Rage Lite

Maybe... just maybe when I finally find a place and move out of the matrimonial home, this will stop?

I am in limbo, stuck in some surreal gap of having left but not having actually left. It's killing me a little bit.

And the holidays, oh my god, my partner has been home everyday and never going too far from me, like a puppy that thinks he's found his owner and doesn't dare stray too far.

I had to tell him again that I am actually leaving. Things have been so normal that he thought maybe it was just a phase I went through and was over it now.

In our house, it is as if nothing has changed. We are the exact same people as we break up that we are when we are together. Doesn't that scream... something? I'm sure it does but I can't put my finger on it.

I believe, that in order to cope with the middle ground, I am obsessing about other possibilities of love, passion etc. It doesn't help that I had a fabulous taste of it just a short while ago.  I dream of that persons arms around me as we lay in the sweaty aftermath.

I'm trying to find centre, but it's not easy. At this point, it is probably safer to admit defeat and stop trying to fight feeling like a volcano that is ready to burst. I am going to explode.

If only I could cry.

Gasping Desire

I gotta get my head back on straight. I am lost in the ethereal, looking for love. Why? Why am I looking for love? Because I've finally admitted that I've not really had love for so long that I want to immediately fill that gap?

It's fucked up.

My friend and I are... still friends. Still connected (on my part at least - that I am aware of) by what feels (to me) like an invisible elastic band. At our work lunch, he orders shared appies for us, he waits for me, walks with me. In idle conversation he hints that he would not let me win. Mutual affection abounds, and I can't do a single fucking thing about it. He's playing a really very good game. Touché.

Then, as I do at times, I reach out to my first love, just to check in on him, say hi, that sort of thing. I eventually get a text back saying, it's not that he doesn't want to see me, but that what I don't know is that (after 25 years) he thinks of me every day and that that comes from true love.

What? Is he fucking with me? Why is he saying that? He can't possibly be telling the truth. At the very least, he is exaggerating. And if it's true, that can't be healthy.

Yet, I've always loved him, always professed that I always would - in a "very fond of my first love memories" kind of way. A first love that was, of course, wrought with dysfunction (cheater pants, booze, and youth).

But when I've seen him in the past, I've known instantly that I still love him - AND THAT IS FUCKED UP. Jesus.

It doesn't matter though, from what I know, he is seriously using (drugs) and there is no way in hell I would subject myself to that again. It's not even a thought. I've come way too far, I don't even have it in me to go backwards with a person who has not intellectually and emotionally evolved.

Except in that spot in my head where I like to entertain stupidity ( a popular past time these days).

I remember the last time I saw him and his amber eyes took me right back to a place where I had no idea why I loved him, but loved him wholly and completely all the same.

Every wistful word I said to my kids about my first love and how it just wasn't our time back then.

The times I've spent in the past revisiting the possibility of us meeting up again and finally being the right time for us both.

But, in a fantasy world.

So, here I am, lurching for the possibility of love and distraction. Where is it, where can I find it? I'm frantic with the replacement theory.

I think that I know that this is just a natural phase of leaving my marriage and realizing the time I have given to it - and perhaps being angry about that. I want something for me now. But, damn, it is uncomfortable, gasping desire is heavy burden.

The goal has been to reach my quiet solitude and get some work done. To make space for my work, not clutter my space with little men and a parade of unmet expectations.

Where the fuck did my grown up go?

Beautiful, Free, and Alive

I am ridiculous, I'm pinning all my built up frustrations with life in general on this one thing and I need to calm down.

Calm down and let go.

I am 44,  I am leaving my husband because there is nothing here for me. There may not be a whole lot on the other side, but there will be the hope of more. The dream of more.

I am lovely in my nature and, one day,  I want to share that with someone who is lovely and alive in theirs.

I want to build a nest that nurtures growth and creativity.  I want to focus and excel at my job.

I want to be beautiful, free, and alive.

The Dead Horse Wants It

Seriously, he's begging for it. The horse is lying there, begging for me to beat it. Moaning and calling my name.

But I can't and I will not. Not this one, I will not beat it.

Fuck and god damn it.

I want to open its guts up and talk about this shit till it's burnt beyond recognition. It's my nature. Yet, I know... I must leave this one be. It's the right thing to do.

