Jun. 13th, 2011 12:56 pm
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Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.

C.P. Cavafy

Okay, that's out of the way. Now I need to say something that comes up every once in awhile.

A lot of my angstier or more introspective stuff shows up in here. A lot of my happier stuff shows up in twitter or just doesn't get recorded in writing; instead it's reflected off the faces of my friends and bounced back from the mountains and the raindrops on leaves in my garden. Some of this is that happiness is a more immediate feeling for me now that I'm learning to finally experience it without guilt or pain; some of it is that a lot of my happiness revolves around people, many of whom are lovers, and I worry that those people tally up name-drops in these posts and judge themselves by that number.

That worry isn't unfounded; at some time or another most of the people who care about me have made comments to that effect.

As a fantastic example of how that changes what I write, I want you to know that I sat down totally buoyant just now and the above is what came out. If I hadn't been so concerned about padding the edges, if I ignored all readers as I always intended to in this journal, this is how the post would read:

It's raining. It takes ~0.5mm of rain to wet a tree's leaves; thereafter the water will begin hitting the ground, or trickling down the main trunk, or trickling out to fall at the dripline depending on whether the tree is deciduous or not and thus on its branching structure.

Underneath the cherry trees the ground isn't wet yet; the tilia also have dry spots beneath. This rain is a fake-out, something you realise if you go walking without an umbrella because it steadfastly refuses to get you even really damp. The air is warm, not hot, and its freight of moisture carries pools of vivid scent. June is rose month, and walking in my neighborhood I can recognise roses I've owned by their scents.

I was made to love things and that's what I do; whatever free will I may have doesn't extend to ceasing at care, wonder, or desire and it never has.

Right now, further, I'm a hormone soup of spring, heavy crush, and exercise taper with my bike in the shop. I feel like a cloud of fireflies; something big enough might be able to get all their attention, but most of the time I'm scattered and glowing. I'm incoherent (see!) and I sing as I walk down the street.

And, finally, I'm old enough to differentiate these two things. I remember feeling like this when I was, what, nineteen and [ profile] khamura came to visit me for the first time from Germany; he got to my and Kynnin's place and I promptly dumped half a can of iced-tea powder down my pants because I was so unable to concentrate. We had stayed up late crafting roleplay scenes so many nights before that and then suddenly there he was, embodied. I remember the first time I kissed him. I remember when I was fourteen and Kynnin and I compared glasses in the hallway at school, when we talked for the first time, and I asked for his number. I think that first phone call was eight hours long and I had to avoid mom pretty substantially to make that happen. I don't remember the first time I kissed Kynnin, but I do remember lying with my head in his lap while Ennio Morricone's The Mission Soundtrack played, and crying because it's the first time I had felt emotionally connected to another human being and it was like the heavens opening and taking me up into them. I remember turning the light on so I could look at Juggler's body the first time I saw him naked, I remember him lying on the bed and drinking him in with my eyes. I remember CrazyChris lying on wreck beach next to me, and holding Bob's hand on the bus, and that Angus' dimples one night on a 20 bus that we both happened to be on, and Michael's hand on my tattoo, and it seems sometimes like all I am is a snowglobe of memories of such precious beginning moments that the storm of them could shatter me.

Beginnings are precious. Stand-alone events, too, are precious: people that you see once or for a time and then that float away. I have my share of those, though as I learn to cling less I find that more and more people come back, circulating in their own rhythms in and out of my world.

I'm making something right now; a beginning or a stand-alone event, there's no knowing without moving forward into the future. And, like any lightning strike or glance directly into the sun, it's too bright yet to know which or what it is. But to hold the metaphor, it illuminates everything around it and my life is bathed in ambient glow and warm edges right now.

I'm not using the intensity of that brightness to try to gauge a meaning from it.

I'm going to stop on that front right now; looking into that light is too much for my eyes sometimes. My life is full of highlights that even in an abbreviated list are pretty damn shiny:

-Citizenship looks like it's actually going through this month. I'll be able to vote for Gregor Robertson!
-My friends are amazing and wonderful; both in person and in the responses to that last post
-My garden is fucking awesome
-Michael met my family (2/3 of the brothers; the crazy ones) and he still likes me
-My babiest brother is doing kind of rough, but I've given him a key to my house so if he needs somewhere to go he can; it's about time for my family to inconvenience me if it can at all help them
-I'm enjoying work much more because all the pleasant bits are coming back
-Bike commuting needs no explanation
-School is fun and ALMOST OVER for the year
-All the hours I'm putting in means I'm not constantly feeling like the budget police will come sell me into slavery
-I really can cook well
-My home is awesome and I might try (ridiculously) to keep it
-Queen's Wembley '86 album deserves its own point because it's really rocking my world

....etc, etc.

But more than all that I still feel like a real person, like an individual making my way through the world and shaping it to suit me as it shapes me to suit it, and I fit myself uniquely well. I like this feeling. I want to continue it, whatever particulars that leads to.

Thus ends a totally incoherent post.
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I woke up this morning with a song on my mind I haven't heard in a long time-- Garden, by Pearl Jam, from their first CD Ten. The time I listened to that CD the most was when I was in the transition house with my family, when mom was leaving Dad, when I was fourteen. That one song I probably haven't listened to except incidentally since then. Now it's playing.

This is the first properly sunny day this year. I woke up and the sunshine was singing outside, the curtains are glowing, the sky is real blue. It's going to be hot-- yesterday was not hot. I am, of course, going to be working indoors for about six hours of it. Then I will pop outside and work some more, because-- well, because I want to be outside, and also because I want to get some of my Wednesday done today so I can go to the beach early on Wed.

Today I get paid a couple of days early-- my boss has done something about putting my vacation pay on a separate cheque to avoid extra taxes --and then I immediately pay it all to tuition and carefully spend no money this month. Next cheque goes to rent and the folk music festival. After that we're in August, and I start saving for tuition again.

This morning I am going to eat cold cereal and banana/strawberry soy milk. I feel like a kid again doing this; it's fun.

