Hedonistic
Love affair
Take my body
Strip it bare
Take my will
It has no power
All my logic
Lust devours
Take my promise
To be true
All my virtue
Melts with you
Take my instinct
Heartache looms
Your touch is lies
That spell my doom
Give me nothing
Another conquest won
This life I’ve made
Will be undone
Gord Downie is a part of me, his music is underlying in my psyche and I imagine it always will be. The back roads the Hip travelled musically showed me that it was alright to be dark, alright to go deeper, alright to walk that fine line between dark and light. It inspires me, it lets me get my rock on with my socks on. It haunts me and taunts me, jacks me up and pins me down. These men are genius, talent unbridled in a relentless pursuit of nirvana – pure rock and roll. I love them, they turn me on when I turn them up and they will always be Canada’s greatest Rock Band – no matter what.
Down the rabbit hole I slide
Chasing the dragon in my stride
Trying to fix what has gone wrong
Always slipping, never strong
My words they fall on deafened ears
The love we had it disappears
Try to regain what has been lost
But the words we speak are doused in frost
The rage and pain is what remains
As every conversation strains
There is no kindness, only shame
To find the one who is to blame
This love affair has run its course
And all that’s left is the divorce
You speak to me in whispered hush
And see the passion in my blush
Your hands are tender stones on skin
And find the place where I begin
Creep into my soul so dark
And within you light the spark
Our journeys now are intertwined
in places we thought left behind
The soul is fractured deep in me
No idea where I should be
My fate to be a simple toy
Is this where I’ll find my joy?
Shall I stay and wait for change
Feel myself be rearranged
The truth is yet an unseen path
Will it be love or only wrath?
My thoughts of you are twisted dark
you found inside, a dim lit spark
I feel your hands like hardened steel
caress my soul and slow reveal
That piece of me sent to its grave
Was found again in what I crave
Feel your weight on top of me
That treasure cave of ecstasy
In my mind and in my soul
The only way that I am whole
Is to know your ever sinful gaze
Will haunt me till my end of days
Things have not been easy in 2020, For the world and for me personally. Over the last 8 years I lost my Brother at 40, my father to a heart attack, and finally my Mother in 2018. Depressed was not the word I would use for my pain. I love rainbows and unicorns, always have. So I kept filling my life bright objects and I realized I was trying to re-colour my dark life. Then I found out about Canada’s Drag Race. I have never seen the American version, but I have always loved Ru Paul for her courage and strength, something I had been lacking of late. So I started watching, and experienced my first genuine joy for 2020. Beautiful, elegant, amazing woman with courage and grace filled my living room. I understand there has been a lot of hate being spread of late by those online who likely are having dark lives too, but they have decided to tap into the dark and try to spread it across the internet world. I am sad for them. I love this show, These amazingly creative contestants and the bravery and talent it takes to stand on that stage in platform heels and pounds of clothing and makeup and make it look like it was the easiest thing in the world. They inspire me. They keep the light alive and I could not be more grateful. Haters gonna hate as they say, but this girl is gonna love them, all of them, Because in the end we are all in this together, and these girls are here to brighten up this cruddy year. Thank you Drag Race. Thank you Rita Baga. Thank you Priyanka, that all of you fabulous bitches!! You are the BEST.
Twisted metal wreckage
Broken glass and melted steel
Crumpled up like paper
I’m still trapped behind the wheel
No jaws of life to save me
No rescue truck in sight
Suspended in my madness
Darkness day and night
The smell of gasoline
As it trickles past my view
Surely to ignite
And engulf me when it’s through
The only proof of my existence
The only sign that I was there
Are the deep and ragged skid marks
And the scars the road shall bear
I want to start off by saying that I think the word hate is an awful word, and I do use it sparingly. I need to be honest to myself and leave it in here but I wanted to say that. Also, I want to say that I am happily surrounded by some tough motherf*ckers in my life now. Men and women. I am finally safe and finally free.
