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I remember vividly how after my grandmother died she would appear in my dreams in full spectrum, her whole self, and it never felt like dreaming. We would be sitting in a diner somewhere, just the two of us across from each other in a booth. We would eat pasta and talk. We went over everything we never talked about in life. And we laughed. Every morning I would wake up refreshed and drained at the same time. I wanted to go back to sleep to be with her, but somehow would manage to attend to eating and even watching TV. Occasionally I showered. At this time I was also in the first month of my pregnancy and would be very sick throughout the day. Another reason to hide and sleep.
Recently I started having conversation dreams like that again. The guy I am trying not to be in love with hasn’t died, but he is gone from my life and it seems my subconscious cannot tell the difference. Two nights now I have dreamt that we were talking, kissing and holding each other, just together. Last night in my dream I told him about the first dream I’d had of him. He asked me if I still love him. He asked me if I thought he loved me. I said I didn’t know, that I thought he loved me but that he wasn’t willing to connect with his emotions in that respect. It was a sad moment actually. And for some reason Mickey Mouse was there. Silently watching and judging from his chaise by the gumball machine.
Let’s become an eternal moment
Drenched in I-am-ness
Dark seeds she eats and plants a garden in her belly
Shining through the dirt & earth
Growing human
Numb, cold, brave, empty
Ya lyublyu i tak, ya ishy navsegda (I love and so, I search forever)
Even when hiding, still seeking
No day but today
Will I wither & fade? Disappoint? Break?
Die alone?
This morning we wake
Very far apart
My daughter is sitting next to me singing “all the pretty horses”
With a voice clear as a bell
Today you begin to formally say goodbye to your brother
And of course, I want to be there with you because of love
But of course, I cannot be with you because of love
Yes, the intricacies make this difficult
For my instincts oppose each other cruelly
Knowing what you need- to be with family
Knowing what you do not need- to see me
Is not hurtful, only truth
I would drop the world to be at your side
And you know this
So there is no doubt of my intentions
Here I am – finally learning how to give you space
I am trying to understand the cost of reaching out to a man who is in the depths of despair. I wonder if I have already pushed too far.
Men are like dogs in a lot of ways. Okay… so they are like animals in general. Let’s not take this as an offense in this case. When wounded, a dog (or any animal of analogous choosing) will find a dark, quiet place to hide. In men, the reaction to emotional trauma is the same.
When a woman, the caring nurturer, sees the wounded man, she goes to care for him. Yet his instinctual need to hide under the porch and whimper alone and despondent, causes the man to fear her presence. He may lash out and bite the woman, indicating he has no desire to be tended.
Women and men – there are such disparities in nature and civilization. The man hurts and wanders off to contemplate his pain. The woman hurts to see the man so wounded. She will stand there not so far away, on guard until he is ready to come back. A smart woman knows not to approach him, but to wait for him to come to her. She knows he will come when he is ready. The cost of breaking this rule may be a complete rejection, or the loss of the hand she reaches out to him in love. We must understand the cost of following our instincts, and ignoring the needs of the other.
The silent forever has fallen again
The temple curtain torn
Death’s grief is a raging fire
That tears through our souls
Beautiful and terrifying
I can speak only in generalizations
Because this is not my loss
But I remember what happens
How the anguish takes hold
How reality melts like a painting in the sun
How moment to moment only a long wailing Why
And I will not speak of how it cleans us
But only of how loved ones linger to give comfort
In vivid technicolor dreams
Old soul sitting on the dock,
Wonders not how to stop the clock
And it’s always like Tick Tock Tick Fuckin Tock
It’s the verbage we choose and the mood set by sun
The water knows the answers, but answers none
Last night we were together again
I felt your body surround and fill me with love always desired
The grand passion took us over and reality slowed to become that moment
Only a dream I had to admit as the hot sun told my eyes to open
But when reality is a sad, empty chasm of loveless sorrow
Such welcome respite may come in slumber
Yeah, sigh, dreaming sure do beat all
This is a true story. I have given up on love. I have given up on myself as someone who can find romantic love in a true and potent form. I dare to say that I cannot be loved. I am too broken and sad and have used up my quota of love already. I have had two who have loved me and I them, but those are loves of the past and offer nothing now but bitter memories of love’s calamity. I would be so happy to find the love of my life that would be my mate for all time. It seems that is a dream of the past, a dream that a child had, and a silly childish belief. So I love my child and I love my cat. I have put myself on the edge of reason, on the precipice of love and shouted, “Here I am! I will love you!” I have jumped and I have fallen. Sadly, love’s net has not reached out to hold me. I have crashed on the rocks below. I have nothing and nothing has me.
He is just a middle aged mess in a metaphorical tower
Sits up there smoking fancy cigarettes, sipping sparkling wines and cussing just to cuss
“Fuck you, you fucking fuckers” and other meaningless mantras he belts
To the horror and amusement of the brain baked minions below
I am delightedly laughing, just one of the crowd on the street he doesn’t see
But I am watching and believing there secret lies a heart sweet and deep
Finding that I adore this angry troll
Supposing that just one kiss and poof! Perhaps a prince!
The day comes I climb the tower with flowers, lipstick and cocksure smile
Galiant, and ready to bequeath my maiden virtues, find horror in truth as reality shows:
Sometimes a beast on the out apparent, too right even more beastly within
Confused and suspecting trickery, my darling oaf unkindly chucks me out the highest window
Flesh splatter, bones break on the hard concrete and all dreams of happy sunset and fairy tale ending fade as eyeballs now prairie dog meat
Rhonda knew her name was not beautiful and wondered what her mother had been thinking, and if it meant she hated her – as Rhonda sincerely suspected. She began to make a list of all the things that one should never do to children. At the top of the list: Do not pick an ugly name.
A name stays with people and defines them. She did not want to be the “raw” open sound that began her name or the stupid, awful, idiotic “n’duh” that finished her off. She wanted to be a beauty, like a Michelle or Jessica.
Looking in the mirror she saw her potential in pronounced cheek bones, clear eyes, round lips. She thought: I look just like a model. But then she also saw, and could not deny, the shadows that lined her features. Shame, doubt and grief - all there painfully marked.
Others only noticed that she never smiled and assumed her to be dull and unintelligent. Rhonda herself, afraid that people could read her just as easily as she read them, always tried to keep a straight face. Let no emotion, good or bad seep out. She tucked her secrets behind her eyes, though it only made them evermore clear and more pleading.
Later in life she would review her childhood portraits and feel sad looking into those eyes. It would make her shudder as she sometimes did at the zoo in a moment of locking gazes with a caged wild animal. She would remember the cruelty of captivity.
Do all secrets hide? Many long to be heard. Oh, and dear reader if you love a fine tale, you should know: The eyes tell stories that may stir the soul.
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