I remember what the transition house smelled like. There were cool things there-- behind the one-way glass windows and locked doors, where we lived, there was lots of clothing (I remember one blue sari (well, suit) especially-- our school had a multicultural day and I wore it because that was the one day I could get away with it, and people said, 'but you're not Indian!'. I thought they were missing the point. Now that I'm grown-up I should hunt down more of that stuff, because I love it) that hadn't been dredged from value village, there was nice-smelling soap, it was in town and walkable distance from school.

I wonder if that was this time of year? I was talking about it the other night with the Writer, pulling memories out and testing them. That must be why it comes out now. Well, that and-- the sliding door in my livingroom has the same orientation towards the sun as my sliding door in my bedroom, right before that time. The sun slanted just like this, not through these bushes but through my little garden and past the stump and the baby cedar tree. The birds would play there in the morning, when it was still in shade. They were my alarm clock.

I didn't have curtains for the longest time, and when I woke up I would look at that cedar tree-- she was young and pretty --and that stump, where my Watcher lived in my mind, and past that over the treetops to the Fraser River.

I remember. What phrase could be more powerful?
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I remember this time of year. I remember spring with the sun streaming in on the carpets, I remember the air this fresh and cold in the shadows but you'd never trust that cold because the sky was so incredibly blue and bright. I remember the smell of apartment-hunting, this era and that era. I remember walking the streets when the temperature and the flowers were -just like this-. Kynnin and I were moving from Abbotsford to Vancouver for the first time that year. Jan was coming, back and forth, and I remember my heart pounding this hard waiting for that-- waiting for someone always sets my world spinning. I remember walking to the nursery down the block and I'd never have dressed warmly enough, being so dazzled into belief in summer by the spring sun. I remember things unfolding. I remember me unfolding.

I remember moving into a new place with Kynnin, I remember meeting with the landlord and jumping through hoops. I remember that we had a place together that was ours. I remember wondering what to do with the walls-- paint or fabric? I remember wondering, how do we make this a home? I remember high ceilings being important.

I remember the pit of my stomach turning over at Jan's voice on the phone. I remember cool air spilling in through the sliding door and slapping my skin. I remember sitting on the computer catching up with people and feeling so full of love and contentment and excitement that I was sure it rolled through the screen and out through the windows and left the city brimful of joy.

I remember apportioning rooms - this one the bedroom, this one the computer room. I remember graveyard shifts and never getting to sleep together. I remember lying in the lonely bed and it was an entirely different kind of waiting. I remember the click of the keyboard from the other room and how it was louder than anything because it meant Kynnin was -there- and I was here, alone. I remember the clear blue sky. I remember the balcony. I remember planning my plants. I remember the feel of the earth. I remember. I remember.

And now here I am. That was before livejournal, and the story exists only in me, scribed across my reactions. Yesterday was so sunny, it was the same cool, it was the same spring, and Angus and I had just been to sign the lease. My stomach has been all steel-winged butterflies with someone else and I have been made to wait. I have sat long talking to friends with my keyboard and I remember now how lonely that is with no voices around. So recently I was trying to sleep every day in a lonely bed while Angus went about his day. We will be moving soon. I have a person to look forward to. It is the same spring.

And so I feel like I've come right around, like the wheel has turned and put me in the same place as I was before. Whatever my mind tells me, I cannot escape the feeling of being right where I was.

And I cannot escape remembering that I was so happy there and then things fell apart.

None of it is actually the same. It's different people, different situations. I'm more independent now, Angus is not Kynnin, my crush is not Jan nor is there anything the same there really. I am not trying to negotiate the currents of a quad while dealing with two full-time poly relationships, I have a better grasp on who I am and what I want, so many things on my side are different. So many things on Angus' side are different too, but of course another human being is guessable, but ultimately unknowable. I don't recall it being my side that was the problem, though memory is a fickle thing. I remember a downturn and then the rug just being yanked out from under.

I don't want this to be yanked out from under. I have always had the feeling in my life that if I was too happy I would be punished, that if I flew too high there would be a crash. I was trained from an early age to pay attention to subtle forebodings and not place my trust in anything people could give me-- or more precisely, in anything people could take away from me. That's the legacy of my father's kind of abuse, and of my mother's staying with him. I've been throwing it off a little, I've been enjoying (cautiously) doing what I want to do. I've been learning that a lot of life is in my own hands, and I've been learning how to set a good path when it's not.

Yesterday morning I was so scared, though. Everything felt -just the same-. And though that was a wonderful thing and this spring feels like flying, I knew where that led. Last time I was so unaware of the fragility of human intention. My head may say it's different, but ghosts and echoes are skittering in the spaces thought doesn't illuminate.

In the end it doesn't matter. I do my best (I will do my best) I will enjoy the ride (it is such a lovely ride) and it will be okay (I want it to be my kind of okay).

Enough is enough. Now it's my keyboard going while he's in a lonely bed. That's no way to begin a Sunday. :>

Lost Arts

Mar. 28th, 2008 10:12 pm
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I'm rediscovering the art of talking on the telephone. That's a couple of conversations I've had this week that last half an hour or more. It's nice; phone phobia subsiding.

Also, to remember: life is change, loss isn't damage (<3 Marvin)
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I admit it. I prayed for snow real hard during the beginning of this week. Sorry, guys.

(It does normally snow at the end of March, though, wasn't just me)

Got off work today when the beds we were supposed to be cleaning up were no longer visible under the carpet of white. Still warming up the tips of my toes.

Going through the grief cycle admirably. This week I've done denial, indifference, pain, sadness, irritation, rage, resignation, and flashes of acceptance. Nothing's banding as clearly as that, it's a bit of a muddle really, but it's good. Things continue to heal up quickly.

I seem to be finding what I need just fine; no fear of ending up a hollowed-out wreck for even another hour of my life, which is just fine with me. There's just too much going on to care.

And that too much going on can happen without engaging in the fucking chain of who-slept-with-who and who-said-what. Don't tell me about it. I'm dealing myself out of this game completely. Hopefully that will deal me out of this growing polarisation, too. I'm not interested and I can do better with my time.