So this is a long time coming but I feel the need to write this before my brain breaks. I understand you are living the life you wanted, in a community that seems suited to you with less than 5,000 people, working in the industry you always wanted. I don’t know why this makes me so angry and why I even care after all this time, 20 years plus and counting. I really am angry at the fact that you took my youth and my trust and that you let me think you wanted to be with me when you didn’t.
You married me and went to be with your girlfriend after a short time weekend after weekend without me knowing, you used to say you were visiting your parents whom you know I didn’t like so it was the perfect escape for you. Why did you make me stay? Why didn’t you call it all off? Why couldn’t you be honest? And while we are at it, why did you sign up for so many credit cards in my name? You knew that no one would help me after the divorce and that I would do something stupid like get myself dead financially for 10 years through bankruptcy after because ‘they’ were coming after me for that debt. Did you use those cards to buy your girlfriend stuff? I came from such a place of hate and despair in my youth and you kept that trend up and I can tell you that I hated you. I hate you still. The only thing you gave me worth anything was a relationship with your niece. She grew strong out of that broken down empty parking lot of a life she was brought into. She is this bright, talented, beautiful creature that came from a life surrounded by your sick father, who is gratefully dead now and by a Grandmother who didn’t accept her through no fault of her own. Her Grandfather, your father, hurt her and he never paid for it. I am so proud of who she is, not who she came from. But I understand his death was long and very painful so maybe he did suffer for his sins while here on earth. He took a lot of innocence from those he had no business taking it from and I hope he is shoving shit in hell.
I always say that my first marriage was a disaster. I tell some people what you did to me, about the abuse and the rage, but others I give the standard pat answer ‘we were both young and stupid’. Judging from my tumultuous 30s I can say that I know I had rage, and lots of it. I worked through a lot of stuff during that time to get over anger that I carried. I ruined stuff, broke stuff and hurt someone I loved. But I survived into my 40s and now I find myself feverishly searching for obits and bad news about you on Google. Like some kind of obsession I want to know that you have met with some disaster or some kind of trauma. I want to find you in pain. I consider myself to be an Empath and so this situation kinda contradicts that one. Anyone I see hurting I want to help, but that does not extend to you. I hate my obsession over your misery and wish I was busy all the time so I didn’t give in to it. It happens less now than before, granted. And my nightmares where I remarry you only to feel those same dreadful feelings and fear again are fading too. I am open with my husband about you, how you made me feel and how you hurt me time and again. And the things you said to my Mom when we fought, even by phone. Mom always said that my husband would eventually tire of the stories and want to leave, but you remember Mom and her outlook. I hope he doesn’t feel that way. I am the kind of person who needs to analyze to get through trauma, and that is what you were to me, trauma.
I remember the time I saved you from drowning in the pool in the apartment across from Sheridan. I didn’t know how to swim either but my wonderful Uncle taught me how to do some simple lifesaving maneuvers when I was a kid. I’d like to say its thanks to him you were alive that day but I don’t want to put that on him. He taught me a something and it was a gift. You remain a booby prize. I do not want to think about you and yes as time passes I think about you less and less. Its just sometimes I have downtime where I am bored and my mind comes up with the brilliant idea to semi stalk you online, hoping for a new obit or story about you being in jail or at least some kind of pain. I don’t want to be the person who wishes that on anyone but it turns out I am, but only when it comes to you.
I know you have kids now, as during one of those stalking sessions I found a picture of you from Disney with them and your wife. Was she the girl you were dating while you were married to me? I think she is, and you know what, she can have you. I just want those years back. That’s all. I worry about your kids because of something you told me you were into when we were married. You remember saying that, not surprisingly, and not unlike your father, you would want to usher them into adulthood when they were of age? I think of it now and I think wow, what an ugly bullet I dodged. And I don’t just mean with the marriage itself. Maybe it was just something you said in a dark moment and for any young people you have in your home I hope that is all it was. Something stupid you said a few times. Maybe you said it to push me away, little did you know I was going to try to fix you and stay with you no matter what. I shouldn’t have done it. Your sister was right, we shouldn’t have tied that knot.
