I am lucky beyond words

Normally happiness doesn't make me write. Wallowing in sarrow and bitterness brings me to the pen. But recently My life feels like its been transforming, slowly shifting. I am an observer watching from above as I become something new, like a moth slowly unfolding her wet wings after releasing herself with effort from the confines of the chrysalis. Slow, deliberate change with a growing realization that flight is now possible when it once wasn't. 

A month ago I had a fleeting moment of gratitude. I was sitting on my upstairs porch, the sun setting, the rice fields flowing green until they vanished into the sea. My sweet son reading to his hearts content next to me. Me sitting there holding a decent glass of red wine in a land deplete of such novolties. An organic salad was being made and hand delivered to me. The smell of purple sweet potato french fries in homemade coconut oil were drifting up from the kitchen where a young man who works for me was preparing them for my guests. I had just finished a long but fruitful day of presenting a months work of research to my funders. The results of a compolation of interesting days and nights interviewing HIV positive balinese transvestites and transexuals about condom usage. I mean really, who gets to do that? I spent the second half of the day managing the design and construction of a house that I alone have had the pleasure of designing. Every inch of which is full of hand carved bits and daily induced laughs and fun as I enjoy all of the people who work so hard to make it happen, all while practicing my indonesian. I am lucky beyond words.

Unfortunately this beautiful feeling of fullness in my belly was fleeting. It was way too easily over taken by the grief of loosing someone. I spent days on the beach, a perfect farewell to a sweet man who had kept the lonliness at bay. I spent the many weeks after his departure battling off this feeling. This pang of lonliness of unwantedness, rejection and loss. The emotional stew that was too large and heavy to not overtake the feeling of gratitute for all that is my very full and rich life. I was overwelmed by the feeling that my life was doomed to be perfect but unshared and that there was only a sea of strangers in front of me that I had to endlessly sort thru for real genuine human connection. The kind that makes you feel like your whole being is understood and wrapped up. But now I feel even this part of my life shifting. Lifting up like a hazy fog as the sun pokes thru.

A few days ago I went to a party. The kind of party where you have to compete with loud background noise for the attention of strangers. Normally I would leave feeling miserable at how foriegn this space is to me, but at this party people noticed me and talked to me. Suddenly even the handsome latino salsa dancer who ignored me in class walked across the room to remove me from my conversation and pull me over to one corner to privately charm me. 

The british boy who usually swivels like a chair between enticing me into trips and bussiness plans and turning his back on me for others, spent real moments wrapping me up with his attention. On the way out even an American I had fancied ages ago asked me if he could lift me off the ground, he spun me around in a circle and told me we should spend time together before letting me go.

What was lovely as I left alone to ride my motorbike home was that suddenly I realised I would have none of them and I was ok, not alone. They were just the few random grains of sand in front of me yet I was standing on a beach. On our way to 7 billion people the world is overflowing and the "N" as they say in statistics is large beyond measure. I don't need to share my bed with them, share my pillow and my kisses and my skin. I can simply talk to them and hug them and travel with them. I felt so fine in that moment and greatful for my phenomenal life that I lacked nothing. I felt surrounded by possibilities as I suddenly realised that I infact had the perfect life that everyone should want, that I in fact held all the cards. Like a gambler who has allready won and knows it.

My life is full and amazing. I need nothing. 

Dropping, catching, falling

We walked thru the jungle in the rain, the night was just about to slip its vail over our vision and the trail had vanished amongst the ferns and choclate trees heavy with bright orange rotting pods. In front of us, was a raging river, newly briming and thickly churning from a heavy afternoon downpour. This was the direction we imagined was forward, whatever that nebulous concept meant in this context. 

In an atempt to beat nightfall we had to cross this beast. We had no real choice. We examined large rocks and currents and then you plunged ahead with the help of a bamboo pole. I however, became imobilised in the middle of the rushing water, afraid to take even one step in contradiction of the strong current for fear I would be swept off my feet, the muddy river pushing hard against my legs. Me ludricusly wearing jeans that were now wet up to my waist. The rain continued down in a steady sprinkle that somehow implyed that wetter was even possible in this context. I stood there for far too long trying to will myself forward. Then, just as I lifted my foot and the water gave its strongest push, you came back for me and stretched out your arm, offering your steady hand as solice from the forces of nature. With one quick grasp we were both across and once again standing on thick firm jungly land. 

You normally are more of a egalitarian than a shivilrist. More likely to want evenly devided pie and checks than cavalerly throwing down your coat in a puddle for me to fooloshly walk over. But in that moment, in that context, you reaching out to me was worth a thousand withheld sweet kisses on the back of my neck. Your strong hand in the midst of my fear was the same as a thousand doors opened in front of me, a thousand dinners ordered with me in mind. You made me feel cared for and safe. In that moment I loved you hard and strong like the mossy rocks that held back the rivers force without even budging. 

