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When I first came to Vancouver it was fall. A huge windstorm blew up, with waves cresting the seawall in kits and cherry leaves, neon orange and improbably bright yellow with the season, blowing in through every open window.

Now it's spring, and the wind is blowing me out with cherry blossoms and rain. On to my life.
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You've held me for years now. I came to you in the dark, going into winter, and it's coming out of winter into the chinese new year, the one set during the first real feel of spring, that I'll leave you.

There were days in there where I thought we'd never leave but just go on wearing our comfortable habits each into each until we fit perfectly. I've never been the only person who gets to make that choice, though.

People come and go and come again and go, again. My moods, my goals, my desires: they shift and double down on themselves and fade like cream just poured into coffee, swirling and spinning and blending finally one into the other. You are distinct from those. You've been there when I've wanted you, protective and never startling, a shell to keep the storms and the bright sun off in equal measure when shelter was needed. You've been there when I would have rejected you. When I doubted my own sufficiency you challenged me and, when I met that challenge, gave me something at least I could do well enough in my life for someone or something.

I am never too much for you, nor too little. I never worry that I'll do or say something wrong in regards to you, because you are supremely mine in a way no person can be. We dress up together sometimes, or dress down and have a party, maybe with friends and waffles and cartoons or maybe just with tea and muffins as the rising sun crawls through the room.

I know your secrets, you see. I know how at certain times of year, when the sun is low and there is so much dark in the world, you let light all the way inside just for a few minutes every morning to dance across the furthest recesses of your kitchen. I know how during the summer you hunker down and barely let the high sun in at all, but shoot strong cool breezes at that one courtyard window that will chill down the whole house if I work with you. I know the knocking sound of your fireplace starting up and the ticking of gas feeding the flames and the way pools of warm and cool air collect, each in its own room.

I can walk through you at night with my eyes closed and never miss a step.

But: you have always been another's, and it is to that other you will return. My beer and bookshelves will vanish, replaced by her potpourri scents and framed photos. Your kitchen will fall silent. You will recede into memory, fading finally into part of the person who comes after me as you are part of me now. I in turn will go on and fit my skin into another space, will bless another set of walls with my music and my tears, will expand into another shell that will eventually hold me as you do now.

Thank you for everything. You have been very good to me. May it go as well for us both as it has so far, if not better.
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It's been too long since I've written; I have too much to say. It's been too soon since I've written; I can't step back and pick out a pattern.

When I look up from the keyboard I see seagulls picked out in brilliant pink-white by the setting sun, highlighted against a dark background. I have a three-song playlist on: The Lumineers and Temper Trap, Stubborn Love and Ho Hey and I'm Gonna Wait. I've been listening to it for three days, and it's primed me for something. There are two contented rabbits curled up within sight, and a dying rat in the other room. Bananas are frying quietly behind the music, and their smell of caramel and cinnamon matches the golden dying sunlight. I'm in my house, alone. I've been folded open but there's no one here to receive me but you. So, receive me.

Blake is gone. Nothing has changed in this regard except: we've had contact three times or so, tiny facebook exchanges where he sends me a link or I send him a piece of information about the graff I've been brewing. Last night I sent him a bottle of it along with the stuff he'd left here. He sent me a thank you, he'd drink it when he wasn't sick.

That's twice he's let me know when he's in a bad way. I disregard it because I have to, because being a prop for someone who can't support themselves is one of the things I fear most, because I don't want to set precedent, because I don't want to bow to manipulation instead of an open request, because... I choose to disregard it. But it is hard, and it hurts. I love him and I don't want to see him unwell or unhappy. I miss him and although I need so much distance it hurts me in so many places. I feel like, when he hints at being not-so-well, he's extending me trust and I'm proving unworthy of it when I deliberately turn my gaze away.

It's better to feel pain than nothing at all; the opposite of love's indifference.

Blake isn't the only person I'm deliberately turning my gaze from these days. Some things went down with Graydon that weren't okay with me and I had a couple choices; I could put the work into engaging and explaining and processing and fixing, or I could just turn away. I've turned away, left all that hard work and struggle behind me, sought out a different path. So here I am on a path that feels free and unnatural and rubs against my moral grain or my feeling of being a good person who tries hard for people I love. Here I am alone in a room talking to a keyboard.