I have a good life now. A job I am happy with, a man who loves me and a dog who does too. I just wish you were no longer on this earth, not happy, not prospering. I have taken to writing letters to ‘them that have wronged me. Seems to help clear out the crap. Hopefully it does here too because I want to stop thinking about you and let you go. I want to be done with you. I am trying to heal this psychic trauma, its like a scar on my soul whose scab I continue to pick at. All I can do now is hope you regret what you did, but I am sure you don’t think you did anything to regret. You lied and cheated, you were cruel and abusive. I cop to the fact that I was young and stupid, and full of misplaced rage. I admit that I too sought comfort with someone else near the end of our relationship. But by then I think you were grateful.
When it was over I was grateful. The only regrets I have now about it is leaving so much of myself behind in the things I couldn’t take with me. But things are just things and I got out with what was important, something I didn’t ever have with you, a future.
Early morning found us in a tight squeeze in that old blue 70’s station wagon. The sun was still asleep but I was eager to be on the road to our next adventure. My pillow pressed up against the cold window coated in early morning dew as we quietly backed out of the driveway and began the journey to the Atlantic. It would take two days to get there with an overnight stop in some remote American town where we would find respite before continuing on the long drive ahead. Roadside exits held picnics of egg salad and over run washrooms full of other weary travelers along the way. Twisted plastic drink holders of solid red and white hung precariously on the window frame waiting for that right pothole to dislodge it from its temporary perch. The drive was long and tiring and filled with scenery that sparked imagination of what lay beyond. Through mountains and valleys, on blacktop and concrete the road stretched out before us long and winding, always with the promise of vacation just on the other side of the next hill.
We would arrive at our destination early or midday and find quaint streets coated in light colored sand and pine needles. The air was thick with salt water taffy and ocean breezes just beyond and even it seemed to hold fine granules of sand that would come to rest on faces and grins of family reunions. Her house was seafoam green and quaint, with those same pine needles strewn where grass should have been and ceramic cats climbed the garage walls greeting visitors near the front door. Seashells were abundant and decorated quaint homes inside and out. It had the feel of a summer town, a place where tourists flocked as did copious numbers of seagulls in search of tasty seafaring morsels. The house was open and clean, airy and old timey. The floors were well worn wood, seemingly polished and shiny. The attic was a place of wonder for a child, filed with dusty boxes of memories she held on to and times she had forgotten. The beds were comfy, although foreign and there was defiantly a feeling of home. In the backyard the garden, overflowing with the abundance that only true green thumbs could evoke. Beans, radish and flowers fragrant mixed with the sea air and summer breeze. Tranquil and bustling at once that garden, more alive than a city, and more peaceful than an oasis. It was his pride and joy.
Days were spent at the beach, the drive there filled with aromatic roadside seafood stands and t-shirt sellers enticing you in with bargains and colorful signs. The parking lot at the beach was a flurry of activity, even in the early part of the day. Typically landlocked tourists clamoring for the best spot on the beach to rest their weary city bones. It was a hard fought battle climbing mountainous sand dunes to long stretching boardwalks leading to the sea. Excitement took over and fought the weary travelers exhaustion with the promise of cool ocean breezes and soft welcoming sandy seating. Dozens of colorful umbrellas dot the beach and the smell of cocoa butter and coconut fill the air. Finally at rest the we fought the urge to run to the ocean and dive in, opting instead for slow leisurely strolls down to the water. Watching the waves roll in just far enough that only our toes were grazed by the cold Atlantic sea. That first frigid step perhaps gave us pause before we committed to walking in to the water. Indentations of footprints washed away as the water rushed in over our feet and the sand escaped below. The waves revoked our chance at going slowly, pulling us in with each out flow. Suddenly we were hip deep, then chest deep, then had water on our faces. Fighting to keep our feet, first across jagged small shells burrowed in the sand below and the waves pulling at our ankles in the strong undertow. Once beyond that point the silky soft sand encompassed our feet and made our knees weak with relaxation. Looking back to our towels on the beach and realizing we were now hundreds of feet from where we had gone in, further down the beach and blissfully disoriented. Trudge back through the sand and crashing waves to line up once again with our spot on the beach, only to once again be mystically pushed along the coastline to an unfamiliar scene.
