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.