I need a distraction from this horse.

fuck me.

Touching the Middle of Sweetness

Things move around and shift.  Some I like, some make me sad.

The universe seems to have a plan for me, twice now it has given me a someone that shows me it's time to leave my marriage, and, it appears, as soon as I listen, I lose the someone that inspired the decision to speak up.

Which is a bit of slight of hand, universe.

I'm hoping that this time that's not entirely true. I really liked this latest inspiration, I liked the little bits of time we spent together. I would like to have more of those.

When it first appeared, I asked for it to be something sweet. Now, I would like it to come back and I would like it to be lovely and a little enduring. Maybe not a life time of moments, but a good length of them.

Those moments had pieces of that kind of stillness where you cease to exist in this world and visit a different place, you know that kind of stillness?

I want to touch and be touched by it again and more. I miss it already.

I may have found a new home for me, fingers crossed that the owner picks me. It's beautiful and simple, and I believe it will foster my heart's growth.

It was his turn to say that "this has to stop," he said he was getting more attached to me and that current circumstances didn't bode well for us if feelings became stronger. He's very adamant that he should not have attached feelings. Whatever. I guess.

He doesn't know I'm leaving, it seems weird to tell him. I have to make this decision for me and only me right now. He was my physical evidence of just how removed I am from my marriage, and I must deal with that separately.

I just wish he didn't have to disappear once his "job" was done.

I've broken my husband's heart. He was very comfortable staying still where we are - or were. And I dreamed (always dreaming) of more: more connection, more lust, more passion, more life. And, as it happens, I'm more afraid of not taking my chances finding it again than I am of leaving the safety and comfort of what I have.

And so grace falls at my feet and all I can do is breath one breath at a time, slowly, taking it in.

Gods bless me.

Resolute Absolution

Most days are fine, good even, but then these other days pop up where I am suddenly shocked by my actions. Reality falls like a lead ball into my stomach, and I wonder if I know, really know, what I am doing.

How lonely will I get or be? I will have to take my own garbage to the curb (um, that might be the one thing he does that I don't look forward to having to take on. Or it's the only thing he does...) . I will be alone.

Will I like being alone (again)? One only needs to look at the alternative to know that the answer to that question is mute. But still, it begs asking (and suffering).

I'm a little scared. But, not scared enough to stand still. I'm more scared of standing still than entering the unknown.

I'm also sad - not just about the obvious, but something more, too.  Perhaps I feel sad because it feels a little like I lost something that was tangible and nice in my present. Something that, there could be no doubt, I would have to let go of eventually (and shortly after receiving it even). But,  I guess, it feels like a bummer - if indeed it has met its end already. I will miss it.

Yeah, that's the sadness. There is a resolute absolution that stirs beautifully in me, on the precipice of my knowing, like a small dirt devil dancing in my peripheral.

It's coming.

Where I Leave Once Again

I told him we are separating, and in a not so unique, shouldn't have been a surprise, surprise... he's fine with it. Not happy, but resigned in a pleasant fashion.

This because he is numb as fuck. In hindsight, I shouldn't have been surprised. However, being as human as I am, as un numb as I am - I am, scientifically speaking, shocked.

I will miss my friend in the way we have each other now, but it is time.

I've reviewed hindsight and, I think, all that talk about being okay with living in his prison because I get to come and go was me just trying to convince myself that this was okay.

But at the bottom of that is the realization that I am already a single person, only I am stopped form moving forward and growing as sensual being (which doesn't stop moving forward on it's own, by the by) because of my commitment to someone who has chosen to stop living beyond their duty.

I reread a bunch of old writings and had to laugh at how long I have been missing passion, sensuality, and... connection; it's been going on since at least 2008, ramping up in earnest in my face in 2009.

And now, I am in front of something sweet. I would like to say that I am a lot more grown up and prepared this time. At least, I'm pretty sure that's true.

The slight attraction that started about a year ago, recently and suddenly kicked the door down, and I ran to it like the world was on fire.

It feels as if, finally, the gods have seen fit to release me from my wasteland and I get to physically experience a somewhat ferocious lust and passion and/or a sweet and lovely string of moments that exist like water.