The future is certainly unwritten. I trust it both more and less than I should, I think. I trust it to bring my people back to me if it can without harming them or me, not just Blake and Graydon but my very dear others who are off on adventures and lives of their own. I know, though, that I've tethered myself to too many people to ever have them all close at once again. I have-- oh, my dears, I haven't told you of my startling, disturbing abundance yet! --I have so much, sometimes my flesh can barely hold in everything I've been given but the absence will also always be there.

She'll tear a hole in you, the one you can't repair/ But I still love her, I don't really care.

I am becoming a magnet again. People are responding to me as if I were January sunshine. I don't think I'm ready for it. I'm trying to be busy living my own life, spreading myself lightly, certainly falling for Dave but also doing too much brewing and dancing alone in my livingroom and being good friends with my amazing neighbour and starting the ball rolling on switching jobs and dating and reconnecting with oh so very many people and reading poetry too late at night and keeping my fridge marginally cleaned out and, and, and...

...and always, at the beginning of things, I can give people what they want. We've been down this spiral of talk before, I can't live here, but I keep coming back to it. I love intimacy with people. I love closeness and the insides of folks when they open up and are such an incandescent complicated irreproducible pattern inside.

People want to be loved. But on the whole they want something more from that love than I can give them. They want safety and there is no safety on this earth. They want strength but my strength is all from personal momentum and cannot be long lent. They want to lay down the burden of their selves but I consider carrying that self a holy act.

All that comes later, though. Right now people look at me and see that I see them. They open up, let me reach in, bare their bellies. I love that they do this. I've been through it too many times not to be afraid. I suppose that's why I love the self-contained ones, people who are aloof and for whom I don't seem like I could ever be necessary.

I'm too tired to continue. I've been crying as I write. I haven't cried like this in a long time. Winter's finally over. As I've been recently reminded, it's time to move to to spring: renewed warmth but also all the rainstorms that drive decay and growth.


Oct. 4th, 2013 06:12 pm
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I still feel it peeking around the edges. It comes when it's inconvenient: when I'm in a crowd of strangers stuck on a rush-hour skytrain, when someone who would be inconvenienced by my breaking down is speaking of something altogether else. I am, of course, a fucking world champion of stoneface when I need to be. I spent many years breaking down that skill, living outside of it, and now a year or two of practice and it's walled me inside.

Inside, outside, apart. I don't know. Metaphor breaks down and I am apart from myself.

I sometimes use music as a tool to break through this. I have not done that. When I had finished the tattoo sitting and Angus came in and I was worn out from resisting the pain I knew it would break when I looked up into his face (so warm! and I can be so, so cold) and it did, but only for a moment.

I think I am avoiding it. I am avoiding some people, for sure, because I'm afraid of being inconvenient. My pain very much wants to be inconvenient, it wants to be a storm or a flood and it won't thus far be contained in a quiet room where I can sit patiently and wait it out.

I find myself fantasizing about a good top who cares about my well-being, someone who could draw the pain out of me (it wouldn't take very much; physical pain is a very open gateway here. I amost broke down in the doctor's office when she drew blood) and revel in the process, who could a big enough, sure enough safe space to contain the storm the first time until it passed a little. I have even thought of asking some people.

But while my pain wants to be inconvenient, I do not. And. I. Feel. Inconvenient.

I guess that's my word right there. Other people don't like to be called bad, or wrong, or irresponsible, or whatever that trigger is that's been built into them. This is the trigger that's been built into me surfacing right now.

It occurs to me that I should think of ways I'd like to feel, words of power for myself. I've been trying during these last two paragraphs to think. I don't want to be necessary, helpful, needed, not even really desired. But-- wanted. I want to be wanted. I want to be liked. I want to be cared-for and cherished. Interesting comes and goes. Correct I reject wholeheartedly. Admired? Yes. I like being fascinated by myself, but not fascinating. I like feeling interconnected, I can tolerate feeling self-sufficient (that is where I'm sliding, these days).

And, I like to feel... sufficient. Enough. For everyone, myself included and especially.

Wanted and sufficient. I'll think about that more later, but for now I will feed myself like a good girl and go curl up under the protection of Kynnin, he who has loved me longest and knows as much about my history as anyone. I am enough for him as I am, and he will not allow me to be inconvenient. So there we are. Maybe I will even, finally, be able to cry a little.

Not A Week

Sep. 13th, 2013 08:33 am
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I haven't been eating enough; I'm shrinking physically, my breasts hollowing a little bit to what I consider their normal size, my belt suddenly another notch too small. I hadn't been eating well; broke and not wanting to go home to where all my food was, that's how it fell out.

