greenstorm: (Default)
Hi you,

It's been awhile.

Did you know that "hi, you" is one of my dad's greetings? It's so laden with tenderness and familiarity, though, despite all my dad stuff. It's like 'punkin' is what mom called me, and 'kidlet', and so those get passed on.

I've missed you. I think of you sometimes but it's never convenient to get together with you. I was going to borrow Elwood's iphone keyboard to see how I like it. That might help. Still, there are only so many hours and so many thought cycles in a day.

I've been a busy girl. I've been thinking about a lot of things. Much has happened, little shifts: I'm back to change in my life, away from that curious stability I'd achieved during my first term of school. It's slow shifting, somewhat controlled so far, almost more an exploration than a change-- but when you travel along a road even just for curiosity's sake, well, you end up further along the road.

What's been changing? Well.

School's been getting more intense. There's been more homework and it's been harder to retain things-- there are no plants courses currently, just fish & wildlife courses, and my brain isn't as fresh as it was when I started this thing. I'm working harder for less result-- but it's okay. There's the fire control course, which is fun, and there are some neat things in some of the other classes. It is, however, wearing me down.

My learning-joy is mostly concentrated in the Latin course right now. The Rosetta Stone stuff is so well done, it's as addictive as a video game, plus the language is a complete joy. It sounds right, I'm not sure how to convey that. English doesn't spring from Latin, there's not much in the way of directly transferable knowledge, but Latin floats in our cultural background so that a lot of it is familiar like old music you haven't heard for awhile. Sometimes a connection will come up, either in the learning process or a cross-connection to something I know in English or plants, and my whole brain lights up light a Christmas tree all at once, like a mental orgasm. I haven't had that feeling since my plants course at BCIT, basically, and then not really so often as all that. Plus, Michael is doing it too-- he is one of the very few people in the world who I think can work his way through or around my competitive/perfectionist thing so I'll actually be able to start speaking with him. It's lovely.

Dipping a tiptoe back in poly waters in a very low-key way; keeping an eye on Michael and Angus as I do it, because more people means much more potential for complication. Decisions are based almost entirely on practicality here; my heart is full, at least for now, and so I'm looking for fun play and low drama and low investment. I have hopes in this regard.

Speaking of dipping toes back in things, I've been hanging out with Kynnin, well, it's been four times in the last month at this point. While it doesn't look like it'll be a once-a-week routine, it may just not fizzle out and fade. I'm monitoring my buy-in and his return investment, I'm not afraid to talk about that if something feels like it's going sideways for me, and I don't intend to sit around feeling bad if we don't regain some sort of ....renewed friendship or whatever you call it. Having said all that, it's a soft and lovely thing to be able to talk to someone about our shared past, to be able to draw a line from there to here and wander the distance between, and to see just how he has unfolded in that time. It's also amazing to me to be with him, to care for him so much my flesh could shred itself on the feeling, but not to love him. Last night I had dinner with him and then visited with Michael and the contrast between those two feelings was stark, intense, and perfectly clear. Who knew that such a thing was possible?

I am coming, still and again, to realise how important routine is to me. I like things to be steady, predictable; a good life for me is full of routine like a cage to contain my chaos. I like weekly visits; I like predictable activities; I like repeated patterns. I do not like things ducking in and out; I do not like juggling things around at last minute (though it's sometimes worth it).

I'm hoping that these changes don't make everything fall apart. I need to devote some time and energy to things: taxes, planning next year (I WILL need to figure out how to get through next year while working less), little life housekeeping things like that. I really like my life now, with just enough change to keep me from getting bored-- though I do admit that it's enough to keep me scared stiff sometimes --and I'd like to to more-or-less continue as it is.

Well, time to eat dinner. Be well, all y'all.
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))
greenstorm: (Default)
Cowboy Junkies Anniversary Song

Have you ever seen a sight as beautiful
as that of the rain-soaked purple
of the white birch in spring?
Have you ever felt more fresh or wonderful
than on a warm fall night
under a Mackerel sky,
the smell of grapes on the wind?
Well I have known all these things
and the joys that they can bring
And I'll share them all for a cup of coffee
and to wear your ring
Read more... )

I'm wearing my necklace again. My life is full of circles in circles in circles.

This is the necklace that was my father's, my biological father's and not my dad's. It came to me when I was fourteen, and I didn't take it off for a year or two after I got it. Then Kynnin went to France, and I put it on him then. He didn't take it off for a very long time. It traded back and forth between us, an amulet of protection, and there is protective power in it for travellers. I had set it aside; he gave it back to me a time after the split, and I wore it for a few weeks then as I laid my ghosts to rest. Now I'm travelling again, and it's needed.