It's very sweet. He's sweet. I enjoy him. I enjoy the energy that goes between us. I would like it to remain for a little while.

So the truth has physically manifested itself in a way that I can't talk myself out of how done I am. It would be irresponsible of me to stay.

For me and my life, I get to be alone again. To grow solid in my understanding. To feel... real. And hopefully, to enjoy time and love with lovely people as the journey continues.

That is my hope.

love + lust = lost

He asked if I would bungy jump. "No," I laughed, "I would not."

"What if we went together?" he said.

So, me tied to him at the feet, clinging to him to save my life as we drop.

Again, I laughed, "I would be crying the whole time."

"That's okay," he replied plainly and softly.

He would just like the experience or excuse to be that close. He would like the experience of being the provider of safety to a woman he has a wee crush on. A woman he could never have. That's sweet. At least, it feels sweet. At 27, he doesn't come across as preditorial or greasy, just wholly naive.

Given that the mutual attraction exists, I find his suggestion is intriguing.

You can tell he sees a life force in me that he would like to touch, and finds any excuse to do so.

Those little sparks of attraction, that highway of energy that can be felt when you are just so close to that boundary line, fly, and I think, damn it. 

I eat this shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner: romance, desire, seduction, innocence, love, human connections. I live for romantic ideals. Sometimes, it is the largest one vein in my body - throbbing for attention. I am forced to write this out of me as other people and their experiences in stories because I am, for the most part, reasonable. I will not act out on irrational thoughts. I love my husband and our life.

But, god damn it, he opened the door.

When someone opens the right door, they pour in light, light that leads me to look into the rooms in which I live every day, and it appears, suddenly, as though perhaps I shorted myself by living in my husband's prison with him. I chose to live here knowingly, because I get to come and go.

He may live every day of his life in the prison of his mind, but I come and go. But, the thing is,  I always come back - to his prison.

Once and a while someone opens a different door, a door that threatens the peace and balance of our half prison home,  and I see the prison for what it is. I end up asking myself how much of my life force am I giving away to this prison?

I don't believe that running off with someone, anyone else, would fix this issue, but it presents the questions: could I be more alive in my own life, do I desire to be more alive in my own life, have I fallen asleep in his cell with him?

Do I have to cross the line when I share time with someone who presents options, is there a way to explore a muse safely? Because of this I have no doubt, he is a muse.

Can I just let him kiss me?

In Which I Walk Through Pain

I am too weak to be an addict, even to something as simple as cigarettes - my constant companion. I don't know that this pain, this anxiety, I feel is directly related to that, although it often seems the culprit, if memory serves correctly.

I could be wrong.

It could be that I feel the anxiety because I am like Theresa Caputo and the deceased, or other-worldly, are trying desperately to communicate with me. It could be that my intuition is screaming about something else.

I've had anxiety before when I was gently refusing to clearly see what was right in front of me. That little excursion brought me to my knees - like I had a rope around my neck and the universe, along with my inside self, yanked me down to my knees with it.

I don't know if this is the case now, you never know these things when you're in the eye of the storm. So all I can say is that I feel the pain of discomfort. The only thing one can do in these circumstances is to ask the universe to "reveal itself."

It sounds corny, but it's true enough. Reveal yourself.

What is there that I should know and I will walk through it. I will lay down my cards, forgive my hand, and... meet the storm.

I would rather that. I would rather there be something rather than nothing.

"There is a move," I hear or make up that I heard. There is a fundamental breakdown in my foundation - a blessing. A longing to feel real.

Bobing for Existence or Pin the Tail on Your Purpose

Fickle. Fickle, fickle humans. Restless and rather stupid. Sometime a simple slap would be a good idea or simply sufficient to shake one out of ones race for completion.

I aspire. It is my strength and my weakness. Because I aspire, because I have passion - a human condition one day, an affliction the next - I evolve, I blossom, and I stink at life.

I have ups and downs that range so radically some days that I long for the day I can flat line. How peaceful that would be. How wonderfully restful.

So what is it? What is this drive for completion? This thirst, this unquenchable thirst. Why can't I just be? Why am I not content?

Will I ever be truly content?

In the Middle

We're moving. Next weekend, we move into our new house. It's bigger, it's nicer, and I pray everyday that it will give us just the right amount of space. Not too much, not too little.