Out of the water our and back to our towels were we collapse in the warm summer sun. Keeping the towel free of sand is a tedious and pointless task. Reapply the sunscreen and feel the breeze drift effortlessly across our shoulders cool against our warm flesh. Sandcastles are created out of no where and knocked over by waves or annoying siblings. Rebuilding is part of the fun so there is nothing that can dampen these days. Finally the sun begins to go down over the horizon and we begin to pack up. Shake out sandy towels and fold up lazy chairs. Umbrellas folded down and carried under overfull arms back to the sandy parking lot. In the car and back to the house where the outdoor shower awaits. Sand is everywhere and washing it away seems daunting and somewhat pointless. Later in those evenings we travel to the town and get ice cream and shop for trinkets of cranberry glass and sweet smelling candles. It’s a feast for the senses here and objects of mystery are stacked with childlike wonder. The soft serve ice cream is sweet and becoming liquid faster than it can be eaten, dripping down hands and forearms making its escape. Mini golf courses are bursting with weary beach goers whose skin has reddened in the August sun. The course is line with quirky obstacles and impossible slopes, but the air is sweet and soft and there is no place we would rather be.
The morning was ghostly grey and foggy. Eager to break its silence, we played in the one forbidden places we were shunned against. The patio stones laid innocently next to the house, neatly awaiting the sand that was then piled beside them to be brushed in between them to give them their final resting place. How dull and yet exciting it was to run around those slippery stones and piles of dirt. Workman would be there later that day to finish this installation, so we only had a small amount of time to play. We chased each other gleefully until it happened and the world went dark. All of a sudden my four year old foot was lodged snuggly in between those waiting patio stones. My foot was were the dirt should be and I panicked. I wrenched my leg as hard as I could to free it from those stones, perhaps terrified that I would be stuck there forever, having to live out my life on that neighbor’s driveway.
I have no memory of going from that place to my home across the grassy Cul de Sac. Just being back in my own house with my Mom who looked at me with disappointment and disapproval. I mean, after all, it was the one thing she had asked us not to do, play around those stones. As if by sheer force of nature we were going to play there, defiance to the hilt in my four year old brain. What magical experience was I being held back from on that day? Why was I not permitted to know that joy? I needed to know, I needed to defy. And then there I was. I remember she put each hand underneath my arms and stood me up straight with a bounce onto my feet. I remember my tears had not stopped flowing since the stone caught my foot. Then I remember staring at her, deep in her eyes while my little body crumpled like broken glass to the dark navy shag carpet below me. Next I remember being in the back of the old station wagon. In a place I loved to ride, but never got too. Grimacing and choking up with each bump and pot hole. The long trip to the old hospital seemed to take forever.
The smell of the room I was in was of paste and bandage. I remember it caught it my throat and did nothing to settle my pain. I remember the smallness of that room, even as a child. I remember rolls of gauze and other bandage hanging off the walls. I was alone in there, shattered glass leg, half sitting half laying on a medical examination table awaiting my fate. A single light bulb strung from the stained ceiling swung slightly each time the door was opened or closed. Mom in the hallway worriedly talking to doctors and nurses. I have vague memories of being propped up in a different position and coated with paste and bandage from the top of my leg to my foot.
Over the next several weeks, the lost summer, I sat in an old lounge chair in the garage watching the kids enjoy the dog days while I counted bottle caps. Sooner or later I realized that situation was for suckers and I started shimming on the pavement dragging my cast and leg with me. I remember when the cast was cut off, the smell, the sweat, the oddness of the hairy leg below. It felt shaky to walk on, but it wasn’t glass anymore. It would never be the same after my hip line fracture of femur to toe but I swear those stones were just begging me to dance around them.
bluefalling 