The Lovers

I feel at a loss for words. Yet, they're right here, just layered and tangled up. How do I disentangle these invisible strings that are becoming ever more real?

I feel nourished in a way by a potentiality that itself cannot be entertained or fed in any way in reality.

That's okay, baby. In my alternate universe, I can do whatever I please.

You'll say all the things here you can't say over there. You'll touch me in all the ways here you can't over there. You'll treat me the way I've always dreamed to be treated here in all the ways I'm not over there.

Oh man, these feelings. Maybe I've given too many fucks to the wrong things, as Mark Manson would say. Maybe I haven't given the right fucks to the right things...

You know you're in a bad place when even here, I can't say what I want or need to say without falling apart into a thousand pieces. Who has the time to gather up all those pieces? God knows, if I don't collect myself, no one will. No one can.

I sense you here. How? Is it my imagination? Am I just a stupid little school girl? Who am I? What am I sensing? The unseen? Those words that go unsaid? What am I resisting? A potential outcome? Any outcome is painful. Any way this goes...is troubling.

But here, right here...is sweet suffering. The sweetness of it is what makes the suffering somewhat merciful. I'm not a dishonest woman here. I'm loyal and caring and loving. And no one gets hurt. 

Except me.

Elizabeth & Antonio

My landscape is changing again. 

I feel a tug towards my culture. Then when I get there, I remember why I turned away from it. 

What a strange feeling to experience over and over again. I sense the open air of the old world, the sacrifice and yet, profound joy to be able to put one foot in front of the other, despite the poverty. Even that couldn't quell the spirit of joy in the darkness.

I hear the women singing...in their malingering voices. They sound like screams in the night. And then I listen more closely...it's really a mish mash of all life's offerings and takings with a touch of thanks, nonetheless.

I'm the one who feels and understands. Yet, I am not one of them. 

When I hear the history, my heart wells up. It's a sorrowful kind of beauty and happiness that a part of me never ever allows to be more or less than that. I ask myself how sorrow can be happiness. I can't escape the feeling of loneliness in my mind's eye. I can't see beyond this sensation. It's only ever sadness...deep in the bones, sadness. Is this my sadness or is it theirs? Passed on from one generation to the next?

They looked happy, though. Maybe, it's the wrong word to be using here. They didn't have time to ask whether they were content. Today, we call it a luxury to be able to ask the question. I don't think that's true. They had a strength we haven't cultivated. Our luxury is a curse now. We don't allow ourselves to feel anything less than joy. We medicate and drown our sorrows. What a disservice we do to ourselves. The profound joy we get to feel is only ever equal to the profound sorrow we get to experience, too.

I miss a man I've never met. I miss a woman I've never met. There's no point crying over a past that never was. But, they were here. They lived and breathed. They did the best they could. I mean, if I could 'remember' them without having known them, imagine what honour it is to be remembered by those who participated in our lives?

I don't want them to be forgotten. In two hundred years, who will remember me? Recall me? The thought kills me. The finiteness of it all...on this plane, which has been reduced to things and more things. 

The High Priestess Continued

By candlelight and stone walls, I remove my clothes and enter the tub. I can see the moon in the window. It's small from here but its influence is nonetheless, strong and menacing.

I'm back at the front of the line, again, wondering how all of this will turn out knowing full well, it can only ever be the same outcome, over and over again.

I operate in that quiet space where people of this world dare not go, where I'm deemed odd and strange. It's this world and its people who are strange. The earth turns in its usual way. The majesty of this ritual is unfathomable.

I can see the stars, too. How is it possible that my eye can reach them? These burning balls of fire that go unnoticed. It should be a crime to fail to see the flowers and hear the birds or the towering trees all around. 

I think of you in this space even though I understand you don't belong. You can't belong here. I've filled in all the spaces I don't know about you to accommodate your presence. So yes, you're a dream that will evaporate like a cloud in due time.

I'm waiting for you to evaporate while I lay here and imagine the kind of painting I want to create of a nude woman against a somewhat chaotic backdrop, filled with pops of colour and sharp lines drawn with a palette knife.

Thank goodness for that palette knife which is reminiscent of my sword. I waver between being the high priestess who waits...forever. And, the lady of swords who just gets on with it. They both reside in dark places filled with infinite wisdom. I should be grateful.

Today, I am not. Today, I want. And yet, I won't let myself want too much even though I can have whatever my heart desires here.

I pour salts in the water and then take my basket of rose petals and gently toss in a handful. You can't imagine the power I wield when I'm in my sensuality. 

This sensuality is very much connected to vulnerability. If you can't be vulnerable in your imagination, you won't be vulnerable anywhere. I'm aware of this truth. And this inability to draw the heavens down. 

I dislike the density of this world. I dislike having to break down this density in my most sacred of spaces. It feels cruel. How upbringing and religion keep us in our place for fear of some unknown repercussion.

I let you in and the parts I can appreciate. You're charming. You're strong. You're sure. Your certainty and strength are commendable. I'm taken aback how much I value these qualities in you, how they express themselves through you. I like the colours that project around you, how they bounce and then settle. 

I wish I didn't like that so much.

The Look

I noticed the way you looked at me by the door when you finished playing your tape, the tape you've played numerous times before. I figure you're getting old, too, and can't recall telling the stories.

There all meaningless, really. I mean, when you think about it, it's just proof we're becoming our parents and that we have nothing interesting going on.

I cringe and then I see that look. I wake up from my sleep and feel alive again. Then I remember I'm older, too, and there's no where to play. The sandbox is gone. The corner store. The school by the park. It's all gone except for this valley in my mind.

