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

XXIII. Bed

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.






Weapon

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.