Once safely on the otherside of the river the trail magically appeared again. One step at a time we made it home, faith that the path existed and could be found was all we needed. That and the willingness to move forward with knowledge that being swept away is not the only answer. We made it home, the last bit on a motorbike, me stealing your heat on the back as we sailed thru the balinese night talking and laughing away the raindrops. I wanted to go home with you and steal more of your sweetness against your will as you slept. But I had another man waiting for me at home, a steady and humble eleven year old who needed my company more. I said goodbye without even a kiss. 

This is what will happen again soon, saying goodbye. Will this time be for good? I don't know. Do you? At the moment I can't see beyond next week. Our future is muddy and blocked by long forced time apart across vast oceans. Our connection to one another not being swept away by the black abyiss of the unknown is all but impossible. I will take a moment, a deep lingering pause, to have faith that a path exists. Hidden only by jungly vines that only need to be pushed away. I will find faith that no matter our distance we can be there to take each others hand when raging rivers require it even as we have found different paths to forge in life and in love. I love you like a rock, steady and strong, take my hand if you ever need it. 

Loose edges always meet up

I am building a house. Because I live in Indonesia where the rules are limited I can build it inch by inch without planning too far ahead. I can look at today and decide what needs to be done. Lets put a wall there, lets lay tile here.

People from western countries find this to be ludricous if not impossible. They can't fathom the emptiness of not having the complete vision written on graph paper ready to be neatly orchestrated. 

The other day a sweet british man interested in my construction project attempted to explain his disbelief by asking "how do you decide what to do when you get to two edges?"

When two edges of two surfaces planned and implemented at different times come together they may need a bit of imagination to join them. Where floor tile meets the edge of the pool, or a wall meets a counter. But allthough it seems impossible from afar or before they come together these two surfaces present thier own logic once complete. This logic may not even be visible untill you get there. You have to wait for the edges to meet and then translate the logic of that moment. Add a bit of trim, smooth out the surfaces, sand them down. Like magic they become one. It works, I swear. This makes sense in construction if you let it. If you let go of control and let loose imagination and all that is sensible in this present moment. But you have to let go, let things happen. Watch and then play. This works in life also. 

This is my new mantra. Keep going. Wait for the edges to meet. Wait for whatever it is that is happening now to go somewhere, to make sense. Follow that road in the dark, don't be afraid of the unknown. See what happens, trust that you will know what to do when you get there. Let go and play. Know that it will all become clear. Trust, let go, let it happen. 

I am right now doing lots of thing. Right now I am interviewing transvestights for public health research.  Right now I am building a house. Right now I am dating a sweet and yummy man with a creamy voice. In two months most of these things may be done. I am not sure where the edges are. I can't see them yet. I am not sure where the next edge starts. What does it look like, how will it meet up with my current life? What happens when this man leaves? Will I go to him, will he come back to me? Will there be another man? I am not yet sure. Will my house rent, will I get more public health work and continue to be an academic? I am not yet sure. Wait for the edges, they will come. Know that they will meet. It will all make sense and come together in neat lines. Keep laying tile, one at a time... Don't look too far ahead. Keep going. Enjoy the details of now. The present moment. Keep going. Wait for the edges to meet. Trust that they will. 

Fear and loathing

I started again down the academic path of drudgery, arranging neat sentences in tidy boxes and applying delicate logic all with the hopes of fanning the flames of my once hard earned career. 

In the interim of the last few dizzing years of heartache, poverty and tropical winds I have let loose of all this pent up logic and let out the free, strong, fearless human that was always hiding inside. I silently stole some russian courage from a man who was never destined to be a lover, just a friend. The courage to throw all care of outcome at passing cars and tread blindly in whatever direction came to me first. The courage to tell strangers to go fuck them selves if my mediocrity doesn't please them. 

This project I have really only taken on to feed some lost self identity that seems to have a claw and teeth grip on my ego. The misguided non-truth that entering questions into a report will keep people from dying of AIDS still manages to bring on a sense of awe to those whom I inform of my hard won profession. This ego dousing career that has merged solidly with my sense of self and may eventually only be hacked away against its will, has rekindled something else too. It has brought back fear and loathing and a stentch of daily anxious dread. The feeling that my ineptitute at leaping high enough to please anyone who holds power over me will render me too weak and anxious to even try. 