I almost don't allow myself to go there. But, why shouldn't I? This place is filled with joy and love. It's my sanctuary. I can let whomever I want to come inside. 

So I imagine myself with sword in hand, dragging it across a field as I contemplate what to do next. You see, there's nothing to do except to rest my head against the lush green grass. 

Then I take my clothes off and rest my head again against the lush green grass. My sword is close by. I never part with it. 

It occurs to me how different I must look to you. You have to know I'm not like the others. You must know. Do you know?

I'll never be that woman, that typical and stereotypical woman who needs a man to prove to her she's wanted by showering her with expensive gifts. 

I'll never be that power hungry woman either who has to prove to others she's smart and worthy of all that money. Or who has to keep herself so busy in order to tell herself she has a purpose.

I was never that girl who made it an aim to be mother, either. Or to be a stay at home mom while my husband brought home the bacon...to put food on the table and for me to get my nails done...and hair....and eventually, botox for myself and my daughters. I also dreaded the thought I might have a son grow up to become a typical man. 

That look...tell me about that look. Are you a typical man when your wife's not looking? We're not children anymore, are we? It's their turn now to dream and choose. And to make mistakes and fall short.

It's time to do away with earth bound matters, those things that are dense and not capable of absorbing light.

I float in the clouds, sweetheart, right by heaven's door. There's nothing on this plane that can feed this longing.

Knight Of Swords

You and I sit together side by side at some social gathering. I know this is a dream though. It feels fuzzy, warm and surreal. I see oranges, yellows and reds. The tables are adorned with glasses and centerpieces, plates and cutlery.

There's an element of fluidity to this scene. You're new to me and I, to you. Yet, there's familiarity and we can't explain the why or how of it.

I feel so good and it feels so right, sitting next to you at this place of celebration. I'm called to another area in the room and I feel anxious about it because it pulls me away from time with you.

When I return to the table, I see you're no longer there. I imagine you've left me a note, something that would signal your affection for me or that proves you care for me.

In my mind's eye, it's a note written on a small piece of baby pink paper. But, I know men are not like women at all. There is no note. I figure you're not sentimental like that. Yet, a sinking feeling tells me you were never 'there' with me. It was only ever me...feeling...and guessing.

You're gone this time. For good. 

You're the knight of swords not circling back...

Fool

What a fool. He doesn't know me well enough and never will. The way he talks while his body betrays him with all of that machismo bouncing off the walls? He must think it's impressive. It isn't.

He's just a man. Just another man saying and doing what's already been said and done. There's nothing alluring about that. Or him and his money...and house in the suburbs. There's a reason I never married my father.

All that bravado disguised as self-confidence and a high self-esteem, is a mighty turn off. I'm not that woman. I'll never be that woman. I see through the banter. You can't lure me in with your words or gaze. You don't have what I need or what I want.

I already have it all, fool.

Stay in your corner of the world. Don't ask about me. Don't throw your wife under the bus. Or tell me what a great man and father you are. Or how you understand relationships. I won't let you feel good about yourself at my expense. N. E. V. E. R.

I'm the gold at the end of the rainbow. Your silly games don't interest me. There's a price to pay for the things we want. There's also a price to pay when you don't want to buy. You don't want to buy and I was never for sale.

So, come and visit. Hope to see me. Hope to speak with me. Hope to paint yourself in a manly light. I'm already gone like I was never there.

Thanks for giving me a head start.

Nostalgia

I refuse to become obsolete, to lay down the red carpet for the young. This nostalgia, that used to be my life, is killing me. 

We didn't parade our achievements on social media the way they do now...for graduating high school! I find the whole thing bizarre. My first job was as a pharmacy assistant...at 16 years of age. Now, you need a degree. 

I have writing of my poetry and page after page of introspective thought that my university professor used to encourage me to read out loud so that others might know what he was looking for in our entries. It came so naturally to me. Not so much to the other social-work students.

I was a creative soul. Writing wasn't about outlining facts and details. Leave that to the journalists. I knew how to capture the essence of an idea or situation, a thought, a feeling, to show the other we were more alike than different. 

All my writing is reflective of that space we do not and are not capable of expressing or describing using our normal way of speaking. That's why inspirational talks are so moving...but they fail once the inspiration wears off.

Combining words and images...now that's a match made in heaven! By images, I mean paintings and drawings...not the kind marketers and advertizers use to get you to buy their product.

I don't want to become obsolete because of my age. I can't stand how arrogance has rubbed off on some of my nieces and nephews. Gosh, how it wreaks of stupidity...leading back to one or both parents. I notice a sweetness and kindness in those whose parents are humble. In the others, I see a kind of kid I would have never chosen to be my friend.

They remind me of those times in elementary and high school, when youngsters were snotty shits but their parents thought they were grand. You know the kind. I'll let you in on a little secret...they were mean and cruel little devils who had lost their innocence long before that.

You'd better realize, it's much worse now. They've got more bling to hide behind. When I come across those fuckers of the past now on social media, I see that they turned out exactly who I thought they'd become. They didn't outgrow themselves! Ugh.

The nostalgia I feel comes from my university days. I miss all those wonderful people, from every walk of life, who opened my eyes to what life could be. My world didn't include the jealous or arrogant. It was filled with love, joy and compassion. 

Not to put my culture down, but once I went to University, my old friendships dissipated and that suited me just fine. They were just such arrogant fools! So judgmental, such know-it-alls...and shallow as fu*k.

I imagine this cycle will not end in some circles. But, it did end with me and that will have to be enough.