A much better thing to do with one's time is to visit Guu, either luxuriously single or with a skilled guide. The food there is out of this world amazing (and it's pretty easy to go wheat-free dairy-free). Now, I'm not sure how to say this, but between the energetic host with the towel on his head, the salmon sashimi with raw quail egg and the beef carpaccio and the beef tongue and the bacon-wrapped asparagus skewers, and the crazy guy on the frying pan shooting flame (and the periodic loud rounds of shouting in Japanese) that place probably can decently replace sex. Shame that it's more expensive than sex, but before tip it came to about $15 for me, so it's not prohibitive to be there weekly.

Another better thing to do with my time is to spend more money on having shirts with pithy sayings made.

Further, I can cuddle rats, clean cages, make ratatouille, tidy the house, have a rose-scented bubble bath, read my book, go cherry-blossom-street hunting (in the snow!?!) and nap. I should also do some apartment hunting for May 1st. The lovely thing about having my own apartment is that I'll be able to go on a people-fast, where I just don't talk to anyone for a week if I like. Right now there's no peace in anyone, and I need peace to let some of this poison run out (I want you to be mine forever). And, you know, it is running out of me pretty cleanly, muddied and churned up by the angry parts of the grief cycle but it is passing when it needs to pass and leaving me with times of respite. That's when it's important that no new poison is poured in. Everyone needs a break sometimes.

Soon I'll need to pack up my books and stuff, to ready myself for the move.

And look, it's still snowing. Time for lunch, and for ratties.


Mar. 7th, 2008 09:56 am
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Most of us have been there. Do you remember how it feels? A very dear friend of mine is going through this right now, and it reminded me of my bad years when Kynnin was supporting me and I couldn't dig myself out of it. Watching this friend is like a little snapshot in my head. I'm not there now; I've learned coping mechanisms so it never gets all that bad. Still, I was...

It seems so much like an actual, malign entity. It's smart, because it uses my own brain. I'm never quite sure what it wants. There's no way to pacify it, there's no 'right thing' that makes it feel better. Hiding helps a little, short term, but it sucks you down so badly long term.

Some days it feels like the air is solid and my body weighs more than any leaden statue. Limbs won't bend. When the sun shines in I literally can't see it; colours are dark. Vision is a tool to move through space rather than a pleasure. Everything sounds melodramatic to say it, and of course no decent human being would feel this way. Everything in my mind is slippery and avoidant. Subjects dance away almost without my noticing-- I should really go to work but something about the dishes need doing and if I don't get the paperwork for citizenship done and then I haven't had breakfast yet what was that?

Things seem to be coming from very far away, but I'm locked in here far too close to myself. I wish I could describe the feeling of loathing better: there is such violent self-repulsion, everything inside is such a seething pit of slime. No one should be made to see such things. No one could ever see such things; there's something so wrong with me and if only I could try a little harder I could do it, but I'm such an utterly fucking miserable failure of a human being that I can't even do any easy little thing that anyone could do in their sleep with no effort. This isn't a matter of someone understanding, this is a matter of my not being good enough: subhuman.

I can't believe how nice everyone is being to me. That'll change as soon as they catch on to what I'm really like.

Making breakfast is the hardest thing in the world; hardly even worth it. I can change the sheets tomorrow. I can do everything tomorrow, I'm just going to curl up in this little space under my blanket and close my eyes, everything is so heavy. Sleep, at least, is peace.

Leaving the house is walking through a solid wall. I can't meet anyone's eyes, god, don't let me meet anyone's eyes. There's a pressure behind my temples. My leg hurts. My body offers up any excuse to turn back.

Who knew that your mind could have a mind of its own? This is the bus to work and I promised myself, I promised, that I would go today. Still somehow that was the right bus stop and I'm still sitting here with a big blank where my -me- is supposed to be. I wonder what will happen at the end of the ride? I only pray that something will happen, the bus will crash, the world blow up, anything will happen before I need to explain why I'm not there, why this happened. Before I need to figure out what to do next.

If I keep my eyes straight ahead and I don't move, I'll be invisible. No one will see this thing I've become. If no one thinks about me I can maybe not exist, just for a moment, and everything will be alright again.

I want it to go away. I want everything to go away. I can't do this anymore. I can't do anything, anymore.
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...the sheets on my bed are still stained with /us together/. It's the first monogamous relationship in which I was faithful, though that's not saying too much I guess. It's one of the first relationships in which I was seriously honest-to-god spirit-of-the-thing faithful the whole time too. I don't want to change the sheets, it feels like defeat, but of course I can't sleep on them right now.

I am bitterly jealous of his ex, who he did love like crazy and who tossed him aside for someone else.

He had a thing for sex in the shower. Showering alone is a bit of a thing right now. I do it anyhow.

I want to razor off my hair. I guess I can!
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In the beginning, the very beginning, I said: you're gonna break my heart someday, boy.

The title of this journal is watching the cycle: leaves to mulch to soil to leaves. It's because that's the only thing I can count on.

This week I talked to Eva about what-ifs, backup plans, and I tried to stay open and not close myself off to him in case I was wrong.

Last night I took the twenty up Victoria for 'a talk' that, when asked, he admitted I should have a friend around afterward for. I knew to ask that question. I was angry on the bus ride there, and I dreaded waiting for the bus because then I'd have to think. Luckily there was no wait.

He was upfront and straightforward. He made no excuses. He doesn't love me, he wishes he did, but he doesn't. He's not the sort of person who can continue on just like that even so, despite my many wonderful qualities. It's maybe the second time in my life someone's been so upfront about a breakup with me, and the first time was when I was thirteen. He held me, he cried, I cried. He said in the next couple weeks I could go to him for comfort if I needed. I said don't do this to me-- I didn't mean to say it, because he was being so good about it, but I had to, just in case it helped. He said he really wanted to be friends. I said when I get over the angry phase, I'm not there yet but I'll let you know when I get to it, so yes, comfort, but please could he not do this to me?

When I first came into the room he asked me what I meant when I said I loved him. I said no, just say what you need to say, and he did. Later I tried to put it into words: he's the shining thing that my life sudenly and inexplicably organised itself to hold up, rather than just curling and tumbling in an attempt to stay up with no particular focus. He is a reason for things. He is beautiful. He is... I don't know how to describe, it's a spiritual thing, he makes me ring. It's like a flower at the top of my head with a lacework all down my spine. Still when he smiled at me it gave me butterflies in my stomach.

