions, being fluid, full of somersaults and fence sitting behaviours.

I am told it is bullshit that I am attending a work function in lieu of watching my son's football match. Which I normally attend every week. And see my child for an hour. Before he goes off again with his father. I am told that it is uncomprehensible that I would even imagine doing such a thing. And my explanation of the night's activities is met with deep sarcasm. I will never meet his expectations and his judgements are always harsh. He points his finger at me in the most veiled of ways. I am left with the feeling that nothing I have ever done has been good enough. I shouldn't give him this power. I must shrug my shoulders and think, this man, the one I lived alongside with for so long, is entitled to his judgements. My skin must grow thick, rough and unattractive. I am made of air now and everything seems to strike at me in the most direct of lines. No resisting force to counteract. My tolerance is a bottomless lake created through earthly shifts. Tectonic plate type movements.

As a fire sign, you would think I would just burn the recurrent verbal abuses to ash as they come my way. But my fire is a constructive warming force. Passion for life that raises me in the morning. The epicentre of my life force is fire filled. Which is another way I suppose of saying that I have a fire in my belly. None of my words or expressions in this blog have been unique. This is supposed to be about improving my writing but I'm getting caught in the therapeutic process of expressing my pain. There aren't too many avenues for such things. Perhaps prettier language will come with time and patience and hardwork.

So a mantra for myself today is required. I am a beautiful and earthy woman and mother. I will love and tend to my children in my unique way. I will not give them a pantomime of what others think a mother should be. I will give them me, and nothing less.

Monday, 30 July 2012

V. Desire

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”
Frederico Garcia Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma

Ruling emotions change with time. Now, sex and desire have become strong driving forces. I am ascending to my peak, fearful with the knowledge that on the other side of the peak, there is decline. Loss of this life force that so strongly filters, alters, injects into my thoughts and through my body seems unbearable. And so a panicked desperation resides alongside my sexuality, it is no longer leisurely, the time for the most passionate experiences of my life is now.

There are people who come into your life who become a focus for your desire. A shadowy barely legible magnet for the force of your passion which shifts the sands of their being to your liking. Creativity, imaginings, longing, pain all stream through the lines of communications within your body with your knowledge of them, however small that might actually be. It is hard for the noise of others to interject into these sweeping uncontrolled emotions that permeate every moment of your life. Even the whispers of children get lost on the this spiralling wind. When this happens to me, I am overcome, so much so that its hard to actually be in the company of the desired one because I feel it must be so obvious that I am aflame with my want for their touch. Reaching for their love, in whatever shape that might come. Attempting to open myself up and embody the most beautiful expression of feminity so that I might be loved by a stranger. What is it to know someone? Is it enough to have memorised the lines of their body and the timbre of their voice. To have looked into their eyes. Read countless of their words upon a screen. I ridicule myself for my infatuation. It's not real, it's a creation of my mind, an illusion that has served to remind my of my need to be not only the beloved, as in my marriage, no matter how ineptly demonstrated that love was, but to be also the crazed lover. The lover overcome, vulnerable, open and brave.

The lover who risks the pain of not having that love returned, who doesn't keep quiet about their love but attempts to lay its silky fleshy imperfect threads in a near perfect pattern before their chosen one. To find it is left, unravelled, untouched, in its beauty. 

Dangerous to love someone thoroughly when you are in the throes of having forgotten about the value of your own heart.