Payday happened yesterday, and a counselor's appointment (free through work benefits, my boss doesn't even know) with someone I really hit it off with and now I feel super encouraged about counseling in general. I'm hopeful that I might not have to figure out my hard stuff totally all on my own, with no way of differentiating good from bad resources. The dude actually laughed when I said funny things, or winced when I said painful ones, and answered thoughtfully when I looked him in the eye and said, "do you honestly think..."

Then the rest of my tattoo got lined on. I had thought I'd feel a little sad to look in the mirror and know I'd never see my body free of those lines again, maybe a bit wistful for it sometimes. Right now, I look at myself in the mirror and feel complete. When my shirt rides up by my waist, my body reminds me "a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew". When I wear short shorts, or a short skirt, it tells the world "and enjoy the good of all his labor, it is the gift of God".

How can that not make you feel complete?

I have been reconnecting with so many friends. So many! Crushy architect okcupid boy is keeping himself pretty busy, which is good; I'm not resealing myself to one person. I am migrating back to my dear friends, to my heart, to my web; I feel so loved and people are so gentle to me and so caring. I feel lonely and weird pretty frequently, but I can more or less always text someone if I don't want to sit with that feeling and they will respond.

And some people (like you reading folks who responded) just spontaneously be nice to me. Seriously, guys, it's like being wrapped in the strongest cocoon ever.

So I know this is the crest of a wave. I haven't been sleeping well; date with okc boy followed by a night in the livingroom (Blake didn't want to sleep beside someone who was tainted by the touch of someone else, I suppose) and then another last night. This morning he came out of the bedroom and said I could sleep in the bed with him if I wanted. I do want, but it wasn't the time or place for me to have a discussion about how I had every intention of being an icky dirty slutty slut slut and having sex or sex-like encounters with my friends on and off as I felt like it, and did he want me to disclose that before I took him up on the offer?

My sex drive has apparently woken up. Not surprising, I guess, that it wandered off after being poked by a painful stick whenever it stepped out of line (and honestly, mine is always out of line). Gonna be a challenge to keep it pointed in productive, non-harmful directions. I've gotta remember my pretty fantastic options for lovers are mostly available to me now and not automatically cross them off the list because it's too much hassle to come home to a sad house after.

Um, but I did eat well yesterday, and the plan is to find somewhere better to sleep than my livingroom tonight (Taoshi the rabbit has learned that if she rattles her cage beside my head I will get up to feed her to shut her up, which causes her to rattle the cage more, unless that was Mella doing that). I'm having food with people tonight, so another full meal, and hopefully my stomach will expand to a reasonable size again. I told my counselor that food and sleep were my priorities this week, and he agreed that pretty much made sense (totally by his facial expressions, not some weird formal counselor-language. I seriously love this guy).

And apparently I'm kind of back to journalling. It's pretty damn good right now. You'll no doubt hear when it's not.
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Blake and I broke up on Friday night. He was drunk enough that I felt I had to check in the morning to make sure he remembered. It had been coming for awhile, obviously, but I was hoping it would be a transition rather than a breakup. It still may be. I'm afraid that the timing might break that, or at least delay it. He's been really hurt by my poly-ness, and I'm not feeling like keeping it really under wraps for the rest of the month, till he moves out. I'm not talking about bringing anyone home to the house or anything, but...

...last night was my first overnight date in maybe a year or more? Out of the house for the night, not worried about or checking in with anyone (well, worried about Blake, but I can't imagine contacting him while I'm away would help anything). Also my first new sex partner in over two years. It was fun, and strange, much like you'd expect an unusual experience to be. I'd forgotten how much opacity there is in newness. I'd forgotten what it was like to touch someone as a surface, as I'm still learning to read them, before the skin is merely as close as you can come to the familiar light within. But that's not why I'm here.

I'm here because I'm thinking hard about what happened. I'm here because I don't want to forget, but remembering is so heavy.

He said some things, Friday night, that were terrible. He was in a lot of mental pain, and drunk, and he chose to say terrible things to me. He knew, because we were intimate because I had confided in him, what would hurt me, so he said it. I think at the time he believed it, and it sounded a lot like what my crazybrain tells me in the middle of a bad episode. You don't need to know what he said.