He doesn't feel any comfort when I hold him in my arms. When he holds me, even now, even after that, it's still the best place ever to be.

It was seven months to the day from the date we had decided was the beginning. That was the day he came over to talk about rats, after the first family dinner where things sparked and Eva brought us together. We talked about rats for a long time, then things went silent and he looked up at me. I looked back. Eventually I went around behind him in the chair and bit his shoulders, and that was that. I took the day off work to see him get his tattoo and we went to the park and made out for hours, then hesitated before going to his place.

We waited to fuck for what seemed like forever, waiting for test results to come back (I do try to keep my STD tests up to date before the fact).

It was private. I called him babydoll, puppy, my love, sweetie, Mister, every pet name seemed to fit him. He called me ma'am and my tummy did bellyflops. I beat him with a cane for the first time and he liked it. I cried sometimes, after sex or during, because it was like god coming down. His body was built for mine-- ribcage fashioned to fit the length of my arm, his arms designed to curl around me just right to trigger all my safe feelings. His cock was exactly right. I loved the little bit of soft on his belly, the way it pooled out a little. I loved the flame tattoo on his arm, and the grapes. I loved the way he looked at me when I hurt him, his eyes got so big and soft. They were usually blue eyes, with a ring in the middle the colour of his year. He's a redhead. I notice redheads more on the street now, and people dressed in construction-worker clothes.

I didn't write much about it and I regret that now because it will slip away, but at the same time I couldn't.

I don't regret the thing, because it was spring itself. I think I'll be okay. I didn't, on the way to his house; I thought of bridges and knives. I don't do that, it's not my style. When I was there, though, the network kicked in. I thought of the people waiting for me-- Mom, my brother, Eva, Bob, and the web caught me, and I couldn't just lie down and roll over.

On the way home it was a feeling of unreality, like the last seven months had been a little miracle. They're over, sure, and I'm back to my regular programming.

I wanted to have his babies. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to do all those silly things, carve his name into my flesh, you know?

I don't really know what to do now. I still want a job that I can have children in. If men are fickle, dammit, I still want to raise a child. I have work - retail today, which may be awful but better than an empty day. It's the second-last shift, and 10-8, which is long. Then there's dinner with Eva and/or karaoke. Ryan was home last night. He held me, which felt weird -- he's so tiny compared. He let me talk, and he talked, and it was diverting. That was important. Diversion.

When people said they love me to that last post-- thank you, it helped. Sympathy would be a problem for me right now though. Love, yes. Caring, yes. Sympathy, no.

I'm a bit of a mess. I hate spring.

I never showed him Secretary, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

We never had sex in public.

When he was really sick I used to hold him and he'd feel better, but later on he wanted space to deal with it. A sign, I guess. He woke up at the same time as me, in the mornings. At night he'd tell me he was going to stay up, then fall asleep. Id' poke him and he'd sit up sleepily, trying to look alert, and say, 'I wasn't asleep'. Everything he did was adorable, odd on a six-foot-something construction worker.

He _was_ my springtime. When it snowed he'd get up, all excited, and put on his clothes and go out into it. It's snowed a lot this winter, and after awhile I started to smile too when it snowed. There's more to say, perhaps -- he was in Vegas for New Years, and I still have the message saved on my phone that says he wants me to be his forever. I want to save that message, but I don't want to listen to it for awhile.

His hair is still wrapped around the ring of my black collar.

His hands were much bigger than mine, a full joint plus some. Something about his cheekbones and lips was a song, a poem. I look at him all the time, even after seven months, just for the sheer pleasure I took in it. He does his best, he feels guilty a lot of the time over not living up to his personal standards which are high, sometimes unrealistic. He tried really hard in this, and he tries really hard generally to be a good person.

I don't know. This morning before work will be long.

I've done this to other people. Jan, I remember you didn't say much. I know why now. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.
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So here we go, several nighttimes under the bridge since my last post and leaning hard on the change pedal, perhaps. My life is always transition, of course, and this has been a smooth fast one. Picture a stream coming to a deep cut that flows strongly downhill. There may yet be rocks.

On the night of my Thanksgiving I was very sick. I shopped and cooked all day, going to Famous Foods, Sunrise Produce, and Sweet Cherubim and Eternal Abundance on the Drive with Angus and Marvin, my lifesavers for the day. I spent a lot of money on food and then cooked and cooked. About four o'clock my throat started to feel daggers in it again, but my voice didn't go until later when the pain got to be a little much for me. People started really arriving till seven and I was in them for awhile, visiting and joining in the singing in my kitchen and the dancing in my downstairs. Then I went to bed.

Before I went to bed I saw so many people I was glad to see. People came and ate (I didn't end up making all the food, but people had plenty until I went to sleep) and talked. I saw Ellen and Adrian again, and remembered once more how much I *like* Ellen. She's thoughtful and warm and her company is lovely. There were more people, too, and I can't even start on names because almost everyone I love in the world came through with a few exceptions. Marvin and Angus kept me from being overwhelmed and kept me amazed with their kitchen magic (cheese-crust apple pie! that moussaka! that dairy-and-egg-free tapioca pudding!) and I was so happy. The oven caught fire, and my house was warmed from the centre outwards.

Before sleep there was a moonlight walk with Angus and we started talking. That conversation didn't end for days, continuing through the loss of my voice and snaking very gently through many of the tripwires I'd set without catching on them. For the next few days I more-or-less slept and talked and slept and talked and that was it -- less talking than you might imagine because I was not well. There was a bit of kitchen cleanup, but Marvin and Bob magicked most of that away after and Vicki (the guest, not the roommate) did during.

I was restless at home. I couldn't sit down, I couldn't stay still. I couldn't rest. I spent time away from home. I thought a lot. At one point I reread Khamura's livejournal back to several years ago where we broke up - I had never backread before. I brooded some.

