White Nights, Grey Days

A broken heart’s manifesto…

I could not bring myself to participate in the revelry of Nuit Blanche because I am exhausted on a level I have never before touched on. My bones are tired. My hair is tired. I’m getting a cold, and I just want to stay in lycra and sweaters and fuzzy socks and not move.

Since this is just not possible, I will instead pull together my most fashionable lycra outfit, cover the black circles under my eyes with concealer, take a thermos of tea about with me, and try to get through my day.

I feel as though somebody turned my skin inside out and forgot to switch me back to normal.

Actually, as I consider this, I realize that my normal for the last several years has been afraid and anxious. The time spent in the Fortress had just reached a place of peace, but I didn’t linger there long enough. Now I have to find that again. If I sit alone with my own thoughts, I can hear that constant voice that has always told me “you will be okay”. I’m always grateful for this, but I wish that I wasn’t straining to hear it again on the tails of heartbreak and upheaval.

I will be okay.

I know this must be true because this is the first time in my life that I have listened to my gut and moved forward, exclusively taking cues from my heart and my intuition which seem to be working in some kind of harmony that I have never before realized.

I am sorry that this new pairing of heart and intuition prevents me from being who and what I am desired to be,what I once desired myself to be, but I believe that if everyone pairs their heart and intuition and allows them to speak louder than fear, they will understand, and perhaps even realize for themselves that this course of action is the only true, honest path. That any love that springs from denial, from a lack of self-awareness, from trying to will away the skeletons in the closet cannot blossom. That we cannot be the best lovers we can be unless we are truly honoring ourselves, and are honest with ourselves, and honest about our limitations.

I hope that the love I am able to give will be accepted. Anything beyond this acceptance is a rejection of my heart’s truest offering. I have spent all of my life desperately wanting to be accepted and loved as I am, and now more than ever do I understand who I am, and what I need from love. Maybe the Universe didn’t bring me to this most recent love for the reasons we originally thought.

I am a whole, good, vibrant, passionate, vulnerable, creative, loving person. Everything I have done in my life has been borne of a desire to feel love, and give love, and though I have “failed” at this countless times, with each failure came a greater understanding of what I want love to be. Each of these “failures” has taught me to be more of my actual self.

I want a love that is safe, and borne of truth, emotional honesty, and deep communication.

I want to be wanted 100%, and have that love demonstrated in ways that I clearly understand.

I want to be inspired by my love, and clear and proud of my role within the context of that love.

I want to feel proud of what I am giving, knowing that I am giving my beloved 100% of the love they seek from me.

I want my love to be something that fuels my forward motion in this life. To encourage my work, my passions, my drive. I do not want to be stunted in my ambition or aspirations by fear, instability, or emotional turmoil.

I want my lover to be self-aware, honest, inspired, driven, open, sensual, noble, faithful, and present in the world.

With a kiss, I’ll send that to the Universe and continue to hope for the best.

A very special thank you to Natalie who pointed me in the direction of a costume rental place that was selling off bag fulls of old inventory for $35 per garbage bag. That was some of the sweetest retail therapy I’ve ever experienced.

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Too Much. Of What, I’m Not Sure

Each morning this week, I’ve woken up with a sore throat. By the time I have to hit the gym, it’s usually gone. Today it was not.

As I type this, my eyes are streaming with tears, and my tonsils are bright red and I feel like I’m swallowing razor blades. I still went to the gym though. I put in decent effort, but every single exercise made me want to burst into tears because I was feeling so lousy, and then feeling sorry for myself.

I’ll go tomorrow too. Just because I have to see the week through. Because I am committed to this bikini idea, and to being the best I can be. But I feel like caca.

Writing time today was replaced with nap time, and I can only hope that I can make use of having to miss choir practice tonight. I have zero energy though, and I feel like an absolute baby.

Perhaps you really aren’t interested in reading my whining?