But that is next week. Today, we live like gypsy heathens. My animals eat from empty plates on the coffee table because I have given up trying to keep things clean. My floor is covered in boxes, clumps of dog hair, dirt, and cedar tree bits, and it makes me feel... dispassionate.

Soon, I will move this mess of belongings to a new house that feels void of connection yet has the expectation of home and perfection thrust upon it. It's a tall order that this house will take months to fulfil. Until it does, I will be in the middle of - in between - two homes. I will be without the place where I belong.

It reminds me of when I moved from my marriage to that other home. I remember how it seemed like the connection would never be made; that even though all my belongings where there, I was in a stranger's house. It was lonely.

I thought then that it was because my husband wasn't there, but now I wonder if it will be the same, only we'll be alone together this time.

I make it sound melancholy and  I don't really mean to. It's just something that appears to be there and for that reason alone, I must poke it for more information.

ugh.

It's just that... maybe I also don't want to live this way. Of course, you'll know, I'm talking about work now and not houses. This is, perhaps, the other swollen object in my gut that requires poking.

I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this shit,  this shit of having to put so much of my time to something that bleeds creativity from me. I just want to do it part time - for fuck sakes. It's so demanding.

I'm not sure if I took a wrong turn leaving my last part time job. Then, working from home seemed appealing, and it is cool, but also not cool. And why is it that this job always seems to pulling from me more than it gives?

The manifestation is balance, joy, and contentment (the last two might be one in the same), and I'm not there yet. I find this current job kinda pisses me off. It's great, the people are great, the product is great, the work is demanding - too demanding, at times, in it's relentlessness.

I just need a job that I come to that feels kind and pleasant and where I feel of value and my mind is engaged. A job that fills me up with as much as I put in and leaves me enough time to foster writing and projects. Perhaps I had that before - the money was just a little shy.

So, I tweak the manifestation: balance, joy, financial abundance. I will look to where I want to go. I will focus.

It's good to have goals.

Oh dear god...

I only title this like that because I'm looking for a flare of dramatics over nothing, because isn't it all that? There's nothing wrong, but still, "Oh... dear god" here we go again, she's going to write about nothing as if it were...what?

Beautiful Pieces

I finished a book yesterday, The Storied Life of A.J.Filkry, and it wasn't what I expected. It was shit really. Too simple. But it was really well thought out and well written shit, and only shit because I think the author's ideas are a little before her time still. Tbh, by her picture on the cover I thought she was about 22, I just looked her up and she's 7 years younger than me. Ha ha. 

Still, it was simple. Too simple. 

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to think I'm communicating something really super deep in a way that sneaks up on the reader only to find that I was actually too inexperienced of a writer (too inexperienced as a person) to do this, and I laid.it.all.out for them as if I was teaching a kindergarten class. 

That would suck. 

I go inside my swirling guts and ask myself some hard questions like, what are you doing?

I hear, one step at a time, man; to which, fair enough. I guess. 

I see these pieces, the beautiful pieces of the-reality-of-being-human floating about. I smile and then I frown and then I smile. I can't decide if I love the simplicity of blundering or if I hate it. Which, in and of itself is interesting.

I am that guy standing at the street light, on foggy, misty night,  waiting for my mysterious self to deliver a message. While I wait, I just sit back and watch the world.

In the distance, a fog horn sounds unexpectedly and I jump. It takes away from my attempt at a cool demeanour.

Nevertheless, one must expel these spiders of thought, these niggling creatures that crawl in my brain as if they belong there. They are like fruit flies in that they don't have to come from somewhere else, the can just grow where once there was none. 

Also like fruit flies, I can coax them into drowning by laying out the sweet smell apple cider vinegar, the invitation to hedonism, and spill them from my finger tips to their death.

The spiders, the dude me at the street light, the judgy-reader, the wannabe writer, they are all beautiful pieces and when I'm right (as in righted) I can accept them with grace (like a mother lovingly watching her bratty kids fight). 

When I'm uncomfortable, it is because I've become one of them, slipped into their skin when I wasn't looking, in an attempt to feel... what? Young again?

I don't know. And now that I've written it all out, I don't care.