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When love becomes the Loch Ness monster

There are several people in my life who I tell almost every time we connect, that I love them dearly. Lucky them, and lucky me.

Then there are a few with whom, it feels so, so loaded. Loaded like a gun that could kill us both and splatter our guts up the wall if it misfires.

To be clear, this is not because I do not love them, it is because somehow the idea of  love has become the Loch Ness monster in the room and the focal point of the paranoid paparazzi of past hurts that roam around inside me seeking to expose and debunk it. Love has taken on a mythical status and a hype machine has activated around it. To believe in it, to seek it, to try to capture it, to be sure of it…

Most people have a picture in their head of what ‘Nessy’ looks like. A few claim to have truly encountered it in the flesh, first hand, and write books about it and exhibit galleries of blurry photographs of it. They say it dwells in the depths we cannot fathom, and only a chosen few can take a glimpse of it. This creature is widely acknowledged to be immense and terrifying, but by all accounts benign – despite a fearsome exterior.

These are the connections in which I have felt the most the resistance to offering my humble expressions of love in the moment, fully aware of their imperfection and shades of grey, and the bits of fluff that might have got stuck on them in the bottom of my bag on my way to bring them to you. I’ll spend too long looking at them, dusting them off, and decide they are not sufficient. This can’t be  it, this can’t be enough, this can’t be right.

I’ve deconstructed love like so many castles in the sand. I know only what it is not. I am left with that which the tide cannot take away.

I’m over it now, the hunting and the hiding both.

Here I am, unremarkable and utterly exquisite in the light of day. Here is my imperfect, fluffy love, presented unexpectedly in unusual gift wrap, tossed into your hands like a hot potato as I bolt for the bus, sung in your ear while you are trying to sleep, thrust in your face while you are watching a movie or trying to read, spilling out of the containers you try to catch it in.

There is no shame in it, I have judged it too harshly. Trying to hold my love to saintly, mystical standards, contain it in carefully constructed corrals, make it sit quietly in the corner and hide all its colours under an old coat – for days, months, years.

My love in its chosen expression comes to you like a butterfly or a bluebird. Free and exquisite in the moment. Embodiment of soul. Essence of beauty. Coming to land gently on you and bless your heart, drink a little nectar, bask in the sunshine.

Love is simply me, as I am, when I am open, to you. Just gorgeous.

I recorded this little burst of song on a whim, whilst pottering in the kitchen and feeling the feels. It’s not planned, it is not perfect.  Real feels from me to you. I love you, don’t forget it 💕

 

 

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Live streams only – no more reruns

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My new blogging practise, fortuitously forced by techno gremlins, is to write free flow entries straight in to the box. No copying and pasting, no dredging up old stories. No drafts.

This comes hot on the heels of losing my entire website and all its content not too long ago.

Just before my website took a catastrophic dive into a fatal error, I had decided that what I probably needed to do was to take down most of the content and then start afresh, reposting only what still felt resonant. Perhaps I needed a nudge to see that none of it was truly resonant any longer!

Feeling at peace with this event, I decided to start anew with something really simple. My intention was to just blog my experiences in as direct and real a way as I could. Starting from now, eyes forward, no rehashing old poems or digging up past dramas. No safe, stale familiar favourites.

I head over to WordPress to set up a simple structure and discover I already have an account set up, and a blog template ready to go, and even a strap Line! A forgotten gift to my future self from my self three years ago!

I write my first post, all shiny nowness. Then I’m reminded of that one story… It’s so good, it’s time to share it with the world. So what if I wrote it three years ago, it’s better than anything I have to say now…

Computer says no! Thou shalt not copy and paste. Not anymore… Time to flow for real,speak straight from the heart in the moment, no more digging out my best bits and slotting my true presence in the moment behind a highlight of some other lifetime.

This right now is the moment,these are the words, this is the message. First draft,first cut, real raw deal. Action!

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Guts and viscera

Do I want to write about all the dizzying years? The heart, wrenching? The ravished and ravaged soul, and the self I became despite and because of it? I feel so far from that now. Was it a dream?

And here I am again, in some godawful corridor, hall of mirrors…. It’s tiring, I want to get out. Is it always this way? Or do I choose unwisely. “Don’t get trapped” spoke the heavens clearly on that fateful night of folly and first forays and fingers. So much happened with fingers, pain and pleasure and the most exquisite poetry passed between us.

Yet here I am, again. Like a carousel pony with a fixed garish grin, impaled and endlessly in circular motion. Only a different rider each time, someone else getting a giddy thrill then jumping off when they start to feel sick.

Oh woe. This is why I don’t want to write about it. This cynical self-defense. This bitter narration, dubbing over the fragile depths and exquisite angles of it all. This voice that tells me no, don’t believe, and don’t ever hope. Don’t show anyone that bleeding heart in your pocket, twist out the tale with pretty irony and shadowy scorn. Oh she’s a dark one. But gutsy with it.