I’ve become addicted to Violet Blue. I so enjoy her blog Tiny Nibbles, and I’m about to start reading one of her many books. She’s a personal hero of sorts. Between her blog, and Dooce, I have enough fuel for my own fire, and when you also consider that I’m not being drained by the demands of a day job, I’m in great form. If only I could get better at feeling well, and at writing.

Writer friends, how do you stay nimble? What are your tips and tricks for keeping up the flow? I have a head filled with ideas, but the execution seems a little daunting sometimes.

Perhaps another round of ginger lemon tea and my girlfriend’s homemade chicken soup will fix me.

Oh for a muse of fire…

I can’t write anymore. I’ve been reduced to the cliche of the writer who writes about not being able to write.

I’ve stared longingly at the dashboard of this blog for hours, for days, wishing I had something to say, but the things I want to share I can’t write here.

Is anyone still reading?

What if we make a pact? I will post every day for a week, just for the sake of posting. Perhaps it will be dry, and tedious, but at least there will be something to chew on. Brain jerky. It will be like one of those photo blogs with snapshots of the contents of my head.

Work is all-consuming right now, which is good. It filters the worry usually reserved for the rest of my life. It makes my general anxiety make more sense. Currently I’m asking myself why I do this at all, but I know ten minutes after show time I’ll remember.

Therapy yesterday felt clear, and positive. I know what I want. That’s good. Not sure I’ll get it, but none of us really knows, do we?

I’m particularly interested in seeing how the next three months of my life shake out. No big decisions, no grand conclusions, no final deductions can be made at present. So I remain suspended in time, meditating on patience and faith.

Then I need to know, to absolutely know where I’m headed.

I’m convinced that there is a reason for all this waiting. A reason that I’m vaguely aware of, but unable to articulate. Spidey sense whispers secrets in my ear, especially when I’m dreaming, and I’m listening all of the time.

Last night I dreamt that I was in Paris with an old friend from high school named Julie. She and I were in the Metro, and she was seeing me off as I headed to the airport, destined for home. The news in the city of lights was consumed with tales of a homicidal maniac who had been attacking people with a razor, but I had barely paid any heed because of the language barrier and because I was enjoying my vacation.

As Julie kissed me goodbye, we were approached by this lanky, gaunt man wearing dirty, tattered clothes. He had dark hair, and hollow, glassy eyes. He grabbed my hand suddenly, and forcefully, and pressed something into it, using his own hand to force my grip. His lips parted and he whispered “Merci” as he swiftly used my hand to drag a flashing blade across his throat. I must have pulled back, because he wasn’t satisfied with the cut, so he did it again, this time hitting his jugular. Julie and I watched him bleed to death in my arms.

The authorities came. There were enough eye witnesses to realize that I was in no way at fault. I was traumatized, and fortunately a very kind female investigator was able to arrange my questioning for later.

I took solace at the home of my friend Lenni, who shared a lovely Paris apartment with her partner Simon and their wee baby. As the investigator was packing me into the taxi, I woke up, and needed to take several deep breaths.

My dreams are vivid, and disturbing, and in every single one I’m either looking for something or trying to get somewhere.

Meh, quoth I.

No More Clamato Before Bed

Picture 1

Last night I had a dream about a baby. A fat-cheeked, red-headed baby girl that was mine. Except I wasn’t convinced that she was real. I kept seeing her when I was alone, but she was never around when I was with other people. I held her, smelled her sweet, sweaty neck, kissed her, sang to her, and decided in my dream that I had completely lost my mind and made her up.

I was in the mall near the house I grew up in with my friend Kathryn, and we were shopping for baby things, and I was nervous because I realized that I would soon have to tell her that there wasn’t a baby to meet, and that she’d come all the way to Hamilton to learn that I’d lied to everyone. Then my cell phone rang, and it was my mother calling to see when I’d be home because the baby was getting hungry.

This dream continued through the course of two alarms going off in my real world.

