stirrings

i think i am about to start a spiritual journey.
i am starting. i have started.

i feel i am ready for this.
excited even.

i think its time to stop just existing. and holding on.
to begin to search again for hope.
to learn how to hold hope for others,
not just problem solve.

it will require a lot of contemplation.
a lot of learned meditation.
and maybe some dancing...
(and possibly roller derby).

i don't kid myself that it will happen quickly.
or ever end. or even be apparent.

but i know that something has to change.
and i have to start making some changes.
and i know i need some help on the way.

so i'm excited....
maybe i'll use this as a forum to reflect on...
or maybe paper is better, we'll see...
but. i want to make sure i don't just let it slip away.

obsessed?

i always seem to do this
and it doesn't matter that i am older
and theoretically wiser.

as soon as there is the possibility of a boy
as soon as the slightest interest is shown
i turn all of my attention and
mental energy towards thoughts of this possibility.

the idea of playing it cool.
or even of being pursued,
is completely lost on me.
i just keep pushing forward and trying
and trying and trying.

trying to contact.
via text. email. telepathy.

and when my attempts are not reciprocated,
i begin to obsess, to question, to doubt.
even before there is even a tangible possibility,
i am already imagining all of the options,
fortunetelling the future.
trying to will it into being.

i wish i could relax. just wait and see...
see if i even WANT to pursue something,
rather than being more intrigued by the possibility
than by the reality of my heart. of my plans.

basically, i just want there to be a possibility.
especially a far away possibility.
to have someone who i can focus on.
obsess about.
and, ideally, who is equally obsessed with me.
(ok, maybe enamoured, rather than obsessed).

but i don't take the time.
i just keep texting, even with no reply.
and getting more and more discouraged.
more disillusioned with myself,
with love. with men.

i feel like i'm in high school again.
having passed a note to a boy in class,
sitting staring at the blackboard,
trying not to notice if he's writing back or not.

why do i allow my emotions to be dictated by another,
especially when the other does not have a clue
that they hold so much sudden sway in my life.

maybe i am not well differentiated...
just pushed and pulled by externals...
my emotions constantly manipulated by
my own mind's perceptions of another.

i don't even know if this possibility is a possibility.
or if i would even want the possibility to become reality.
yet i can't stop thinking, focusing, drifting...
wishing he would respond so i could be in touch...
rather than waiting, trying not to seem desperate.

i am the least in control and logical in these situations.
i lose any wisdom i may have.
don't take my own advice.

i am single-minded. obsessed. alone.
lonely.

i found something written a while ago...

curled up on the couch.
unresponsive. fetal.
the caked on blood covered by one small plastic bandaid.
drool drips onto the sofa,
mingled with blood,
its origins unknown.
an empty green bottle of Imperial sherry
lies nearby,
kept company by 3 empty tall boys of beer
and a half dozen unopened ones.
a mobster movie plays quietly in the background.
Rogers. On Demand.

he can't sit up to greet us.
can't light his own cigarrette.
a pizza box is by the door.
he ordered it for us, and wings.
keeps asking if he paid me for the smokes,
for the eggs.
wants to buy us Tim Hortons,
pay for a cab ride home.
it is a bleak image. a painful one.
accompanied by the scent of urine and stale beer.
the immaculate apartment is in disarray.
the floor and the bathroom covered with smeared blood.

i love this man.
and i have to leave.
i can only come and go.
i have to ignore the plaintiff phone calls.
the manipulation that comes from loneliness.
the desperate struggle of survival.
a life spent fighting.
physical beatings and formidable determination.
terrified of confinement, of restraints.
too many dark days in the hole.
spent alone. solitary.

i need to take more risks.
i don't like this gloved existence.
he feels like a leper.
Hep C, the modern untouchables.
death lingers in the air.
not too close, but present.
a reminder.
no one wants to die alone.
no one wants to be dying alone.

the cigarette ash falls.
his eyes close again.
we say goodbye.
promise to come back Thursday.
to finish watching 'Young Guns.'
today he mentions the future.
today there were no threats of jumping off the balcony,
no demands for the keys to be returned.
maybe this means there is a glimmer of hope?
or the physical pain hasn't quite become unbearable.

i don't feel disgusted by the blood,
but i feel calloused to the cries.
this sense of his life and death hovers over me,
the corners of my eyes contain gentle tears.
brought out by music or silence.
he has lived his life alone. mostly.
i feel privileged to be a part of this ,
but its going to be really hard when he dies.
there are funny, happy stories too. but not today.
i hope we can still write them down.
i don't want him to die alone.
don't want him to be forgotten...