But that moment was the culmination of a very long time of his feeling awful about my doing poly, but assuring me that he wanted me to stay in the relationship and would become ok with it eventually, and of my believing him and still staying with him. I tried reducing my frequency of dates (one every three months!) in the hopes that it would take some pressure off, but it didn't. He could have admitted it sucked for him and left at any time, and I thought hey, as an adult he has a right to decide what amount of discomfort he wants to stay through, and when he will leave. But here's the thing.

He was not enthusiastically consenting to my being poly. And seen in that light, with consent seen not as mouthing of words but as a consistent set of supportive actions and behaviours, he was not consenting. And I was accepting the one in exchange for the other because... well, for reasons that I no longer will, I think. I have been there before, I don't want to be there again. And again. And again. But also I don't want to be there again because I'm tired of hurting people by being with them, just by existing as myself.

I have a network of people who love me enough to ask about my other people sometimes, to be happy for me when I'm happy with them. That's a network of friends/lovers that proves I can still include sex in an intimate dynamic without totally alienating people, even if the relationships are cyclic or rarefied or erratic. I can hold onto those people, lovers and friends, and know that what I want is coming from them, so it's not impossible to find in other people. I don't need to settle for grudging consent.

And by all the gods, I need to remember that.
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Oedipus on Mother's Day by Donald Illich

Hallmark sells no cards for our situation.
I scan the aisle looking for a bittersweet

spot between those for wife, those for
mother. Wife seems too affectionate,

while son feels kind of reserved. I should
kiss you on the cheek when I've seen you

naked, lots of times? Or sit on your lap?
But I'm a big boy now, as you know,

probably too much so. I did find one
for Dad, actually, an apology to you.

A baby on the front accidentally spills
his pudding. A rainbow word balloon

yells, “Oops!” Inside, a puppy licks up
the drops. The text: “Accidents happen.

I hope you can forgive me.” We'll try
to pretend they're not blood. Let's admit,

though, you're glad I'm back this day.
Once you winced at brunch specials

and mimosas, visited places mothers
wouldn't be: sci-fi conventions, cock

fights, rugby matches. We can go out
together on a date, act as if we have

a child at home, baby sat by shepherds,
never left alone, exposed to elements.

Indifference will never be a problem
for us. The only curse we have is love.

That was the poem this morning. I liked it; it suits me: the only curse I have is love.

I've been living on my own for three days. Tonight will be the first night I sleep alone. You might think those previous nights don't count, but already I've learned that if there's no one to protect from my grief by living with me I cry aloud and talk to myself.

The secret to surviving the world is not really ever quite believing in it. Believe around corners, believe at the edges, but never confront the full unflinching weight of it. Douglas Adams said "the one thing you can never afford to have in this world is a sense of proportion". How do we think of his books as comedy?

When I'm alone and crying in the interstice between work and school (I always watch the clock: it's 2:52 and I should be leaving, but can stretch it till 4:30 if I need to) I listen to the things I say: first, into my palms with my face in my hands, I say: okay. Okay. This is how I try to surrender resistance. If there's no resistance there's no pain, is there?

But this isn't about ego. That was crushed out of my quite some time ago.

Next I say, over and over: fuck. I try it louder: FUCK. More quietly, testing: oh fuck. I always wanted to learn to swear well and never did. I thought that colourful language might open me up, vent this pressure inside and release it. I never did learn, but right now suspect it wouldn't help.

I'm too old to pull the darkness all the way over my head and disappear into it. I'm too old to dissolve. All I can do is sit here, in pain, and tell myself that's the way life is. There's no one who would argue with me. We've all been here; we almost all will be here again.

I live in the future, in expectation and in dreams and desire. This hauls me forward along with whatever weights I choose to drag with me along whatever paths I choose to beat through the unknowns of my life. This is why my fingers seek the keyboard so urgently now, why words explode and then falter in a counterpoint to the sobs I have no reason to stifle.

You aren't in my future. I'm not in yours. We've agreed on that time and time again. And I've tried to be open to you despite that, to not fear severance and the pain that will come with it.

Here it is, a moment of pain in a long life. In a month or a year it'll be just that, a moment, and return with less urgency each time I see it. I know that. I've been here before.

And I know too that maybe the point where your life diverges is not this week but later, weeks or months or even years down the road. Who knew this would go on so long, after all, haphazard and circumstantial as it is? And so in this writing I come out of the future where we have already had our last kiss and into the present where neither of us know. I suppose that's always the present: assumptions, but no knowledge of what comes next.

The pain is fading in my ribcage, leaving bruises where it forced itself huge against the bone, and leaving an afterimage.

