She Was.

There is little that I want to say about the past year. Only that I am glad that it is about to be relegated to the past. Only that, in so many ways, 2008 both broke me and lifted me higher than I’ve ever gone before. I look forward to seeing the back of it. I look forward to the dawning of 2009, and because I really don’t ever stop believing, I look forward to it with hope, with impatience, with excitement.

To 2009, may you not let any of us down.

Life, goes on.

I am involved.

Hesitantly, tentatively, in over my head involved.

Monday. Sex. Needy, affirming, connecting, emotionally unemotional sex.

Christmas Eve. And I’m holding his hand. Hovering. Listening to his whispers. Translating. Protecting. Him, her, I. The three of us. I’m unshowered. His scent still on me. All over me. Alternating between forcing her to be what he needs, and giving in and doing it myself. Capitulating. Surrendering. In my own defense, it is a matter of his life and death. I yell, I scream, I beg, I cajole, I charm. Him. Her. Hours of holding our breath. Of anger, of grief so raw, I recognise it. And in all my disconnect I see him. And in all my detachment, I do not leave his side. In protecting him – I protect myself. In soothing him – I soothe myself.

Life, goes on.

And here I am. Again. Triangles: obtuse, sharp. Wide open, I cannot be taken by surprise. Except by my own stubborn will. I am, regretfully, over my head alive. I wish I had never seen his underneath. I am glad to know that I can still feel.

Christmas Night. I am uncomfortable. Of the three of us, only I am aware. I listen to him spill our secret. Over and over again. Wilfully blind. I have a skill. To compartmentalise, to detach. I disgust myself. My phone beeps insistently. I take calls, smile, cry, discreetly, softly. I hear them, oceans away. I see them, laughing, eating, happy around that table. It’s completely unreal now, I am involved. He texts me. He misses my company, realises I have every right to never speak to him again, he would love to hear from me. He cares about me. So very much. I stare at the screen. The small blue letters. I try to recall his face, his voice, but it doesn’t come to me. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. Not a thing. I run my thumb over the keys. I hesitate, think about texting back. I know that he has waited for this moment, a conveniently safe moment to get in touch, to contact me, to reconnect. To find some words to bridge the chasm back into my life. I wonder how he is. Whether he really expects a reply. I look up and I see blue eyes, foggy, pained, staring into mine. He asks if I am ok. The irony, of him, in all his hell, asking me. I glance back down at the phone in my palm, and gently, click it shut. I don’t reply then, or later. I have nothing left to say. In that moment I’ve let go.

I am involved.

Horribly, messily, pitiably, involved.

Perhaps I never learn.

But, as I told him all through that long, long, Christmas night, this life, in the end, it goes on.

(Intra-coitus)

“And someone let this go?”

“You are fucking unbelievably amazing.”

I feel better now.

Happy Holidays x

[i'm bored]

And so when I think of what remains

(of me)

there is restlessness

and stubborn refusal to see.

I was going to write about the solace of resonance

(and other such wordy things)

I was going to write about comfort

and not scratchy dissatisfaction.

I was going to grow up some day.

But there’s a refusal.

To stay just the way that I am (?)

Bits? Pieces? Fractured?

The parts, I’ve long suspected, may be greater than the whole.

This time last year I was preparing for my first winter Christmas.

Christmas in Australia means faux snow on trees, stuffed toy snowmen and, usually, a sweltering hot day spent at the beach, lazing by the pool, or, twirling fully-clothed under the sprinkler. Christmas lunch means cold seafood and salad, anything to avoid cooking. I remember feeling the weather turn colder and  being so excited by the prospect of Christmas turkey and stuffing and snow that didn’t come out of a spraycan. I looked forward to being alone, in a cozy house perched on a mountaintop, miles and miles from home. I imagined lying in front of an open fire toasting marshmallows with the person I loved best. Instead, at the last possible minute he decided that we would spend the day with his mother. I remember sitting in a drafty room, speaking to no one, the weather dirty grey through the windows, alone with someone else’s family and thinking about how different Christmas would be at home. I imagined my own friends and family playing boardgames after the mandatory afternoon nap, drinking until the early hours of the morning, and the drama of the inevitable backyard cricket game. All without me.