I've lived in a lot of patterns in my life. Some of them I like. Some of them I don't. Some are matters of pure indifference. There is, however, a growing feeling of control to what I'm doing now. I used to be afraid of being out of work, for instance, where now I approach it as an intriguing situation that has interesting potential. A free evening alone used to be a tragedy where now it's something quickly filled if not left as an opportunity. I can live where I want, with someone or without. I can keep my mind on an even keel or I can let it lift and drop for a bit of a ride. I can do a distant dance of attraction or I can electrify onto someone or I can ignore them altogether. I can learn new skills. I can be pleasant and distant, pleasant and close, or unpleasant and either of those things. I can laugh at things or I can be pulled under.

I've had a pattern for a long time of thrill-seeking in my relationships. I'd get into something accidentally, stumble on something that was exciting and fun and intimate, and I would ride that. Another thing would come along and I'd embrace it, and another, and eventually I'd run out of time and drop something. Things that were exciting and possible became yeses automatically because I wanted that thing, that new experience, and I didn't think particularly much about long-term practicalities or overall suitability.

It's been almost-but-not-quite ten years since my first experience with multiple people in bed, a little less time that I've been poly. Not a decade, but most of my relationship life and definitely a third of my whole life at least.

I consider it an orientation, polyamory. I can love many people at a time in the emotional sense-- that is, I can be closely drawn to many people at a time. When I was little I'd imagine scenarios that would result in sleeping between a bunch of people that I loved - say an earthquake that would trap all us five-year-olds at school so we'd have to sleep there, or improbable scenarios created to mash a bunch of my favourite book characters into one story with me in the middle. It was comforting.

My actions, though, are a different thing altogether than my emotions. My actions have ridden the back of my emotions and attention span, and I haven't stopped to acknowledge that this has been a pattern. I've hurt people this way -- diving in with intensity and such assurance and then wandering away again after six months or two years. I haven't had the self-knowledge to know what I was getting into, what I could give, what I couldn't promise. Sometimes I haben't even had the self-knowledge to see what was happening as it was happening, holding instead onto the idea of love-the-feeling as love-the-commitment as obviously-forever.

Lying to myself, though, has hurt people I care about quite a bit. I want to do better. They all deserve it. I also deserve to be more forthright, to admit what I want to myself, to look at my purposes. So, I'm going to.

That's all.


Zeugma. From the Greek, zeugnynai, to join together; from
a pair of animals linked at labor;
yoked oxen. Read more... )
Zeugma: maker & vessel, master & slave.

by Campbell McGrath
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November is the busy season at work. I'm working awfully close to six days a week right now, with one or two half-days depending.

I had a thing on Wednesday night. This would make a bunch of really bad spots in the last few months, spots where I was basically incapable of doing _anything_ that a human being could be expected to do. I've been doing a lot of thinking to try and figure out what precisely is happening.

Let me tell you a little story about when I was growing up. I think I was fourteen or maybe thirteen and it was evening. I'd just gone to the Mr. Mission Pageant, where my boyfriend dressed up as a girl and competed against other boys-dressed-as-women in a beauty pageant (this was in the days when a boyfriend was someone you held hands with and kissed sometimes). Mom came to pick me up -- we lived a significant drive from town, so my parents had to get me back and forth from everything -- and she drove to a friend's house to pick up my brothers. When we got there, she sat us down, and she said I can't go home. It's an abusive situation, I can't live in it anymore, you kids are welcome to stay with me or I can drop you off there with Dad, it's no problem either way.

And she just didn't go back. We were in a transition house for a month, then the court ordered Dad out of the house (he could live with his mother for free, wheras we were taking up space in the transition house, and he wouldn't leave voluntarily) and when we got home, Dad was gone -- alone with the majority of the furniture, though there was tons of rotten food on the counters and trash downstairs all over the floors.

Mom moved to Vancouver as soon as I'd finished high school (she didn't want to disrupt my final years in Mission), lives on a boat, took up ultramarathoning, tennis and scrabble, met some good friends, and in the last few years has travelled in Europe by herself and lived in space that's completely her own for the first time.

Hold onto that idea.

I've always been a perfectionist. If I can't get something perfect, I'm terrified to do it. This may be a result of growing up with Dad, who was both terrifying and unpredictable in his punishments. You never knew what you might do that was wrong or right, so the answer was to never do anything at all if you could help it, and if you had to do something, to make sure it was perfect. It's not that it was a constant perfect standard but I've read that random reinforcement is much more effective and longer-lasting than anything consistent, and I believe it. And believe me, this was random. Dad behaved this way around my friends as well, and so I rarely had them over to my place, and of course one needed to bring oneself to his attention to get a ride anywhere - well, unless mom wasn't busy. It may be just an innate trait exacerbated by my childhood as well, though it does appear in all my siblings.

So I grew up without much socialisation outside of school, was pretty isolated for the first several years because of some choices I made, and then BAM! Here I've got tons of friends and a wonderful network of people around me, and all sorts of adult responsibilities. Not only is it a learning curve, but it's a super-complex situation that's impossible to be perfect at all the time.

What happens is that I mess up a little bit, and then I freak out because I've messed up. I get paranoid that people will do random bad stuff (be hurt, be angry, despise me, hate me, be disgusted by me) because I've messed up -- even if messing up is something like being a little short on the rent and borrowing some money or cancelling a visit with someone. Sometimes I can cover up the freak-out, but sometimes something clicks in my brain and it says you've fucked everything up anyhow, there's nothing you can do and I turn off. I drop out of the world, out of the situation, and I simply cannot cope -- can't borrow the money, can't call and say I need to skip the appointment, can't look anyone in the eye. I walk away.

It worked for mom that one time to walk away. It's not a good idea as general practice though.

This behaviour shows up in my relationships too. Previously there was a very strong tie and a strong dependence but now I have a measure of emotional self-sufficiency going for me. Instead of having those two tensions balance -- escape from a situation I fucked up vs the strong need for someone supportive -- now I just escape from the situation and continue to support myself emotionally. I screw up (I think it's normal to do this in relationships once in awhile?) and then I drift away rather than returning and rebuilding.