If I look at the clock (3:14) I don't even have to see it.

I'll sit here looking at the clock for a few more minutes before I leave for school.
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This is going to be a hard couple of weeks. Unsurprising, because when something like this happens the interim always is. Except for late at night my mind can ice itself down, all frozen stone, but my concentration and motivation are still not good. Some assignments that should be relatively easy for school are a struggle.

At night I feel bereft.

I have decisions to make: do I give notice? How can I afford everything?

Spring is coming hard. Buds are opening. I'd like to go for a bike ride and be happy. I'd like to hole up alone in my house and not see anyone except for the folks at school. People take care of me sometimes.

Right now, this moment, I wish I didn't love anyone.

Angus keeps talking about how he screwed up so badly I can't forgive him, or something. At one point I had enough energy to try to tell him that wasn't the point, that I could forgive him anything if he could just godfuckingdamn take the fuck care of himself, if he could work even half as hard to make his life a decent place for him to live as he did at bearing misery. He doesn't understand.

He's angry at me as well, understandably.

The world would be a better place if fewer people bore their misery well. Self-sacrifice is pointed in the wrong directions. It should be used to make things better, not to maintain a bad status quo.

The first green leaves are out on my apple trees on the porch. Enough years of love and it will produce fruit for me. What do you say to that?

I haven't yet begun to feel like a failure for this. I haven't given myself time to think. Life has helped me not to think.

Well. Nothing more to say right now.
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I'm starting to wear down again. I was starting to be burnt out two weeks ago, before the breakup and the rat babies' deaths, and whatever else they may have been those events were a great shot in the arm. I flew, dragged, crawled, and stomped through the last week and a half, but my fight had been rekindled.

Now I'm just wearing down. Eroding in the shower drain, to steal my own image, under this relentless deluge of work and schoolwork. I'm tired. I can't think well-- taking a series of concepts and turning them into a logical, coherent paragraph is starting to require a combination of singleminded focus and dissociative elsemindedness that leaves me staring into space blankly. Writing this, today, is actively difficult because the momentum grinds down between each sentence and midsentence and leaves me, again, staring out over the empty chairs in the main area at school.

Everyone else is done their exams but us.

I'm pretty sure I won't be able to recover cognitive function in time for the next round, but I'm better prepared now, and so that will balance out in the end. At least I'm not worrying about money and whether there will be a next round-- that gift, especially now, is priceless.

There are so many things I could care about or be excited about, but it's so grey out, the fireplace is dead beside me in the great hall, and it really doesn't seem like being excited would change much.
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Everything you know about the world is a lie. Everything you know about yourself is a lie. You tell yourself these lies (you call them stories) to make the world seem explicable.

The world is not explicable. It can be packaged, wrapped, sent, received, and exclaimed over but we are only pretending that the world at the end of the process has a connection to the world at the beginning.

You won't get at the truth of things. You know that. You don't even really try most of the time. You won't get a valid explanation. But you also won't get meaning if you don't make meaning here.

Greenie, your life is stories. You tell others stories and that's how you communicate. You tell yourself stories and that's how you think. Right now your story is that, seven days ago nearly to the hour he told you that you were too much time and energy for him to deal with, that he was quickly losing interest, and that he spit you out of his life like squeezing the soap in the shower and you went careening off and bouncing against the walls. Now you lie over the drain, eroding.

Right now your story is that he's still too goddamn walled off to deal with real help so when he asked you to go over and snuggle -- after telling you he would not do the same for you -- he was taking advantage of you and he's a bit of a jerk for that.

You've got a simultaneous story running. That story is about connection. That's the story where you are a strand in a web, and everyone else is also a strand in that web. That story is where when one person goes down the other strands take the pressure for that person, the net flexes and eventually rebounds. That story is where you are a strand that does not break.

In your third story you're hanging from fraying ropes and he's just handed you an anvil.

You've had so many stories where in the end the hero rides off into the sunset and is never sen again unless you steal a horse and frantically chase after, leaving your own life behind. You've had so many stories where distance is the last sentence. In your stories of yourself you're not interesting enough to keep people nourishing you. In your stories of yourself you demand too much and people go away and they are never close to you again. You don't trust yourself to live a story where you maintain connection without sacrifice.

You don't believe life happens without sacrifice. You believe some sacrifices are much more pleasant than others.