In my plaster body casts from the time, it's there-- I wouldn't take it off even for that.

He gave me the lyrics from this song, too, on a piece of paper, with a poem he'd written on the back. When I speak of being emotionally unsafe, of implied promises that aren't spoken but that are still *there*, this is the sort of thing I'm speaking of. Afterwards we said, 'it was our intention, but we never promised'. We'd promised, though, in our own beginning, awkward, subtle ways. I try very hard not to make promises like that now, the little secret ones that creep in by implication. It doesn't seem fair to me. If I can't say something up front, I shouldn't say it at all, and those are big promises to even hint at.

So then one day in the winter, Bob plays a song out of the blue and it's that song. This was one of my favourites he says. I lost it for a little while.

The next day, I see, is a post about Juggler and I breaking up. Circles on circles.

I would give you two Van Morrison songs, Jackie Wilson and Coem Running To Me, but Bob's mouse has died and I'm not going to start up my computer at 3am just to post songs. This is a more-or-les shappy interlude, though (I haven't been up to do midnight computering for a long time) and I don't want to leave an icky taste.

I'll go back to bed now and see you at the farmer's market tomorrow, or wherever we end up.
greenstorm: (Default)
Here I am. Computer room's arranged to I sit on the bed crosslegged while I'm on my computer-- I like beds, or the floor, better than chairs. I don't spend enough time on here for it to matter to my back. Directly behind me is an open window, and if I wanted I could lean out and touch an amelanchier or one of the weeds that's grown up around it. There's sunlight out there, but the sun hasn't swung around to beat on the window so it's still cool in here. A tiny sliver of sunlight comes in onto the bed, across my unicorn. In an hour it will be a wide streak, and then a big pair of irregular squarish shapes. After a little longer, the beech tree will block the light some, and dappled shade will come in. The leaves cast dancing shadows at the right time of year.

I can't lean out the window, though. I rarely wear enough clothing to be street-worthy while I'm insid and we're pretty close to a busy transit station, so even if I didn't get under the skin of my amazing italian neighbors there'd be a group of people passing.

I'm getting older. My birthday's never really been the occasion for me saying that with any sort of weight until this year. August 12th is coming up, that weekend bringing my birthday and that of my boyfriend and one of my best friend's, as well.

I don't feel lyrical anymore. I do, I don't observe. Words come harder to me. Situations are less this word and that word than they are simply a complex sensory experience, where my mind is a sensory organ to detect my thoughts. My actions don't spring from a long line of reasoning, so much, as they do from simply old reactions to things that have crystallised into consequences, into a future extension of my actions that I can feel as much as I feel the action itself. This, writing here and trying to carve the thoughts I'm feeling into prose, it feels jagged and blocky. I might be trying to rip a complicated picture out of the newspaper, and it tears this way and that way, cutting into the image here and leaving extra chunks of irrelevant words there.

I've been spending time with people who are younger than I am lately, on and off over the last month or two. Not just one person, but a couple, and in a conversational context. That's very rare for me with the exception of my brothers, and my brothers don't really count for anything because I love them so unreasonably much and have known them for so long that they don't *change* anything.

Now, though, something's changed. I'm carrying a weight. I had calculated the total number of years of relationships I've been in, if you were to take all my serious ones and pretend they were end-to-end instead of an overlapping mishmash. I'm twenty-five years old, almost twenty-six, and the total number of relationship years is something like twenty, easy. No, it's not the same thing as starting at six years old, but it's a significant thing. I'm trying to say that each one has graven things deep into me, and when the total result of all these engravings is looked at from right here, from this particular day and the days right around it, there's a pattern.

No person has ever been just a pattern to me. No person has been anything other than deeply exciting and new and different and interesting. Still, en masse they create this echo. The weight of the endings presses down on beginnings. The weight of beginnings sets certain things apart, gives details an odd significance or obscures them. Sometimes memory fragments whisper through, fairly often in fact, and I find myself thinking with a bittersweet whisper this one reminds me of Jan's idealism or Sasha was that eccentrically charming or, most devastating, Kynnin was this sweet.

Now I'm sitting in front of the computer crying and I don't even know what I'm trying to say. It's something to do with hope, and something to do with the weight of the past. It's something to do with seperation of people and with integration of experiences. I guess it's balanced. No ending is the end of the world to me anymore, even if it feels like it, even if it knots up inside like it is. You can't have too many ends of the world before you pick yourself up and all you have is dry tears on your face and a sheepish expression. So there, my mind has a gentler low with these endings, emotion but not a storm of identity and self-worth and broken habits so much. The opposite is also true, that's what I've been trying to get at. Hope isn't as high anymore, though it might be fuller. The sadness of endings is fuller too, I suppose, because I understand more what I'm losing (though I also understand what I am gaining).

