Tag Archives: Lovemaking

Greyhound days

Standard

Here is an old poem; from over a year ago, I think.

How distant I feel to the glossy «mummy-magazines», they make me queasy with their fake, pastel version of existence.

Burn the magazines and be real, with your child, your lover, your life.

 

Greyhound days

They slip away more every day

The open spaces within my mind

 

Room for roaming

My wild leopards

Bush fires

Jungle sweat

 

Occupied by

Child, man, needs

Thoughts taking flight crash and burn

 

Dinner

Laundry

5.30 alarm

 

I need more

 

Where are my night thoughts

The darkness

What took them

– just time, domestic

 

Gone, the watching of tree patterns on the sky

Endless moments

Soul sky high

 

I need more

So, in a hard voice I tell the boy

Go away

Instant regret of mother heart

(that wild thing in me)

 

The walls fall in on my forest clearings:

The childhood fairytale

of dancing elves

The existence of princes

Joyful fear,

knowing dragons are in the caves

 

Dishwasher

School bullies

Stretching exercises of the soul

Finally, the boundaries are unseen

 

Oh yes, there has been

Fear, pain, boredom:

No lack of challenges

 

Racehorse days

Greyhound days

I try to catch even the shadow of my soul

Before sundown, exhaustion

 

Love is the jailor

Insane love, wild love

How fortunate I am

To be an invaded space

 

freedom faith music love

Standard

Rhythm slow like lovemaking

Driving again, the light piercing my eyes always now, I’m protecting my brain behind sunglasses. Can hardly look at anything, need darkness to have a moment of peace.

Sucking in every hour of comfort whenever the pain eases up; meanwhile training myself to focus my eyes far away, thus resting my wired, overworked, screaming brain. Pulling myself up, out, walking, soothing landscapes rescuing me, slow moving rhythm of my feet balancing my screwed-up nervous system. Giving in when I must, hours disappearing in fetal position.

Still, even this far down the road, there is sometimes music. This time, my newly found favorite song, and as usual, I’m obsessed. Sets me free for moments. Music cutting behind words, behind reason, straight into the wordless insides of me. The force of his voice and its emotions, the darkness and beauty of the words, the rhythm is pulling on me like tide….. Slow like lovemaking.

«…all the things she grants me
Freedom is not among those things
And freedom is by no means free..»

This is what I want. Freedom. But, oh, it is by no means free.

I want all the history that mars my body to be erased. I want to know who I am again. I want to be able to stay in myself without fear of the next pain, the endless cycles emptying me, over and over. Who would ever recognize what this is like for me? I can hardly grasp it myself.

* to mar:

1. To inflict damage, especially disfiguring damage, on.

2. To impair the soundness, perfection, or integrity of; spoil.

 That’s it: it has impaired the integrity of me; so that I don’t, any longer, know exactly who I am. My images of me, the stories of who I am, no longer really believable, when no one is a witness. Do you, does anyone, know my name?

Nights; awoken by aching, I twist, sweating and cold, in the covers.

«..the night pulled tight around me…»

Sobering to observe how coolly I now evaluate my symptoms at four in the morning, how without emotion I tell myself not to be afraid, because fear won’t help me, it is a luxury I can’t afford any more  (it shreds me to shaking, to panic). I tell myself that I will have to sleep now, and if the pain gets so bad I need hospital again, I will wake up. The phone is next to me, so now, sleep. Repeating like a mantra, «you’ll be okay. Believe it.»

How I, bleakly, on countless nights and days try to evaluate the strength, position, temporal development of my own symptoms, before administering (with a shudder of disgust) the drug of choice. Always, now, in a haze.

I am falling so deeply, so hard, where is the rock bottom which will catch me, stop me, crush me or bounce me back flying? The rock bottom; faith.

Trying to find faith. How do humans manage to believe?

Never religious, this is something I know nothing of, and yet, it is what it is now reduced to, as the only road to travel. They tell me; believe in the healing power of your body and mind, believe in the drugs, believe that there is a future. How? My immeasurable strength now diluted to homeopathic concentrations.

Can anyone tell me how to remember to keep the faith,  throughout the day: at 12 o’clock, shopping for groceries, when in the shower, paying the bills, when you’ve been turned down, you’re alone, or too much surrounded by others? At three in the morning, sleep evasive.

«…freedom is impossible, this I know

I can’t find it in no bedroom

Or wherever it is

I run and hide

No, I never did find it

By any one’s side…»

But…. I do find a measure of freedom in company, in belonging to someone and something, in giving myself over to what I love (dancing, the slow hip circle. Singing, when coming in on cue almost too late, the tardy rhythm so organic, bodily). Struggling so hard to believe, to have faith, is this where I will manage it? Moment by moment, refusing to feel the fear. Allowing only joy. Pleasure sweet like honey. Love, body, tears, friendship. I write lists of names: these people are my friends. I hold onto the slip of paper. Please speak my name.

Freedom; impossible. Still. But not always.

Faith; necessary.

(lyrics are quoted from Madrugada’s brilliant song, Sail away).