Some light shining through

samedi, le 22 août 2009

I woke this morning and for the first time this week I could breath. I could see some light shining through the storm clouds of my mind.

Last Saturday night L'homme mailed me a poem. Oh my love, my old, my sweet, my gentle love, a pseudonym fit for you. Your name is of old German origin and means 'free man' and that you have always been. No commitment, no involvement, free, always, always free. The English meaning is simply 'man'. So, you've become The man.

In the days when I was hopelessly in love with L’homme, he often used to write me poems. He'd ask me to give him a word, he'd work that into a poem. And I'd think he was so clever, so witty, so creative, so smart. I cherished these poems, as silly as some of them were. I thought this all too quaint. Ever so romantic.

I hadn't received a poem from him in years, and then on Saturday night it landed in my inbox. And funny, this one poem, in an odd kind of a way, summarises the relationship. The subject was: 'Do not reply to this' The poem itself quite Browning-esque: 'How do I miss thee - let me list the ways'.

And that's the way the relationship was. Always the discrepancy between words and actions. Always extremes. Words of love, care and growing old together were there, and meant everything to me. Except they were not acted out. And then doubt would creep in, insecurity would surface. And any request for action to match the words, would meet the most brutal rejection. Physically and verbally. And now he takes the action to reach out, but at the same time blocks me out. Funny that. It feels as if that is the way it always was. Pulling me near, pushing me away.

Tuesday was L'homme's birthday. I ached for him with all my being. His poem opened a way for me to send him a mail. It bared too much of my soul. Silly, silly me. L'homme can still use the same flimsy hooks to catch me, to reel me in. But with curt responses and silence, he cuts the fishing line and leaves me struggling in the water, bleeding from a hook in the mouth. I wonder whether he ever read the mail. I wonder if any of it meant anything to him.

And so the storm raged in my body with all its might for a whole long week. But today is calmer. I know I still love him. And I suspect he still loves with his limited ability to love. Is it still true that we can't live without each other, nor can we live with each other?

Who knows? L'homme has his own crutches, coping mechanisms and pharmacy for self-medication. He has the bars, the booze, the recently aquired webcam laptop, the porn, the cyber sex (and surely some real sex too with the help of little blue pills). All things play-play, make believe and chaff-chaff. The smooth talker, the charmer, into a panty, into a heart, into a purse.

And he will smooth talk and charm his way through the bar, he will play-play with the pussies, chaff-chaff the heart strings and spend-spend what's in the purse until only the coppers are left.

BANG!! L'homme senses commitment, he senses involvement, he senses contribution, he senses responsibility. He senses real-real. BANG!! BANG!!

POOF!! And he's gone. POOF!! Like magic! It was all just play-play, make-believe, chaff-chaff and smooth talking!

What, did I mention truth? Oh, yes, that. Well, that was also, just, well … I meant it in the moment, but the moment has passed …

Sorry for you with your dried out pussy, sorry for you with your broken heart, sorry for you falling apart, sorry for you being such a mess. It was all just, well ..

Ahoy, ahoy, this is not a drill!! You're gonna die, but I'm outta here ...

L'homme, the armchair specialist, the master wordsmith, he CAN deliver words with so much feeling, with so much conviction, he has years of practice. Part of play-play, make-believe, chaff-chaff. He truly feels very, very little for so very much.

He claims he cannot come back to me because he needs to find himself and his own feet. I'm bemused by that. L'homme, free man. He always came and went as he pleased. In and out my life, in and out my house, in and out his cave.

But today is calmer. There's some light shining through the storm clouds of the week that was.

And, my love, if the money didn't run out and I didn't need to feel your love to fill the void, would you still have left? I'm digging deep to let him be. Who knows, if I dig deep enough, I may strike gold.

Ah, but today there's a bit of light shining through the clouds. I'll go and frolic with my hound in the park. And today I will laugh at her antics, give her a big hug and dish out biscuits even if she does not bring the ball back. There's lightness in my step!

(This photo was taken at Emmarentia Dam on 18 Oct 2008. I love photo's of clouds. Well, actually, I love clouds.)

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