Your lie to yourself is that, because you like someone or find them valuable in your life, that it means something. That's where you find your meaning. Your experience, though, is that how you feel towards people maybe isn't based on anything reciprocal at all. It's not based on their innate goodness for you or their ability to compliment your strengths or teach you things from the way they move through their lives. Your experience is that people come and go and you have no control over that regardless of how much or how little of yourself you give.

You would find it morally repugnant to be emotionally closed to a friend for more than a month or two. You open around people and there's no help for that. God knows you've tried. But also, in a world where you manufacture your own meanings, there is nothing wrong with that. You think that if you call this one way or the other instead of rolling with it you'll lose it, but the liklihood is that you'll lose it anyhow. That's always been the story. You might as well lose it so that you can write meaning into the story.

I understand, though, that then we'd just be writing the same story we've written before: the story where in order to get someone to engage on some level you threaten to go away otherwise. That's the story where you're demanding, the other person is acceding because they don't want to lose you in their lives completely, where you're leveraging any power you have. That's a terrible story and it makes you feel bad. It makes us feel bad.

These are strange seas. I see you're drowning. I guess I'm not much help. I'm not much of a liar. I sat down to write you a brightly-coloured lifesaver to throw you and we've ended up with this swirl of ashy confusion. You can taste the grit between your teeth and it gets in your throat and chokes each gulp of air.

People say it gets better, and it will get better, but you so badly want to live each moment of your life. You don't want to passively wait through it. I understand that. I also understand that sometimes pain and loss is too much, it's just... too much. You've been fantasizing about cauterization lately, about just going in with focus and burning each memory our as painfully as possible until it's all gone. You want it gone. You won't want to have lost it, though.

I'm no help. I have no answers. I'm just the other side on your mental debate on this and it's clear that writing me down doesn't make anything more obvious except that we are, in fact, confused and in pain.

I guess I should stop answering you now. I don't want to, though. It's lonely with no one to talk to.


Dec. 12th, 2010 10:30 pm
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I'm tired of being broken. Tonight I'm drained. All this weekend I've been drained.

I'm tired of feeling bad. I'm tired of crying in the spaces between people walking along the sidewalk and pulling it together for each passerby. I'm not fond of excusing myself to use the bathroom to cry for five minutes, purging the pain as quickly as possible so I can wash my face and return to company. I hate feeling like a lead weight around people. Sitting at home feeling bad would be far worse.

I'm tired of writing about bad things. I am just so fucking sick and tired of it. I want my life back but, of course, that won't happen.

I want advice but I don't want to intrude on people and I don't want to whine.

I want to just sit there with people who will put their arms around me and sit for an hour or two like that. Just that.

I want to stop thinking of him when I think of sex and having my soul melt down into incandescent slag.

Want, want, want.

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More bitter.

He said I took up too much time and energy, which is fair, but oh how it hurts that he's done so many of the things I loved about him and wanted to talk with about him in the how many hours since the chop, and he hadn't done them for so long before, and I can't talk to him about it. More than anything I just wanted to be able to talk.

...well, that and his fingerprints all over me from time to time.
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Ohhhh bitterness. It comes in waves like every part of grief.

Like not feeling good enough.

I'm lucky it's exam time. Much as it seems like bad timing, I'm keeping busy and this is a big part of my identity-- I love knowing things, playing with knowledge, being intellectually challenged.

I am lucky we didn't go through a new years' together. That would have made it harder.

I'm worried about him. He's prone to lows and he may well be in one right now. On the other hand, I'm bitterly jealous when he seems to be happy without me. Still, I'm running with the first set of emotions and just sitting with the second. It'll pass.

I'm already impatient to be over it and on with my life-- at least when it's not late night or early morning, when I could be texting him goodnight or waking up beside him, and when it's not that little space between work and class that I used to steal to spend with him.


I spoke of the beauty of your face
yesterday and today, not often but always;
and I will speak of the beauty of your spirit
and death will not say it is idle talk.

-Somhairle MacGill-Eain
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Near the beginning he said that a writer trying to describe something and failing was more poignant to him than accepting the impossibility of a description and falling silent before the enormity of a task. Sometimes I fall silent, but rarely at times like these.

Maybe that's one of the reasons he likes me.

He does still like me, he says.

Usually I can predict the end. Not necessarily how it can happen -- I never want to look at that space -- but in the days and weeks before I'll cry for no reason, I'll walk up to him in his kitchen and say "when there's no love to tie someone to me I worry that they'll leave me," and I'll start to alternately cling and detach.

He beat me to it this time.

