Craig – Part One

I was thirteen when I first laid eyes upon him. He would become the infatuation of my teenage years. And still now, to this day, if I close my eyes, I can still hear him sing to me. But in the beginning he never sang to me, he would not sing to me until thirteen years later.

He was the Tin Man in the school musical of the Wiz. I was in the chorus and the moment I heard his voice, those electric notes poured over me like liquid night. I was lost; hopelessly and utterly lost within the music that was he. I always watched him from a distance. I knew only too well my limitations and boundaries. I was but a child at thirteen and he was on the brink of manhood at 16. so I did all I could do, watch. I would watch the way he interacted with his friends, the way his face constricted to reach a note perfectly and the ease in which his lungs were able to fill the reed of his saxophone, expelling the most perfect rhythmic jazz notions. There was something about him that consumed me and left me lost for words and breath. This was my first real school-girl crush. I was perched headlong on the edge of teenage hormones and he called to me in a way I had never before understood.

I was able to create my own world. A world inside my own imagination where we both could reside together and I would spend my days day-dreaming of him and doodling his name across my school books. My imagination knew not the bounds of what kept us apart and I would fantasise that one day I would hear him call my name and on that one day we would walk through school hand in hand and he would not care that I was only thirteen. I would become his doll, small and fragile and he would sing to me.

One day I found some courage and I picked up the phone and called him. We spoke, although I asked to remain anonymous. We would talk for hours, about school, about the things we liked and dis-liked and I was surprised to find how easy it was, how comfortable it was to speak to him when he knew not who I was. It would become our afternoon delight. I am sure for him, it must have been intriguing to know that there was this little person out there who thought he was the sun, and the moon and the stars, and yet he knew not who she was. He knew the voice on the other end of the phone and he knew all that lay insider her, and yet he did not know her name or the contours of her face.

Everything changed one day when a friend told him who I was. My anonymity shattered and the invisible wall that I had been able to hide behind, the wall that had become my safety harness were removed. I was out in the open, unarmoured, defenceless and ashamed. I knew who and what I was, but most importantly, I knew who and what I was not. He was on one level and I, I was somewhere much, much further below him. We would not speak again for thirteen years. My adolescent heart broken and torn, it was the first time my heart would be broken. The first time that it would be reiterated to me that I was ugly, that I was not good enough.

Dion

He was tall and lanky and three years older than I. He was the beginning of my fixation with tall men. He was the beginning blossom of girlhood romance, childlike innocence and first kisses. He was smart and somewhat shy in the presence of others and yet with me, he always appeared so self-assured, so confident. I was eight years old when we met. I was eight years old and diving head first into the spinning well of love’s first embrace.

My memories are somewhat tattered, torn and aged by time and yet there are snippets of time that seem to be caught between then and now and I can remember them as clearly as if they had happened only moments ago. Memories of closing my eyes so tightly when my school friend had told him that I was in love with him, closing my eyes thinking (as a child does) if I can not see him, he can not see me. But he did see me. And that rainy winter’s day marked the beginning of my romantic journey into adulthood.

He was my first kiss… hidden in the darkness of my walk-in wardrobe thinking the darkness would hide the embarrassment and clumsiness of childhood love. He is memories of silent kisses blown my way whilst our parents were not looking. He is the memory of thrill and excitement, as we are sitting at a restaurant with our families and his foot brushed my leg, his hand lingering on mine as he passed a dish to me. We were secret, silent and filled with impish inkling.

Days and evenings were spent in his parent’s basement, where we would listen to Roxette, play snooker, ping pong and darts, whilst our parents would hold their dinner parties upstairs oblivious to the blooming of loves first decree. We foolishly thought that no one knew. That our feelings were only true to ourselves, and yet, as innocence prevails, it is hard to hide what it is that is so true. We were childhood sweethearts until the high school years. We were the embodiment of hiding in the dark, snuggled under blankets watching movies in the dark and holding hands oblivious to the fact that everyone else knew. We were soft and gentle and innocent…. And then, and then we grew up and apart.

Twenty two years on, and he is now married. Our parents are still friends and still see one another, but things have been different for us for a long time now. I have become the sister he never had and our innocence remains in tact.

To my dream of Tuscany

I thought about you last night. Between fitful tosses and turns in my somewhat empty bed, I thought of you. It has been the first time in such a long time that you have walked across my mind. Perhaps it was because it was the day of the Melbourne Cup… because I remembered you piggy backing me across the car park at the race course so the gravel wouldn’t get into my strappy high heels and hurt my feet. We were brazen and did not care that day. Did not care about the many eyes that were watching our every move, waiting for us to falter and concede that yes, we were actually together. We were actually having an affair. A man and a girl, someone young enough to be his daughter but on that day, we didn’t care.

 

It has been three years now since our lips last touched one another’s. Three years since all the lying and frustration and pain that was our whirlwind affair. It has been three years since we talked of our children and how loved they would be. It has been three years since I walked out and did the only honourable thing. The one thing you could not do. You vowed you would never walk away from me, and you never did. But you left me so many times and each time my heart broke a little more.

 

Our love blossomed in the silent, captive confines of my small car. Far too small for love making, and yet somehow we managed. Our love grew abundant in the soft ambiance of hotel rooms where we remained nameless and faceless. I was like your only doll, and I was small and fragile in your large calloused hands. Three years on and I can still remember the way you smell. And I can still see myself lying on my side in a bed, watching your lips form your words, this was one of my many happy pastimes with you. Watching your lips form words and speak to me as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered to you.

 

I wonder why, in the darkness you are still able to make me feel this longing. The complete and unharnessed support of being loved by you has left me ruined for love. for it seems that the moment we met, we knew. We knew the other would change our lives for ever and that there would be no going back to how things once were in our lives. Pandora’s box had been opened the moment you shook my hand and our lives forever transformed what was it in my voice that day that made you need to know me? I still wonder how it was that you could love me so completely. So scarred and damaged at the hands of another man. You collected each and every small piece that remained of me and was somehow able to piece me back together. Occasionally, I would fall to pieces again and lash out at you with ragged fingernails, scratching at you like you too would hurt me. Perhaps in some ways you did hurt me, but it was in a good way. It was not in a way that would damage me, you hurt me in a way that would only make me stronger.

Starting a new

I never realised it would take 30 years for me to be ready to have a relationship. I mean I guess I had never really thought about it before. Maybe I just assumed it would happen. But now, as my 31st birthday grows nearer and nearer I wonder now that if perhaps I have missed the boat?

I know that I am not “old” but I also know that if I want to have a family, children of my own, then I am going to need to start sooner rather than later. When I was younger, the idea of marriage and family horrified me. I told myself and anyone else who would listen that I wanted nothing to do with either of these things and in turn I suppose I actually started to believe it. It was a coping mechanism for me. To deny myself of anything good and wholesome and pure because for some odd reason i never really thought I deserved to have these things. Perhaps I was just so frightened that I would never have these things that I tried to talk myself out of them for fear of rejection. And so now at 30, I’m ready. I am done with all the game playing, the flings, the one night stands and the men who are not good enough for me. I am done with all of this and am ready to settle down…the only problem is the lack of male companionship.

I’m trying to put myself out there again, which is very hard considering what happened last time…. I thought he was the one, I thought I was done with all the dating etc…. but it died. So now, I have to look at this as something new. New and exciting and I have to have my expectations higher than before. I have to understand my worth and although I am not entirely certain of what it is I want…. I am most definitely sure of what it is I no longer want. I guess that is a start!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scouring the ghosts of yesterday

I’m not a person who can let things go easily. I often wonder what is was that I did wrong, or what it was that was wrong with me. Why a relationship ended. I regret things. I find myself spending hours in my own world. Lost in private transcripts in my mind…. most of these happen on the bus. I will see someone who looks like he did and then there I am, talking to you in my head again. It’s been nearly twelve months now and yet your memory is still there. Some things have changed…. I can’t remember the exact shade of blue of your eyes or the distinct gravely sound of your voice…. but other things remain. I can still smell you. Sometimes I smell you in places you’ve never before entered. Places in my world that were never a part of yours, and yet you are there, like some scaring over friendly guest I’ve brought to bed…. and as I write that I realise it is only a play on words… there has been no one since you. It has been my year of celibacy… eight days and counting…. But I wear you upon my skin in other ways. You scarred more than my heart. I wear your memory in the scars upon my arms and legs, and every time I see the raised pale flesh i think of you and all I was not. Everything I could not be.

And today, in the silence, I remember you. I remember the first time you touched my face and how I thought I had found my home. I remember the first time your lips touched mine and you breathed me into your world like some soft scented flower. Allowing me to open my petals in the light of you like a new morning, a new day. But like all things that are living, one day they must die…. and so did we. We died…. over the phone in the echo of the small telephone room at my work. You broke my heart in the darkness… and it was there I lived…. in the darkness…. away from the attention for others, until now. My year of celibacy nearing. The year in which I had to get it all together…. the year that was to be my own, with no one else to scar me…. and now begins something new. Something magnificent.

 

 

 

Finding yourself

I had all these thoughts in my head. Ideas about how I would react if I ever saw you again. Standing beneath the shelter of my big blue umbrella, cigarette in hand, scarf wrapped tightly around my neck trying to shield myself from the crispness of the winter’s chill. Waiting for the lights to change so I can move closer to the warmth of the bus, and then I look up and you are there. not even twenty feet away, on the opposite side of the road, and my first instinct sees a smile creep across my face, and it is then I realise. In that one moment I have two choices. I can acknowledge you there, for I know you have not yet seen me. I can acknowledge you and dive somewhere beneath the murky waters of reason. I can acknowledge your presence and let myself slip back into a world that knows no love nor forgiveness, or I can not. I chose the later. I pull the umbrella down until it is touching the top on my head, shielding my face from the world, and I let you walk unknowingly past me.

 

Silence has erupted inside my head. I thought this moment would bring with it the voices of reason, the voices of recklessness all talking at once. And yet there is nothing. Not a word, not a sound. Even the streets of the city seem silent, still and it is then I know. I know what it is I want and don’t want anymore. I realise then that it’s my dream I want, not someone else’s. You can’t understand how gratifying it is to find yourself here.

Thoughts

I have become calm

Methodical-

Calculated

in my approach to love.

No longer diving

head first upon the edge of reason.

I have grown older

no longer flowery in my

summer youth-

wishing-

hoping-

praying

for the words to remain silent,

un-mouthed

Upon my lips.

I though,

Have still not learnt

the art of

silence.

And my words now

dance around

the atmosphere,

Lost.

Anchored somewhere near your ears,

and I want to

take them back.

Back inside my head

to where they were just thoughts-

Trapped-

Contemplating

Their own

Existence.

It matters to me

Italy was always the dream. It was the one dream from my childhood which could never be taken away from me. And now, it has come true. I have been home now for three days, and whilst I did not fall in love with Italy itself, I feel I may have left a part of my heart somewhere within those Tuscan hills. I have shed a part of myself there and my essence has remained within the aging vines of vineyards that are older than my years.

Is this what revealing yourself is like? Is it like leaving a part of yourself behind so the person you want most to capture it, finds it? For he did find me. And he found the magic in my eyes, and that something which has always been so different about me. Even given the language barrier he has been able to convey this to me.

Does love always need to be conventional? Can it be something which knows no bounds nor distance? Can love be something that takes your breath away without you even noticing for it has been so subtle in its grasp?

I had felt that my life was standing still; waiting for the moment I stepped upon foreign soil for everything to change so dramatically. And yet, now I know that that was never going to happen. I am no longer standing still, and if I am what he says, his fate, he will find a way to get to me again.

So if it does not matter to the sun, what shade my eyes are in the light, how can it matter to me? And if it does not matter what distance stands between us, why should it matter to my heart? I want to go back. Back to the moment he asked me to stay. And I would have opened my heart right there in the night, beneath the stars.

At the time it seemed just like another night, until I sat alone in my room and thought about the words you said to me. And like the fool that I am, I finally understood, once the moment had passed. So it may not matter to the moon, but it matters to me.

So long for a little while

The time is drawing nearer and nearer to making one of my dreams come true. I will leave Australia in two days to discover the wonderful country of Italy. Though this is something that many people have done before me, and something many will continue to do long after I am gone, I can not refuse to let go of the strings that have been drawing me to this country all my life. There is something mysterious and yet so familiar about Italy that calls me. I have dreamt of Tuscany since I was five years old. It was the one recurring dream that did not leave me wrecked with pain, sadness and fear. It has been the salvation through many moments of aloneness. Knowing I would always come here was something of a comfort to me. Perhaps it is “he” who calls me here to dance. Perhaps it is the closeness to a God that I never believed in. Perhaps it is simply my escape. Whatever it is, there will be lessons and experiences I will take with me for the rest of my life from this adventure. I go not with the expectation of finding my “one” (regardless of the lingering thought). I go with my eyes open, my mind open and my heart open to the possibility of falling in love with a country that has called me all my days.

 

I turned 30 yesterday. It was the first day of the rest of my life. The life I have so desperately wanted and yet never felt worthy of. This life I will be living is going to be filled with love, family, happiness and wealth. I don’t mean wealth in the sense of money, I mean the kind of wealth that can not be bought; the wealth that is derived from the love of family, friends and the small feet of children. I no longer accept what is not my worth. I welcome love and happiness and remove the need for drama and high highs and the low lows that have defined my person for so long. My life will make me proud and I will not sacrifice myself for the idea of something I think should be a certain way. It has taken me so long to get to a point where I can look at myself and truly love and appreciate the person who looks back at me in the mirror. The girl who is funny and smart and yet naive and vulnerable. It has taken 30 years to appreciate I am perfectly flawed and that perhaps, perhaps I really need someone to take care of me. I’d like someone to take care of me and whom I can in turn take care of.

 

So, this is it now. The last post I will make for a while. I am off to explore the new woman I have become in a completely foreign country that has called my name for so long. I am off now to make my own dreams come true, for the only thing that can stop a dream, is my own thoughts.

Nothing more; nothing less

I have taken to watching him from a distance. His air of arrogance, his confidence all wrapped up within the cotton threads of his expensive suits. He is gorgeous, and he is something I will always see from a distance, men like him don’t go after girls like me. He embodies the “man” I have always longed for and yet the man that my hands had always missed. He is smart and suave and has these eyes that pierce my skin when he looks at me. My friends tell me I should ask him out for a drink after work, but I won’t. He’s not the sort of man you ask for a drink after work. There is something old school and gentlemanly about him which makes me think he does the asking, and yet his standards mean he will never ask a girl he works with out for a drink.

 

If today was the one day I have no regrets. If today was the day where I could say anything without consequence or rebuttal what would I say to him? I would tell him that his eyes say more than he’ll ever know. That it’s terribly romanticised and cliqued, but he disarms me in an instant and his eyes remove all my amour and sends those walls crashing when he looks into my eyes. That he knows, I’m not as tough or as confident as I seem. I would tell him that he is the sort of man my hands would like to hold. That is all. Nothing more; nothing less.