I remember moments, lying there, where I thought to myself please let me remember these few seconds that hold such transcendant beauty and I can never be sad or lonely again, having lived through this. I even remember some of those moments. I still have them, and I still want to etch them onto the uncertain mass of memory that I carry with me. I no longer take them to mean anything about my future, though. It makes them perhaps more precious, things whose purpose is *now* and not *later* so I can immerse myself fully, but...

Where I am right now, this vaguely chaotic mid-twenties partnership in a rented sunny house with a mismash family of pets and a stable partnership that feels like a handrail on a flat sidewalk or like a hammock hanging over a soft lawn, I've wanted fiercely to be here all my life. I had thought I would be here with Kynnin, maybe with a kid, but the shell of it is the same. I thought that for eight years. Now I'm here with Bob, and it's what I wanted, what I still want, though not perhaps for much longer. I'm happy here, and I used to believe I could be neither here nor happy with anyone but Kynnin.

The individual moments are unique, of course. The feel of the hand in mind, the details of lounging around in the mornings, the way we speak and make love or just fuck, the personal idiosyncracies are all things that cannot be replicated by anyone except the combination of Bob and I.

In the end it all adds up to this enormous sense, when I am with someone, that it doesn't matter very much. That this which we share right now is wonderful, but it has a beginning and an end, and if not you, then someone else sometime else. There's no edge of desperation, no feeling of completion, no ability to fully lie myself down and surrender to the chain that begins with the feeling and ends with you are the most important person in the world and everything will be alright now.

And that, I suppose, is why I feel older. Cause I am.


Nov. 5th, 2006 12:29 pm
greenstorm: (Default)
One for greatpoets. I didn't know he'd written anything like this. I really like Donne's turns of phrase, even though normally I'd find this sort of rhyme and meter way too trite and neat-sounding-- especially given the subject matter.

Confined Love

Some man unworthy to be possessor
Of old or new love, himself being false or weak,
Thought his pain and shame would be lesser,
If on womankind he might his anger wreak,
And thence a law did grow,
One should but one man know;
But are other creatures so?

Are sun, moon, or stars by law forbidden,
To smile where they list, or lend away their light?
Are birds divorced, or are they chidden
If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a-night?
Beasts do no jointures lose
Though they new lovers choose,
But we are made worse than those.

Who e'er rigged fair ship to lie in harbors
And not to seek new lands, or not to deal withal?
Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbours,
Only to lock up, or lese to let them fall?
Good is not good, unless
A thousand it possess,
But doth waste with greediness.

John Donne - 1572-1631

Which reminds me about something I've been meaning to record for a bit. Y'see, last weekend I made a venture into something very slightly almost-kinda monogamy-or-at-least-closed-relationship-like and it triggered some self-reflection.Read more... )

Some Starts

Nov. 2nd, 2006 05:53 pm
greenstorm: (Default)
Just stuff.

Beginning Point:Read more... )

Start One: Eulogy. I've never known a grief to end. I think possibly there is no end to the deeper wounds and tears; they simply diminish, revisit, cycle through sadness and nostalgia forever. If I'm lucky I've only lived a third of my life, Read more... )

Start Two: Accusation. You weren't there in my dreams last night. I don't know if I've ever dreamed of you. You were always there, until you disappeared. Read more... )

Start Three: Bewilderment. Why am I crying now, so much later? How can the world pick you up and spin you around so very much in just a few seconds? Read more... )
greenstorm: (Default)
I started bleeding Thursday

I dreamed about Kynnin last night. He was about thirty and had a tan.
greenstorm: (Default)
or, Irony and Maybe Bitterness

I'm feeling very strange. I suppose I'm starting to go through another transition period, with a fairly stable time behind me. I know I've been keeping very busy as one way of dealing with things, and I'm starting to want to shrug off the busy-ness in a very real way now. Weird things are bubbling up in my mind, and I suppose that makes a lot of sense.

Kynnin has obtruded himself upon my attention about half a dozen times since Monday, most lately as my highest-ranked match on okcupid (, where your exes are always on top!). I have to admit, I'm having trouble dealing.

Over the last couple of months I've been a little bit paranoid again, less so more recently, but not as well as I've been over the, oh, year and a half before that. I think that part of this is my mind being a tiny bit broken, but more of it comes from a lot of experience with situations where people said one thing, and meant (or were) another. Sometimes this was dishonesty with me, but more often I experienced people being either dishonest or unobservant with themselves. I would often make this whole thing worse by demanding things that were not available, forcing a choice between my distress and honesty.