The thing is I didn't expect it to be this way.

The thing is, I knew it would be like this.

I can't ever tell you what it was like. I'll pile up words here and he'll see them and maybe you'll catch sensory images fleetingly and it can never mean anything to anyone like it meant something to me, because though there was caring from his side the love was all from mine.

The very first time I was naked around him I told him the story of my tattoo as he touched it, and he didn't flinch. I said "when you do that it makes me feel loved" and I looked at him, and he kept playing his fingers over those green leaves.

I always looked at his hands. For the masquerade he drew on them, dropped ink and wrote arcane symbols, and that image will never leave me. I wanted to tip those fingernails with the nibs of pens and have him claw letters into my skin. I wanted a picture so I could look at them forever. I will have none of that now. Even when he was doing everyday things I loved his hands. They were more alive and expressive than most people's whole bodies.

I remember the one time I tried to drink away pain-- already, maybe, that was partly the pain of this leaving, and he held my hair back as I threw up into Andrew's toilet and keened and cried and stared past everything. He held me. These days no one else has the strength. I guess he didn't either, when it comes down to it.

Emotionally he was gentler and more methodical than anyone I've known. He had the ability to think through a proposal or a statement and evaluate it, simply that, without reacting. When I let venom creep out, and sometimes it did he simply sat and waited until I sorted out an apology.

He never pursued me. I waited, I invited, and sometimes he would come, but he never wanted more of me than I could give and I never did figure out what it is he got out of the whole thing.

I loved him enough to call myself poly again, to hurdle through inconveniences, to push open space where there was none. I crowbarred time out of days that contained no free time at all.

I will always remember him sitting in the middle of the bed, hugging himself, his mouth a flat line, saying that loneliness was "unavoidable". That was months before he told me, today, that since he didn't love me the whole thing would inevitably fade-- was in fact doing so already.

I loved every inch of his body-- defiantly, sometimes ashamedly, but with so much heat it still burns me to think about. Rejection may well fade that, we'll see.

He was a really fucking good kisser.

Sometimes I was sure he loved me. When I was upset he'd meet me at his door and hold me, he bought my favourite cookies and brought them out for me, he did little sweet and attentive things. Then his attention would wander and the illusion would be lost.

We never were the same person. There was never any question of being swept up into him, aligning my mind with his, becoming him. That's one of the reasons I love him. I love people my personality can't overpower. Still, near the end, a couple of times when we were lying together sweaty after sex, I couldn't tell where I left off and he began. Even then I knew it was only me feeling that way.

It brought me so much joy to do things for him because he has a gift for appreciation. He was not, like I was, raised starved for love and attention and care and so unlike me he doesn't lap it up in hungry gulps-- but nothing I did went unnoticed, nothing done deliberately failed to please him. I made him French toast and rubbed his back and sucked his cock and it delighted him even though he didn't love me.

I think he took joy in me, just me for myself, sometimes but like I said I don't know why. I know what it is most people seek in me. I think he wasn't seeking, just allowing.

He was always opaque in the extreme to me in the beginning. Slowly his face began to open and I could read it-- now I think I can from across the room. I still can't deconstruct his motivations but I think perhaps he can't either. He's young. I have no idea where his journey will take him.

His mind is beautiful when he let it come out to play-- like clear glass held up to morning sunlight in the spring. There is such clarity there and such a beautiful force and shape. He has an unshakable integrity of self that my handful-of-sand soap-in-the-shower personality can only contemplate with awe. He is scared of so many things, but those fears are like droplets clinging to an umbrella-- shaken off or dried, they're not the person himself.

I could never tell if he liked me.

He had infinite patience with me. When I was feeling insecure I'd text him and ask if he still liked me and he'd answer yes. I could feel that forthright.

Especially in the beginning I felt I could be candid with him like no one else. There was, after all, nothing to lose. I wrote in a journal and gave it to him, he wrote back a little but he never had it in him to open like I do. There are many journals, not as many as I'd like. I suppose now I have nothing to lose, I can write again.

He was my Watcher from behind the stump growing up, the person I talked to, not expecting an answer, but because I needed to feel like some entity somewhere saw and registered my existence.

I thought he was going to fall in love with some girl and run off with her, but he didn't wait for that. Faced with a downward trajectory he decided on the axe. I've made that decision before. It is faultlessly moral.

Now I will count him as one of my friends. I hope -- and I was wrong last time I hoped, but still -- that he will be one of the steadfast ones who resurfaces with the turns of the wheel. I hope he still lets me lean when I need to.