Presently, at my house, we are working together to concoct the stories we will tell the rest of the world about our relationship and connection to one another. Various facets of our life will hear various elements of our reality. Each story is crafted to allow for the most inclusion and involvement in each other’s communities, and to protect the children as best we can.

I know I’m idealistic, but it’s so frustrating to think of all the kids I’ve known over the course of my life in two-parent households that were so, so lacking in even the very basic things that humans require. I had a little girlfriend when I was nine who used to come to school reeking of her parent’s chain smoking, always with matted hair and a Kool-aid mustache, wearing the same clothes every day until the teacher had to send her home to change. It’s maddening to think that someone might raise an alarm because our household has three loving parents who would do anything for these girls growing up here.

This is our reality – we cannot be exactly as we are anywhere we’d like to go. I, who always like a good fight, must realize this more than anyone. There are compromises to be made for the sake of protecting ourselves and our home. It’s just such a shame after spending 33 years not fully realizing myself that I can’t always shout it to the world.

Silly prideful lion.

Coming At You Live from the Sick Bed

Thank you for being a friend...

Thank you for being a friend...

*This entry contains more colourful language. What can I say?

When I was little, whenever we would get sick, my mom would make us a sick bed. This would consist of draping a fresh, crisp sheet over the entire couch, and tucking it over us, then layering heavier blankets on top. She was also always at the ready with a fresh, cool pillow. A small footstool was at hand with Kleenex, a paper bag (for used Kleenex), a glass of ginger ale with ice and a straw, and sometimes a plastic bucket underneath. Today I’ve re-created this set up, sans bucket, and it is immensely comforting.

It seems I’m losing my week-long arm wrestle with this cold/flu thing. Despite my mother’s concerns, I’m fairly certain that it is not Swine flu…unless you can contract that from eating excessive amounts of bacon. (She also warned me this morning that ingesting raccoon feces can be fatal. I fear she may have some serious misconceptions about the kind of life I’m living here in Toronto…)

People have been kind in sending me various articles, videos, and other tidbits to amuse myself with, because in my typical needy, narcissistic way, I broadcast my illness to the world of Facebook, so I thought I’d share some of these distractions in case any of you are also feeling under the weather, and a little bit bored.

First, this very interesting article from my favourite spiritual adviser:

You can probably skip the video component, but here is the link to MSNBC.

The subject above really fascinates me, and I thought it was timely. Last night I attended a screening of feminist porn, sponsored by the Toronto store Good For Her. I was curious about what exactly made pornography feminist. I am not personally a fan of the standard in this genre, so I was hopeful it would be enlightening. Based on the examples we were given, feminist porn is largely geared towards lesbians. With a comfortable niche carved out by the trans-gendered community. The only hetero example was shot like a soap-opera, was definitely softer (on the core scale), but it rather felt like it was produced by the Harlequin people. Give me good ‘ol Anais Nin any day.

Moving along…

I rented the first season of Big Love, the HBO series. Fascinating stuff. Also timely, and topical. Imagine a matriarchal polygamist structure? This could really be something. Like the queen bee, and her workers, and honey makers. Yep. Something indeed…

Then I was directed to the Onion website. This was a bi-product of some Facebook Creeping. (Mom, Facebook Creeping is when you voyeuristically check out other people’s Facebook profiles.)

I found the following videos there, which made me laugh out loud:

Should We Be Doing More To Reduce The Graphic Violence In Our Dreams?

Study: Children Exposed To Pornography May Expect Sex To Be Enjoyable

In other exciting news: I was caught on the streetcar in the middle of a sandstorm yesterday, and the whole thing filled with dust; the raccoon on my patio is off today, but last night was brave enough to come close enough that I could almost touch him; The LUNCH BOX at Keele and Bloor makes the greatest vegetable beef soup in the entire world; I have not given up on my plan to go on a date with George Stroumboulopoulos; Toulouse lives on, but has now taken to hiding among my rack of costumes; and it may be the flu, but I think Bill Pullman is kind of sexy.