In situations where I've experienced that, I have a lot of difficulty believing sincerity. I tend to think that everyone I meet will be like the people I've been with. In the last while-- especially with the Chrises, Juggler and CrazyChris, and with Tillie --I've been spending time with people who are reasonably self-knowledgeable, who are dependable but not neurotically so, who are honest and not spiteful or malicious or willfully ignorant. I've had no reasons to be paranoid about their behavior or motives, and so I've been in a good place.

Insert fortuitious picture here: Read more... )

My relationship with Graham is a little iffier, given that he's just not as knowledgeable about himself in the context of a relationship. He's honest, and he's pretty good at not committing to something he isn't sure of even when pushed, so I figure we'll learn. My paranoia, however, started returning just a little since the thing with him began.

I don't want to talk about whose fault anything was, because even if I remembered we could likely chase cause-and-effect, behaviour-and-response lines back for generations. The fact is, though, that Kynnin and my relationship created most of my hot buttons for paranoia, and the quad nailed them into place a little more firmly. When Kynnin comes into my consciousness, a very familiar thing happens in my brain. My mind says this:

I miss Kynnin. I liked him, and I love him. It would be cool to talk with him some and see how he's doing. Wait, last time I did that, I tried calling a couple of times, he said he would get back to me, and it's been a year. He has my phone number. Well, he did seem very genuinely glad to talk to me and like he wanted to get together. But, since you moved out, there have been multiple spans of six or more months where you called him three or four times to get together, he said he'd like to and would call me back as soon as he was less busy, and he never did call back. In fact, he never has called you since you moved out of the house with him. Well, he seems to have more time now, he's posting on a personals site seeking relationships. Yeah, but if he wanted to talk to me, he still has my number. I really don't have it in me to go through the song-and-dance of a phone call anymore; I couldn't do it. Well, then, you can't do it, Greenie, and the thing you want just ain't gonna happen. Yeah, but do you remember the time we were sitting in Dad's old office and the sun was shining in and I stood up and said, Greenstorm, that's what I should be called online and he said, of course, that's perfect, that's who you are. That was almost ten years ago. He's different now, I'm different now. Sure, but why are you crying as you type this? I'm crying because I always thought we'd be friends, and he was the first person I trusted, and now he's gone. Years gone.

I work tomorrow. I work Friday, though not for long. I work Sunday too, I think. It feels good to keep busy.

This sadness has come on me in such a sudden storm. I always think it's gone, but it always does come back, after awhile, for awhile. I remember everyone else, I loved everyone else, but there will never be the same depth of regret for them. Not even close.

Not even close.

greenstorm: (Default)
Note: the bottom part of this post is important to me. If you don't want to read th ewhole thing, I recommend going from the ninth paragraph down or so, rather than from the top

It's been a very odd week, all told. Shifts in my lifestyle are a-happenin'. Some of the changes I like, some I don't like, but I think they're probably all related, pushing each other along in a ball of consequences. These are the changes I initiated in the move to Tillie's.

Before last night, I'd slept at home for something like four nights in a row. I may well have not done that for just over a year and a half. It's an odd thing to think about, because right now I'm sharing the little one-bedroom apartment with Tillie, all my stuff is packed, it's the time I could realistically be expected to be away a lot. Instead I make choices which involve me staying at home rather than, say, going to Graham's or Juggler's overnight so often.

Part of this choice stems from a bit of a pickup in the stuff I need to do in my four-day work-week. Things have become more cleanly compressed into those days, so they're very busy, and I need to get so sleep and wake up early on them-- not prime date evenings, and close to pointless with Juggler sometimes because of how late he gets home from work. So, it just makes sense to stay at home and get the sleep I need.

Part of it comes from my attempts to eat more reasonably-- home is where the not-eating-out food is.

Part of it is because of assorted rat stuff-- I want to see my babies more, because I love them, and I also need to do more rat maintenance for the whole allergy situation.

All of the above is compounded by the fact that I can get home every day, so I end up there to do that stuff, and I also go through and feel homey there and choose, often, to cancel things and stay in.

I'm not sure I like some of the consequences-- namely, I'm really not getting much time to slow down and talk to Juggler or Graham. Hopefully this is a temporary thing, caused by Graham's allergies, my weirdness to scheduling, and my busy work-week instead of some sort of "the habit has been broken so it ain't happening anymore" sort of thing. I figure, in two weeks I'll worry a bit, and more after the move, if I still need to worry.