I do still need to lean.

“So what is Hell?”

“A place where there’s something you can’t let go of,” I said.
greenstorm: (Default)
I view possessiveness, both the physical and mental 'you are mine' attitude, exactly how I view rape-- really super hot when it's consensual, or when you're playing. Explicitly: Read more... ) I put this in the same category as wearing a collar for someone, letting someone touch my collar or even wrap their fingers around my neck in any way (collar symbolism hits me very very strongly), and also in the same category as saying I'm yours or letting someone else make any decisions about my body-- from what I wear or whether I shave something to whether I can sleep with someone or am allowed to orgasm.

That is to say, I don't mind a relationship with implied ongoing consent (and can often love it) as long as I can safeword out when I need to. I may not need to, but I need to know I have the option-- and I always assume I do.

Needless to say, this wreaks havoc in conventional romantic relationships. It's been an ongoing issue, though I have had the blessing and immense pleasure of dating many people who, with a fair bit of personal effort, adapted to this and figured out ways to fit me into their lives anyhow.

On the other hand, people who have come close to me are undeniably a part of me, have undeniably marked me. That's another part of ownership, it's in the depths below conscious thought and so doesn't trespass so easily on my ability to make my own decisions. Here's something you don't know: it's been years since I wrote this but I still think of people I love very much and who I want to be in my life solidly and forever as bedmates and companions and spiritual partners and co-conversationalists and as another wing on my soul as 'my Kynnin's, like someone else would say 'my love'. It's a fingerprint-- like you can't avoid leaving fingerprints when you've been playing in the mud, you cannot avoid leaving fingerprints after a relationship that long when it's your first.

I was going to talk about other marks from other relationships-- I have so many. There has been so much love and intimacy and sharing in my life, so much intertwining. I've been wandering through old posts, though: this and this (and I suppose I do still believe that 'people throw you away'- not all fingerprints are quirky or shiny).

Oh, look how I fracture, how I coil up inside. I remember this:

Speaking of desire--
to dive into life like a wave
not sure about coming up for breath;
how a kite is nothing
without string.

I have thought that so often in the intervening years. A kite is nothing without a string, it just stuck there. A few weeks ago I started thinking a kite without a strong is a bird. It just changed, like that, a personal epiphany of some kind.

Oh, and there's the intimacy post.

And there's the most beautiful and meaningful exchange I've ever had with my mom, whose fingerprints are all over me.

There was
the head-shave.

I am reminded to read Kazuo Ishiguro's books again. I am reminded of the quote by Henry Morgantaler: "My father told me it was possible for everyone in the world to have a different opinion from you and you all to be right." I am reminded that I once wrote: "oh, fuck, hopefully I don't need to cut everyone I've had deep feelings for away just because they're emotionally unavailable pricks. Or, wait... hee. Okay. Hopefully everyone I've ever had deep feelings for aren't emotionally unavailable pricks."

I remember this poem: Read more... )

and posting this in response. I was not writing to anyone I then knew, perhaps no one I now know, perhaps no one I will ever know.

This was my first post about CrazyChris, who is still in my life (though not as a lover) and who still loves me, and who I still love very much. (In a later post about him I wrote: we'll just call him Chris. Not PretentiousBlonde, not EnviroDreads, but just Chris. Thus is my life made easier.)

I remember this, and when I read it I can safely say I am closer to achieving mastery of my life, but life is still not always safe.

This post is getting incredibly long, rambling, and inward-looking. It's been the proverbial walk down memory lane, it's been a wander through places where I no longer reside, and it's beautiful. My life is, and has been, beautiful.

I will leave you with this and a song: Read more... )
I will leave you with an image of me as a machine built, in my muddled way, to love things. And I will leave you with a poem and go out into the world:

There is earth
that never leaves your hands,
rain that never leaves
your bones. Words so old they are broken
from us, because they can only be
broken. They will not
let go, because some love
is broken from love
like stones
from stone,
rain from rain,
like the sea
from the sea.

-Anne Michaels

(but I'll tell you a secret: I like it here. I don't want to go into the world quite yet; I'm just getting bored with my own voice and there's no one else here)

((but for the sake of completion, which is an illusory and ever-retreating goal but perhaps means something, I will say: if you read all this, follow all these links, how can you doubt that I am the only one who can own the root of my being? Even if I give it, I am giving it; how could anyone else even really know what's there? There has been so much))


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