Mar. 7th, 2010

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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. :>

Facets

Mar. 7th, 2010 01:27 pm
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Here's a little more poetry dredged up from the archives. Siken and Bergman today-- I ruled out Neruda and McDaniels and Brautigan cause they'r emy favourites and I can't post a hundred at once. But first, Robin Becker.

Morning Poem

Listen. It's morning. Soon I'll see your hand reach
for my watch, the water will aggitate in the kettle,
but listen. Traffic. I want your dreams first. And
to slide my leg beneath yours before the day opens.
Wait. We slept late. You'll be moody, the phone
will ring, someone wanting something. Let me put
my hands in your hair. Who I was last night I would
be again. This is how the future holds me, how depression
wakes with us; my body shelters it. Let me
put my head on your breast. I know nothing lasts.
I would try to hold you back, not out of meanness
but fear. Oh my practical, my worldly-wise. You
know how the body falters, falls in on itself. Tell me
that we will never want from each other what we
cannot have. Lie. It's morning.

Okay, only one Siken. This one makes me cry every time. Frequently I can't get to the end. Try reading it out loud to yourself. I love this poet

You Are Jeff
ExpandRead more... )

I hate trying to figure out where to cut them. It feels disrespectful, and it does a disservice to the poem as a whole. Still...

The Place We Don't Name

The place we don’t name has become the default,
which is backwards.
I say
I want to fuck your mouth, or
I want to fuck your ass,
or
if that isn’t where I want slide in, I say
I want to fuck you -
making you the place where your biology defies your identity,
where your biology denies your identity
an idea so far from right that wrong doesn’t even seem to cover it.
The you of you is your brain, your heart,
but I can’t lick your frontal lobe,
can’t choke myself on your brain stem until I get it all the way down my throat,
can’t suck your cerebral cortex until it engorges, then explodes.ExpandRead more... )

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