So there we go. It's been awhile since I've learned much about myself. I've been mostly drifting along. This pattern just jumped out at me this week, though, and I'm glad it did. What can be understood can also be worked with and reshaped.

I'm sure there are other ways the kaleidoscope can be shaken where the same parts make a different story but this seems to be true for me right now and I can already feel the light of knowledge driving out the poison-- not to make a sentence full of horrific half-realised trite mixed metaphors or anything.

Happy winter. Here's to turning inwards for awhile against the cold.
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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.
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The conventional image is that of a dam bursting. Have you ever seen a dam burst? Looking down on the fireworks from a high building as the people trickle from the beach down the streets, running in a huge swell along Denman and then Robson streets, that may be more accurate anyway. It's a long swell of words that comes out now.

I hadn't written much in here about people I love, and how much I love them, and how wonderful they are, because I was afraid of it hurting Juggler when he read it. Now I'm not feeling so constrained. I like that.

Today I took my crimson eye in to the doctor, and he said it was normal for my level of emo-ness. No big problem, contacts okay to wear if they don't feel weird. He did a couple of tests, I think to reassure me more than anything. I like having blood in my eye, but I guess that's been enough drama for now. On with life.

I had a real date with Bob tonight-- dinner and a movie (Dirty Dancing, which I'd never watched before. I am in such dance withdrawal from missing karaoke last night. There *will be* dancing at my birthday party, even if all the dance-y people are away at Shambhala). It was super-awesome. It's so important to leave the house, leave the domestic stuff and the cleaning and the habits, and to spend time just sitting, to talk. Not to Talk, just to chat, to go back and forth about how sound works in different venues, which guitar Bob wants to buy next, how awesome my friends are, who gets my baby rats, and how I feel about the recent breakup. It reminds me of the dates Kynnin and I used to have, in Abbotsford, walking down the hill to Ethical Addictions for coffee or a meal by the fire. You know, just out of the house? He also got me to the doctor. I hate doctors.

This is settling into such a comfortable familiarity. We still feel like a good match to me, especially now that I've come down out of the tree I was in earlier this week. I am so glad. I always have the urge to do the scorched earth thing when I'm stressed or unhappy, because it simplifies interpersonal issues so much if you just remove the people, but of course that's just the crazy talking.

I hadn't realised how long it's been since I just relaxed and responded in kind to bits of fun from him. I'm not back there yet, but I will be soon.

I also keep thinking about Angus-- of course. New toy, dimples like the sun coming up, smells like carrots and geraniums. I love the way he's so colourfully and interestingly decorated all over (yes, those are all different links). People are definitely my vice.

To use another terrible metaphor (because what use is a metaphor if neither the writer nor the reader has actually done the thing?) the people in my life are sometimes like a rosary, little fragments of thought or memory polished from handling and slipped one by one through my mind when I need focus, and calm. I cherish these memories so much: Bob standing unsteady-drunk in the door at Sin City when we met, or looking so worried when I was upset the next morning; the morning light spilling in through the tiny octagonal windows in the livingroom on Juggler and I after we'd lain awake all night talking, with Mouse and Kynnin in the bedroom and us on the futon mattress on the floor; CrazyChris' voice, no specific words but that so-emphatic, confident debating tone he uses; Tillie kneeling in front of the fireplace in Burnaby, stacking things inside or the first time I met her at a Christmas party, perched on the edge of a couch wearing a red skirt; Angus years ago on the 20 bus at night, dimples radiant; Avi sitting on the sofa looking determined and worried and older than I've seen him look; Eva slipping down a sidepath towards a bench surrounded by ducks; Trevor on the schoolbus, so long ago, his spikes sticking up past the brown vinyl every morning as I walked down the aisle; my cousin Joe sucking on the edge of his water glass more than a decade ago... it goes on, and on, and on. There are so many precious moments, tiny gestures, and little shared bridges of time that I joy in remembering.

And now I am tired. Goodnight.
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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.


Jul. 12th, 2007 08:06 am
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Yesterday was good enough that my descriptive abilities fail me. I really, really needed a day like that.

We didn't get to the beach until almost 2pm, though I got the job I wanted, so I cancelled my interview that morning to sleep (I probably totalled three hours that night and maybe one and a half more in the morning). On the way I bumped into CrazyChris and Angus-- I hadn't seen Angus for over a year --and then we headed down in weather that was somewhere around thirty-two degrees.

It was absolutely the best weather in which to do Wreck. It was a super-sweaty day, and that made the water both necessary and enjoyable, though I don't think anyone could stand more than half an hour in it at a time. The day was full of sunshine, of awesome people (Eva joined us later, and then Doug, Dancing Nick, Kat, Army Nick, and a girl named Vicki, and Juggler and Mike came originally), of a really nice massage, lovely rolling swealls, a breeze, and generally a release of angst. Everyone's been super-miserable lately, and I think it did everyone good to fuck off for awhile and just be somewhere so exquisitely enjoyable.

For those who have never been to Wreck (of whom Mike was one until recently), it's a lovely long curve of sand bracketed by rock and cliffside and trees. You can't see any hint of city or even a single building from Wreck, it's always full of casual, relaxed hippies and hardcore skimboarders and endors selling beer, shrooms, pizza, cocktails, necklaces, etc as they dodge the police.

After Wreck we wandered over to karaoke, which was far too hot but made me happy nonetheless, and I got some dancing in. Then it was home, stickily, for a shower and the best night's sleep I've had in a month.

Bob's sick, and coughing, and he's home for the day (also terribly high on whatever they've given him). Much as this sucks for him, it's nice to have him around. I've been so busy with job stuff and social stuff that I've been really missing individual people. It's time for me to catch up on that a little this next couple of days.

And then I may start work on Friday, or definitely next week...


Jul. 1st, 2007 09:21 am
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So here I am in Iowa. Yesterday was the big family reunion, eight of ten of my mom's siblings were here (Uncle Dave had his flight cancelled, rescheduled, and then cancelled again at the last moment, so he couldn't make it and we're all a bit pissed off) as well as a bunch of cousins, maybe twenty of the thirty of us, and a few people from the older generation, plus assorted siblings' spouses.

That makes for a really full house.

It feels the same way family reunions always feel, which is intensely reassuring. My life's changed a lot on the ten-something years since I've been to one, and I am a different person here, but the cradle or the roots are still there if I look hard enough. It took me a day or two of looking to find them, of course. It's a bit of a gear switch. It's on the same lake it always is, at Rita's house, though she's in a different house this year. I had expected everyone to look much older, but they don't. I guess my eyes have grown as I have.

My mom and my aunt Rita are close, and Rita's kids are the only cousins I've kept up with regularly. It's been really good to see them again. The youngest is about three feet taller than when I saw him last, and he has brown hair instead of blonde now. Everyone else has filled out into these massive, tall boys built like sides of beef. It's such a beautiful thing to be connected to people in this way. I remember my older cousin Justin being sort of godlike in his abilities, and so old and world-wise. Now the little cousins can't tell him from an uncle, even though he's only five years my senior, and he's great with the kids. He did a ton of driving the boat around pulling a tube on the lake, and we talked well into first light one night. He'd worried about me, apparently, last time I came out-- he'd worried I'd go home and kill myself. These are the kind of people who think about you afterwards. I remember he drove me from one place to another in Iowa once, he put on cruise control and crossed his legs in the driver's seat and I was in absolute awe. We wrapped up some loose ends from the last time we'd seen each other.

The little wavelets on the lake are sparkling in the morning sun. There are fireflies in the evenings. It's magic.

My other cousin, Joe, is my age (I'm just about a year older, but not quite). He's so well placed,so suited to his environment, it's a joy to watch him. He has little mannerisms that I remember adoring when I was fourteen, like chewing on the edge of his drinking glass, and yet he's so changed and grown that recognising them is ... oh, I don't know what I'm trying to say. I see my brother, too, grown up with muscles from Ken-do. holding on to the back of a tube and dressing eccentrically, and they're all grown up, all young men. It makes me so happy to see, because this sort of flourishing growth and wellness and coming into oneself is part of the same cycle that death and decay and birth are. I have less experience with it in other people, though. It reminds me that summer also comes.

Anyhow, Joe and I traded memories (I remember when I came to Vancouver and went to /Dangerous Lies/ with your friends, I think because your mom made you take me; I remember when I came out to Iowa and you smeared fireflies and showed me how they left a glow). He brought me a dead firefly, that was still glowing, and was careful to say he had found it and not killed it. He brought me a live firefly.

This is the place I came when I was fourteen and sixteen, or something like that, when things were very bad at home, right before the divorce and maybe afterwards at some point. I definitely think of that as my coming-of-age summer, or maybe all the trips blur into one. Because my home life was so bad then, my family was so numb and incapable of giving much and my friends were too distant to adopt their parents and sort of graft myself on like that, I'd never really been in a place where everyone was freely and generously loving. I came here and they were, it was just here, I didn't have to be anything or do anything or project anything right, they just liked me and loved me because. Just because.

It probably was one of the most significant things in my life. Looking back, I realise that it's what made me think people might be worth giving a try. I learned there might be something special between people after all. I think it's also been a model I've imitated throughout the rest of my life, once I sorted myself out: love people fearlessly and freely, because it's okay. And you know, it's a good model. Love is okay.

It's a lesson I should keep. And it's a lesson I should expand: ten years of seperation doesn't diminish, it changes. I saw that this weekend. Changing is not a problem, it's often an enrichment to the people involved. That's good.

And I think this is the well my love comes from. The soil is deep, here, and it supports that sort of generosity. I feel replenished. I know I was feeling stretched, before, losing sight of what precisely love meant, and what it meant to give it-- I was getting the details confused with the thing, as so many of us do. I was going through rote actions in the hopes that the ritual would bring the feeling, but no, it's the other way around.

So I think I am going back home, when I do, a little bit soothed, a little bit reborn, and a little bit sad from missing these people. I'm trying to get Joe to come visit, maybe it will happen. Certainly I'll need to see them again before another ten years are up.

That's all I have to say.
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Warning, random angst.
Read more... )

Just needed to write, argh.
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If life were a poem, it would be a circle. If people were a cradle, the world would be no different- when we're talking about social networks we refer to the hammock that supports us, each knot and strand shaped to a different part. It keeps us from lying in the dirt (though what sort of a metaphor is that, you ask, coming from someone so in love with dirt?) What we put into us effects us, it becomes us. Food, speech, emotion, we suck it up and, just like eating a clove of garlic, breathe it out again on our skin. It's hard sometimes to make choices about what comes out, but it becomes easier when we monitor what goes in. This sounds so analytical that it's crazy, because the feelings come up out of you and you just *do* in accordance with them and it works-- better than forcing yourself into too many things you don't like, because then things you don't like have stuck to you. Only, you must try a lot of things with an open heart, to know what you like.

I'm trying to put joy into words but I don't know that it comes clear across to you. Of course, there's very little common frame of reference societally for this feeling, for ringing like a bell with each event and person and feeling. We're great with shared anger and pain, not too bad with desire and the glut that is its fulfillment.

When there's no time to be fully aware of doing a thing while doing it, the unique and lovely character of each thing becomes dulled. There's no fullness to action, no ful-fill-ment. If I remain in Vancouver for the rest of the summer, this is what I've learned from Kelowna. If I live in Kelowna for the rest of the summer, or for my life, this is what I've learned from the last month and a half.

From the last ten years, my years of relationships, I've learned that people are what they are. To distort them by percieving them through more of your own preconceptions and fears and desires is a disservice to them and to yourself. To them, because then you leave them alone and speak to the shadow around them. There's no connection. To you, because then life becomes solitary confinement in a box of funhouse mirrors. If you are so busy attending to the way smeone's actions interact with your expectations, you have no time or attention for their actions themselves-- and a person's actions are a person, really. And a person is a wonderful complex thing that is so often a joy to behold.