Christmas has always been my favourite holiday. Dad always dressed up as Santa Claus and made us sit on his lap, even after my sister and I had stopped believing in mythical bearded fat men. Mom always bought far too many presents and tolerated me spying at the window as she wrapped the presents under the bedcovers to avoid my unable to wait eyes. Mom’s efforts were almost always thwarted because my sister had a gift for unwrapping and rewrapping parcels, leaving no trace of her handiwork. She would carefully investigate what each of us had received while I played lookout. She would then bribe me for whatever of mine she coveted at the time, before finally giving in and revealing the gift list. She always made sure to see what Dad had bought for Mom. This way we could hint at anything that was lacking before the big day. Perhaps they knew what we were doing, but if they did they never said anything. Christmas Eve was always the highlight for us. Neither of us could wait until Christmas Day so we would stay up late and finally be allowed to unwrap our gifts after midnight. We would lie in our beds afterwards and compare gifts, negotiating trades until we fell asleep, both knowing that Mom and Dad would have kept a few presents aside for the next day.

Dad died when I was 12 and my sister was 9. One of the hardest things about his death was that he died near Christmas. I don’t know why but we decided to go ahead with Christmas that year. We had the tree and the presents and the three of us tried. We tried our very best, but it was a heartbreakingly sad Christmas that, I think, left each of us feeling more alone. After that my sister and my mother gave up on Christmas. In all the years that have followed neither of them have wanted to exchange presents or decorate the tree. I’ve stubbornly held on to the tradition. Of too many gifts, of a sparkling tree, of love. Because Christmas had always been so full of love. Amongst the presents and the dressing up, there was extra patience, a willingness to give that little more, of wanting to fulfill each other’s expectations even when they were childishly over the top. We indulged each other, we worked together, because each of us, more than the food and the gifts, and the excitement, wanted for us to be happy, to be contented, to feel special, to feel loved. It’s always made me sad that they gave up on Christmas. I’ve bullied and hung lights, and insisted that they each add at least one ornament to the tree. I’ve been called the Christmas Nazi and been told to fuck off with my commercialized consumer holiday. And every year it ends the same way. In the end, I yell at them both and tell them that Christmas is about love and that if they can’t make an effort for this one fucking day then they can both piss off. And they bring presents, and sometimes they help to trim the tree, and in the end, they try, and I know that they do it for me, and I am grateful.

Last year, feeling guilty for being so far from home, wondering how their Christmas would be without me, I sent them each a Christmas ornament, and a huge  box of presents. Neither of them sent me a card or a gift but they called on the day, and I knew that it was hard for them. I remember crying and telling them that I loved them, that I missed them. I remember trying to explain all this to him. That, for me, Christmas was, and always will be about love. Love and hope. My father’s death fractured our relationships so deeply, the three of us have never fully mended. So, Christmas, a happy fucking Christmas, the ability to love each other enough for just one day, gives me hope, hope that maybe we will, finally, all, somehow be ok. I didn’t think he understood, especially after he cancelled our plans. But on Christmas Day, right before we left his mother’s house, he came up behind me, put his arms around me, kissed my neck and whispered in my ear ‘It’s all going to be ok’.

This year, back home again, I have not wanted to put up a Christmas tree. I haven’t bought any presents. My relationship with my mother and my sister is as strained as ever. I am alone. I miss him. I miss love. I am not looking forward to Christmas Day. I have made no effort.

Today I saw both my mother and my sister. And each of them have hung Christmas decorations. Both have a small tree, and although we are not exchanging gifts, they have organised Christmas lunch. Tomorrow I am going to buy a small tree too, complete with faux snow, because today, today has given me hope. Hope, that maybe, I will be ok. We will all, somehow, be ok.

Where does love go when it dies?

Before the ashes have been scattered?

After the used airline tickets have been carefully packed away?

In the first rush of wanting new fingers between thighs? In the heat that floods your face when you stand too close to someone all together different? In the thick fumblings of inarticulate tongues? Is it there?

Does the love that’s gone before propel us on to the love that comes next?

From his straight brown hair and his chocolate eyes into his curly hair and blue, blue eyes.

I am teetering on the edge of something wrong. He has more than one other involvement. They know about each other. I know about them. They do not, as yet, know about me. There are no romantic delusions. I do not like him. I know all his indiscretions, his failings, his shortcomings, his inadequacies. I know that he is unfaithful, laden with insecurities, problems, mess. He has made his attraction to me clear. I know that there is very little that I need to do in order to have him in my bed. He is nothing I want and everything I need. I need the mess. I need to do it again. And I need to not be taken by surprise. I need to dive in over my head, take him on, turn him out and come out unscathed. I want to be cruel and unforgiving and badly behaved. I want to affect someone. And he will do.

And in this? In this I will bury all of my love.