Anyways, this whole thing looks like it's turning into the reason I moved: I want to spend more time at home with my babies I said, and now, after an adjustment period, I am. It's good. It's definite change. It's a shift in th elifestyle I've had for a very, very long time. If it keeps shifting this way, I might be breaking ten-year records. If it keeps shifting this way, I might throw out the phrase distributed living and be some sort of a normal person in this regard.

On an intensely related but hard to link verbally note, I spent a lot of yesterday with Bevan. We walked around downtown and Stanley Park in the rain, getting wet, while I was dressed like a rock start and wearing my contacts. We talked. We then headed back to his place. Now, Bevan is the oldest of four boys. I have three younger brothers who are in approximately the same age range (mine are about two years younger than his). They live in a graciously laid-out house with a dog who is very like the dog I grew up with, and two parents.

I have trouble conveying the way this felt properly. We sat at the big wooden kitchen table by the windows (it's always a big wooden kitchen table, they're harder to destroy) and I drank tea to warm my fingers. Boys thudded down the staircase, thumpthumpthump as they jumped the landings. Bevan did this too. They drifted through the kitchen moodily or grandstanded through as the case may be and chatted. They spoke in brother-speak to each other, where no words were mistaken because these people has learned language together and had so much shared background. His mom made me tea. His dad showed him how to put pizza in the oven.

I remember that for a lot of my life I lived in this, and it was love. Dad wasn't always crazy, mom wasn't always depressed, there were days and times like this when I felt held to the world as if by the thickest glue and I never wanted to struggle. At one point I said to Bevan, if this were my home I'd be sitting here with a book. Do you know how many times I did that, going up and sitting at the big wooden table and reading when supper was being prepared, and the boys would congregate as they got hungry, and the dogs would be under the table, and there was just that sense of people who belonged there? I usually read during dinner, or dad would tell me to put the book away and I'd do it reluctantly for the first five minutes. Our stairs were better than Bevan's, the landings were spaced so you could jump from landing to landing and never touch the stairs once. We had two dogs with nails to click on the floor.

And right now I just sit here typing with my eyes blurred and try to fit words to the situation, and I feel this overwhelming urge to violence, to shoving these memories into your head so that you'll understand, because they're too real and too big and too intense to convey any other way. I don't want to delicately choose words to evoke. I want you to have been there.

Because of this, because of yesterday, an enormous part of my life has been given back to me. Kynnin, I don't know if you read this, but you're the only person outside my family who remembers what my home was like, and that was only after the divorce when we rattled around like peas in that huge house. My own family has burned it out, the bad parts tainting our memoried so that we never go back there and we lose the memories in the shunning.

Bevan's been very good for me in this way twice now. He reminds me a lot of Kynnin, intellectually and physically, and I've rediscovered my enjoyment of abstract talk with him without being too shadowed by memories. Now there's my family.

I'm feeling intensely grateful right now for all the people in my life. I think I have a Big Six now instead of a Big Four: Bevan (as above), Tillie (take the bedroom tonight), Juggler (OMFG a trustworthy boy), Trevor (just liking someone is enough for years and years of friendship), CrazyChris (ironically, reminding me how to be sane with the emotions I'm given), and Graham (for emotional entanglement baybee).

These people are my friends, and also the edges of my soul; they're responsible for my being a part of that vast(ly cliched but real and true) current of humanity.

So there.

Love y'all.
greenstorm: (Default)
You gotta set free what you love ust to bring it back.
Would you ever lose me, would you ever let go for that?
And if the love is real, you gotta let yourself go
Just to bring it back...

I want to tell you about something beautiful.

Oh, how words falter here.

Put the song on. It was playing on repeat. Jan had been over from Germany, it was the first timr we'd met in person, perhaps a week or four days into his visit. It was evening.

We were in the computer room-- Kynnin, Jan, and I. I don't remember how it started. All I know is that Kynnin lay there between us, us sitting facing each other over him, and we touched him, and this song was playing. Sometimes we looked at each other; sometimes we looked at him. This song was playing, and playing, and playing. There was a hundred-watt bulb in a crappy light fixture, and rather nice carpet beneath us. It would have been silent, for all that the song was playing, because time absolutely stopped. We all three were just *there*. There was God and love on our fingertips. I wouldn't even call it sex. The evening drew in very close around us, the world contracted, and the song played. We were just there.

Understand, in the end Kynnin and I didn't get along. Understand, in the end, Jan and I were too afraid of what might happen if we gave in to each other. Understand, this had nothing to do with who they were-- they were people who could freely and joyously and fearlessly fall into an 'us' in an Abbotsford apartment and somehow hole through this mundane skin to reality so deeply in so doing that I will never forget it.


greenstorm: (Default)

May 2017

78910 1112 13


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 06:48 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios