Exposed

On Sunday night I came home and typed. I typed because it's what I do when my head's too full of spinning thoughts that need straightened out. When I sit down to do this, I rarely know what's going to come. I need to unravel the threads, to clarify.

I go through fits and starts. Unlike many other bloggers, I don't write regularly for an audience, I write for me. If someone finds this place and reads, responds then so be it.

There are a very few 'real' folk who know where this place is.

When the hard things come along, I'm better at typing than I am at saying the words out loud.

On Monday morning I asked a question of the man a wrote about on Sunday night. Why? I'm not certain.

I wrote my last post to him, because it was what was in my head after a conversation that wasn't easy, had no hope of conclusion, and is likely to remain so. It then dawned on me that he may still know where this place is, having seen it once before. Did he still know how to find it?

Last night he told me he didn't, he had tried and failed to find his way back here. I'd opened the proverbial can, and today I sent the link. I'm still not sure why I did when it makes me so vulnerable and when I could have just let it drift.

Will there be consequences? I don't know.

There are risks. I doubt he'll break the confidence because by doing so, he'd be vulnerable too. The risks are exposing myself and making him upset that I have written about him. I could hide it all, but I can't un-think thoughts or re-write history. And, I don't want to.

The benefits? Well, at least it's honest. I have told my story. Perhpas he will see the good in these words, if they are read.

Do I trust him? Yes.

Do I know how he'll respond? I have absolutely no idea.

Do I regret pressing 'send'? I don't know yet.

He is a clever man, a kind man, a creative man. I think he may just understand that sometimes I struggle to say words out loud, despite my constant chatter. And, that there are other ways of expressing what fills our thoughts and souls.

The deed is done, and only time time will tell. Opening up just freaks me out a little...

Torn.

I'm sitting here crossed legged on the sofa, in clothes that are a comfort blanket, the television's blaring in the corner and its banality washes over me. I sit down to write because I don;t know what else to do. I don't know what I want to say. Whatever arrives on these pages will come from hands and heart, and I will try not to self edit. I need to write this, whatever 'this' is.


My head has been full of you this weekend. A late night call, an hour passed in seconds. In chatter and smiling and remembering fathers and in just being. Remotely.

If the past years have taught me anything, it's that being selfish and putting oneself first – living with integrity – is the thing that matters. It matters because it makes us happy. It matters because without it we can't give others happiness. I am typing because I need to look after me. I don't find it easy (Selfish - A Question).

Tonight I was excited to see you and torn. Tonight I walk away from my plans because I need to say what I need to say to you. I need to say that I don't know what to do. I need to say that I want it to stop, but I also want it more than anything.

You have a life and demons, and I have mine. Between us there is something simple.

I don't want to feel guilty, conflicted.

I want to sit with you forehead to forehead, breathing you.

All logic dictates that I should cut you off. If it were uncomplicated lust, that would be easy. We do not indulge the physical. I don't know how to let you go, but I do know that I will not come to you.

When this first started – did it start? - I just thought this was the straying eye of a man ensconced, looking to reclaim a bit of independence, soothe himself. But more than a year down the line I know it's not this. It has grown strong. I try so hard to walk away. Sometimes I can't.

I fail to make a point this evening, I just waffle words that have no direction. All do is share my internal debate. It doesn't help.

You need to figure out what it is that you want. You need to do that for yourself. I want you to be happy.

My head is full of the words of W.H. Auden. Odd what springs to mind when one's own words are not enough, too much.

I want so much to not to need you, miss you.

I type the words 'I love you' and delete them. Type, fight, delete. Type, fight, delete. Fuck.

I want to find the courage to figure out what I need. I want to be happy.

I wish that you would wrap me in your arms and keep me there, safe.

I want to lie with my head on your chest and listen to your heart beat. I want to feel your weight on me. I want this to be ordinary.

I want not to fight my feelings.

I will not ask you anything, or for anything.

Time will tell us the answer.

Dad, Dignity and Gaddafi

I walked into the kitchen at work yesterday to be greeted by newspapers whose front pages bore the image of a dying man. I knew Col. Gaddafi was dead. Late night radio and news on the way to work told the story of a tyrant's demise. However, when I saw those images that's not what I saw.


I struggled to hold back tears as I saw the images of a vulnerable, injured, weak, elderly man who was scared and whose life was slipping away.

I saw my father's final hours. I saw him lying in bed, struggling to breathe. I felt the fear of leaving him, knowing I might be leaving him to die without us holding his hands.

I'm shocked by my reaction. I am shocked that I'm likening the image of a tyrant to the man I loved so dearly.

Time and history will write the story of a selfish dictator. Libya will recover and heal.

I understand why Libya celebrates. They have won their freedom. I am angry with our press and our politicians for celebrating the death of a human being.

We demand that dictators, tyrants, cruel leaders and war criminals should treat their prisoners and people fairly. Our society subscribes to the principles human rights, and asks this of others.

Revelling in the a dying man's most private and vulnerable moments is not ok. By doing so we reduce ourselves to the cruelty of those who are evil. If we revel in the death of a man, we are no different to those who kill. We are complicit and we are hypocrites.

War, accidents, abuse, pain or other circumstances ensure that we will not all have a good end to end to life. Where it is possible, we all deserve to die with dignity.