Category: Partners

To Remember

Many, many years ago

I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.

My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.

There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.

My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.

He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.

He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.

He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.

But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.

Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.

And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.

What’s in a Dream? Messages of explanation?

Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.

That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.

He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave,  everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.

I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.

Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.

I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.

I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.

I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.

I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be,  insignificant details.

I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously,  could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.

Stay Away from Married Men: Why I don’t sleep anymore.

  • Sleepless

My dearest,

I lay awake and my mind dwells on the unfathomable words you have spoken on my unfulfilled desire to give you my heart and my life. More than anything I want to give you my time. I am lonely. I hear words that I don’t understand and I spin them around in my mind. I try to hear your voice. I try to remember how you said them and what they might have meant.

I lay awake and suffer because of my own decision to stay. I could leave. I don’t have to be here but you are so beautiful to me. Your skin, the color of your hair, your lips and more than that your eyes. But I don’t understand you. The trouble is that I know the truth. I am alone. You’re not. You want me to make that easy for you.

I lay awake with unshed tears and trembling body. I haven’t seen you… it’s only been two days and I miss your touch. I want you to want to me like I want you but I can’t say for sure that you do… I can’t say that you don’t.

I am like so many women who want more than they can have. Am I unrealistic? Should I be satisfied? Don’t I remember the last time you were here and the words you spoke? But they don’t sustain me.

I lay awake because I cannot tell you what I am feeling. What does “I love you” mean? Don’t those words leave so much unspoken? I want to tell you that I want you in my world. I want to be with you every day. I am alone. I eat alone. I walk alone. I travel alone. I shop alone. I sleep alone. I look at the stars alone. I experience the moon and Mars alone. I only have the hour that you give me at random times on random days as I am getting less time with you. I do remember Friday and Saturday last week but what about this week?

I lay awake and breathe. I feel my body. My hand feels the soft skin of my belly, the muscles under the skin of my thighs, my bones that surround my heart and my lungs. It all feel so precious to me. It is the treasure that I give you every time we lie down together. I look at the dark ceiling and picture your face above me. There are things that I don’t understand. Your kisses are so real, at times they hurt. I am left with bruised lips. Your hands are so soft and sometimes so hard when they delve into my soft places. So quickly you roll off and push my arms and legs away from you as you lie spent next to me, too hot to breathe. I want you to hold me as you swiftly pull on your pants and pull your shirt over your head. My body pleads for you to hold me but you have to run. So few are the times that I have been able to curl up in the crook of your arm. I can count them on one hand.

“I want to go home”. I know what you mean. You have to go home. You have given me an hour by your watch, which you keep glancing at. No, I don’t forget last weekend when you crept away in the early morning hours just before she arrived home. It was sweet sleeping with you.

I lay awake. It’s 3:00 in the morning and I shed tears that you don’t want to see. “Look at your eyes”, you say. “Your face is different”. My tears are my blood that I cannot give you… they are the beat of my heart as I hold it in my hand and ask you to take all of it. My tears are my hopes and my dreams and thankfulness. They are my tide that has come to shore and overflowed my banks. You have rejected them and I cannot stop them. I cannot stem them anymore. I cry because I want to give myself to you… because I want you in my world… because I don’t want to wonder anymore… because I have only hurt once before and I am scared… because you are so different from me and I don’t understand you… because I don’t know the future.

I lay awake because you say that you love me and I am not sure what you mean. I asked you one time, “what about me?” You quickly said, looking into my eyes, “When she leaves, my children are coming and I will buy a house and then marriage”. But you leave and I don’t know what you have said. Have you said that you want to marry me? You wear a wedding ring. Some days you don’t… most days you don’t. What do the days mean when you do? Questions. I have questions and no answers. When will she go? Will she really go? When your children come will you still want me? Can I meet your children? Can I meet your family? Can I meet your friends? Could I be more lonely than I am without you?

I lay awake and wonder. I only have this. Am I being fair? Do you give me as much of you as you have left over? Left over. Am I the splinter that never ceases to molest you? Or am I only the sure thing, a diversion? That is why I lay awake. Why can’t you call? Too many questions.

My tears will come now though you reject them and tell me that you only want us to be happy. I will cry when we are together and it may be the reason that you do not come to see me. I want to release you. I need to release you and be with you either because I choose to or leave you because I need to release myself.

I have always said, “Leave when you have to. Stay as long as you can.”

Not always the best advice.

Death and Strange Elixers at the Altabier.

I went for drinks with friends last night at the Altabier Restaurant and Bar. I like going there, alot. I can ask for a pizza that suits my strange tastes.

First, I had a drink called the Cloven Hoof. I should have known better but it started out with a lovely smooth scotch and some other tantalizing ingredients. I tried sipping it but it lured me into slamming it. Down the hatch!

My second drink was an Old Fashioned. Four Roses bourbon, smooth and golden and heavy, laced with just enough ice in a crystal glass. It sparkled like a deep amber elixir with the Mosca cherry hiding half way down. Though I wanted to dive for the cherry, I sipped and chatted about death with my friends. The sky went black and the lights of the city came on and the voices in the bar grew louder, candles were glowing and flickering and time slipped by.

Todd talked candidly about his wife dying just a month or so ago. Noelle, remembering how her husband and she were driving cross country to move to Portland with their two cats, got in a terrible accident that killed her husband and the male kitty, while she and the female kitty survived, was drinking a strange concoction called, “Making Brandy Great Again”.

When I met Noelle, 15 years ago, the scar that slashed across her forehead and between her eyes was red and angry, still. Her scar now, is still clearly visible but “no longer angry nor red”, I commented. She’s tiny and her face is beautiful in the soft candlelight. For her second drink, she ordered the “Santa Muerte”. As we do, she slid the glass across the table for me to try. I immediately tasted the essence of a very old, Victorian house filled with stuffed antique furniture and gilded picture frames and China vases holding wilted roses. Todd took a sip and agreed that it aroused a sense of old stuffed chairs and sofas. Noelle called for a Manhattan, as she said, “I’m passing this on” and slid the drink back over to me.

There I was with my Old Fashioned to my right and my Santa Muerte to my left. By this time I was slowly sipping, enjoying both drinks and the company, immensely. I loved the mysterious Santa Muerte and the ever familiar Old Fashioned. They seemed to fit perfectly together. I was interjecting, into the conversation, stories of the soft passing of Mom and the violent parting of Kristi and Dad. Death hung in the air, as did the joy of sharing holiday gifts and spirits together.

Dolores dropped me off at my door and I drank a glass of bicarbonate of soda and fell into bed after tearing my clothes off. It was a fantastic night.

Love that Leads to a Breakdown ~ When Death Comes

If loving and being loved leads to the point of a mental breakdown, then let the breakdown commence.

There is nothing more lovely and wonderful than to love and to be loved. Yes, when a loved thing dies, no matter what the form it takes, be it human or animal, tree or rock, a work of art in the form of something to touch, smell, see, taste or hear be it physical or ethereal, there is nothing more transcendent than to have loved or have been loved by that thing.

Life is not worth living if we have not reached those heights of ecstacy or have not descended into the abyss of loss. Those wounds to our hearts and minds, where we have been rent asunder, is where the light gets in. This is the fount of our creativity.
Tears of salt, of our joy and our pain, give flavor to life… makes it savory and rich. It’s why we have something to give to another. Do not fear to love unto madness.

Let the breakdown commence and be glad that your feelings run so deep.