This year, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen is people I love smiling. A real smile is like a flame, like sunshine in a dark place, like rain in the desert. These are not idle metaphors, because I've experienced both these things, and they are the same. They don't touch me as humanly as happiness in the face of a loved one, though. I may say this because I have known the land more frequently than I've known people, just lately, and we really do see things better when we have a little space. We may feel them better when they're closer, though? Sometimes at night I remember smiles, networks of lines crinkling big at the corner of the mouth or little around the eyes, and I am soothed.

My next lessons will be lessons of respect. For myself, for others, when there's a tie involved (and there always seems to be, somehow), respect involves behaving in an appropriate way to honour that tie. I will learn about the appropriate. It needs only a little quiet space in my head to come out, and time to come out, and a life to come out in. I will be those things, time and space and life.

Good morning.
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So, that's it. I'm moving to Kelowna to apprentice to Gabriel Hawearth at Summerhill vinyard. I'm going in April, I'll be gone till fall. Bob will take care of some of my rats, I'll bring some others with me. I'll live in a converted bus.

I was terribly afraid of giving my bosses notice about this. It's part of my fear of authority, I think-- I expected them to be angry that I was leaving the company so soon after they put the tim ein to train me, I was afraid they'd be upset that I was giving them tight notice to train new people-- but they were instead very supportive and encouraging. They said I've been their best tech, and they'll be sad to see me go.

This is another example of my weird paranoia, especially surrounding people with power over me. I always expect authorities to be irrationally angry with me, to be unpredictable unkind, and uncaring. I expect everything I do to be a transgression or a problem.

It likely took a lot of conditioning to get me this way. Certainly when I entered the relationship with Kynnin, the damage was long done. It's one of the reasons I was terrified of both teachers and classmates throughout elementary school. Lately I've come to count fewer people as authorities and more as equals, which eases the symptoms, but something like this highlights that the underlying problem is still there. It doesn't help that it's been fifteen years since I saw dad last, and that in that interim very few authority figured have been anything other than kind, understanding, and good to me.

It sort of makes me wonder what my childhood with dad was like, after all. I can't remember any of it anymore, except I suppose for the occasional snippet of being alone or being with my brothers. I have a total memory of abou ten minutes' interaction with dad. Obviously, tust get the hough, there was enough bad in there to do this....

When I come back this summer, I think I'm gonna see about putting together the money for a therapist and get some tools for dealing with the thing, cause this is just silly, it's limiting, and it's not very nice to the people I feel paranoid towards.

In other news, first time climbing in two weeks at least, likely closer to three. It felt *awesome*. Thanks, Drew.

Some Starts

Nov. 2nd, 2006 05:53 pm
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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... )

And Again

Sep. 28th, 2006 11:05 pm
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Enough poetry and I'm writing again in my datebook. Maybe I'll transcribe some. Anyhow, from greatpoets:

Trying to Raise the Dead

Look at me. I’m standing on a deck
in the middle of Oregon. There are
friends inside the house. It’s not my

house, you don’t know them.
They’re drinking and singing
and playing guitars.Read more... ) What are you

now? Air? Mist? Dust? Light?
What? Give me something. I have
to know where to send my voice.

A direction. An object. My love, it needs
a place to rest. Say anything. I’m listening.
I’m ready to believe. Even lies, I don’t care.

Say burning bush. Say stone. They’ve
stopped singing now and I really should go.
So tell me, quickly. It’s April. I’m

on Spring Street. That’s my gray car
in the driveway. They’re laughing
and dancing. Someone’s bound

to show up soon. I’m waving.
Give me a sign if you can see me.
I’m the only one here on my knees.

- Dorianne Laux

Today I've been very emotionally volatile, but I'm staying reliably in the good end of the sprctrum. It's been awhile. There are so many fantastic happy things in my life today that I don't want the day to end; don't want to go to sleep and leave my clean house with the pie that my wife baked me and the music settling through the amber-lit air. When I'm done writing this I'll sneak into bed and lie there next to Bob while he sleeps and watch his face in the slash of light that comes in through the window. Do you know the feeling that I'm talking about, just from that?

I got tomato sauce and apple sauce made today, tomato sauce for dinner made from Juggler's tomatoes, the apple sauce made from windfall apples from Strathcona community garden. Bob says, 'eeew, I can't cut these, they have bugs in them' so I prepped them all in the end. I love eating a meal that works out like that, where the major ingredient is something harvested locally for 'free'.

The other night I spent with CrazyChris and Tillie and Juggler making chicken soup (well, eating it)-- did I tell you my friends are so wonderful? And last night was karaoke, and as ridiculously silly as it sounds, Bob sang me one of my favourite songs and I've been floating all day. Jack will be coming down this weekend, and though I'll be in Sechelt for some of it, I should hook up with him Sunday or Monday. I've missed him so much-- I only really spent the two weeks of the permaculture course with him, but that doesn't matter to this sort of thing.

I almost called Trevor tonight; not sure why I didn't. I need to stop feeling as if calling someone is an imposition. Usually people are happy to hear from me in the end, I think. What a magical concept.

Blue Rodeo's Bad Timing is on repeat right now. Yeah.

So much love. The seasons are turning, my home is a warm thing that people can come into full of love and family, the leaves are falling, the ocean is so flat and calm, the sky is so blue lately. People are like jewels whenever I see them, so bright. The nights are peaceful and together-feeling. Days are productive and full. Yes.

Hey it's me what a big surprise
Calling you up from a restaurant
Around the bend
I just got in from way up North
I'm aching tired now
And I could use a friend
I might be a fool
To think that you do
Want to see me again
It's been awhile since I talked to you
Nothing wrong
Just nothing ever goes as planned
Many times I thought I'd call
I didn't have your number in my hand
I know it's true
You'd never do
The same thing to me
I never meant to make you cry
And though I know I shouldn't call
It just reminds us of the cost
Of everything we've lost
Bad timing that's all
Maybe soon there'll come a day
When no more tears will fall
If we each forgive a little bit
And we both look back on it
As just bad timing that's all
We used to have so many plans
Something always seemed to turn out wrong
I never could catch up to you
Moving on and doing what you've done
I don't know why
The harder I try
The harder it comes
I never meant to make you cry
And though I know I shouldn't call
It just reminds us of the cost
Of everything we've lost
Bad timing that's all

Be well. Good night.


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