I realized as I waded thru these distantly firmiliar emotions that the reason I spent 17 years with a man whom when asked what he would do with his life if he had a magic wand was left without any imagination to pick a single option was for this. He held this part of me. He washed my back in the shower, stroked away my worry and accepted my troubles in his lap of solitude. He made it possible for me to be this person. This person who hides her wildness inside neatly buttoned shirts, this person who keeps tidy rows of data in order against the will of her messy unsorted brain and ensures she humbly bows to any and all authority, asking nothing more than "am I good enough?". This person I haven't seen for awhile. This person I was never meant to be. I didn't miss her. I don't want her back, my ego will have to do without.

I am told I have a boyfriend, I believe he is watching cricket with his friends in another country. He may message me tomorrow and tell me who won. He may not. He will not hear of my worries, he will not recieve my fears. He will not wash my back in the shower.

In this moment with this anxious dread eating at my stomach I want to be held and wrapped tightly. But the reality is I i no longer have someone to perform this task. If I abandon this ship I have just stepped on, poke holes in it hull and let it sink, I may no longer need someone for this job. I have become someone in the interim who no longer fits data into tidy rows but knocks down brick walls with someone elses arms. Who gambles high stakes with no fear of loosing my hand. I have simply found a realm in which I am not afraid. I am not afraid of papuan wood mafia, balinese fraudsters or javanese sand pedlers. If data and authority figures are what go bump in the night then maybe I don't need a boyfriend to comfort me, maybe I need to finally shed the last of my old skin and embrace fully the becoming that is already nearly done. The me that looks little like the girl that tried too hard to care, too hard to please and needed a man to stand waiting to play the sole role of her fulltime wet nurse to ease her thru the anxiety of modern life. I am no longer her. I live in the wild west and fight pirates. I am the boss, all 30 men who cut thru steel and wood and brick on my behalf will tell you this truth.

I am told I have a boyfriend, he may be watching cricket. He is not here to comfort me and ease away my sleepless fears of authority and untidy data. I no longer care. 

Run for your life

It happened just as you said it would, you knew the story allready. Its an old story. Anyone who listens to any song ever written would know this tale. You saw it coming like storm clouds in the distance. You stubbornly resisted, dragging your feet, a toddler who didn't want to leave the house. I understand. I do. Now, I do.

You left today again for your homeland, we have ten days apart. Another seperation to bear, but this time I am standing steady, just me. Its ok whatever happens I am basking in gratitude. You have filled me up. This is enough to last me thru the dark loveless winternights that may come. Thank you for this. Thank you for giving me humor and grace and all good things that if edible would be delicious. 

Now what? Do we keep each other or will you wander off into the Australian sunset? Is this a question we should try to answer or should we just keep holding our breath  releasing tiny bubbles and sneaking sips of air without lifting our heads fully from the water? One can't really predict the future. It is yet unformed we can only carry each moment with us slowly forward. 

I love you. My friend who shared the same salad of roasted tomatoes and goat cheese told me at dinner she had never said those words to a man in her whole life. She was saving them. I don't believe in saving, I believe in spending. When I was young I once spent my last five dollars on coffee and cigarettes. I don't care, I like to eat all my halloween candy in one setting, and have as many orgasms as time and company will allow. 

Should I keep you? Should you keep me? Or should we toss each other back into the pot. You are thinking it, I know you are. Don't worry, I am too. Its not like we have nothing worth saving. But I, like you, am as scared of making the wrong choice. You are too. Its a pop quiz that no one can pass.

How often do two people like all the things we do? Is this normal or is it like that study where people start seeing volkswagons everywhere because the idea was planted in thier head. Am I making random connections on our collective behalf?

We like spreadsheets, long neat colums with a furmula to make it all work out. We like randy newman in his funny glasses singing ironically about his height deficit. We like adventures in the mud and muck and long motorbike rides to nowhere. We like the idea of racing across the world in a tiny junky car. We like the news headlines. I could do without cricket and Australian politics but thats ok. I will give you that and still find it charming. You make me laugh hard. You wake up in the morning talking, right out of the gate, as do I.

I can spend nearly the whole day with you and don't want you to leave. I want you to let me burrow my nose in your beard and run my fingers across your curls. I want this. Is this all enough? I am not sure but I am hooked. I will omit what is wrong with you for the moment. Sure the list exists, its long even, but I won't breath life into it just yet. I will wait to commit it to ink. Tomorrow. 

You have your fingers wrapped firmly around my heart or other nameless organs. I am hooked like a carp on a good fat worm wriggling helplessly on the boat deck.

Am I allowed to love you, should I? I do. Its normal right? Its what you were afraid of, knowing you will only break my heart. Don't worry, you allready have, once a month for six months untill you declared me your girlfriend. This month is only now ending. 

What should I do with this feeling? Should I stuff it in my pocket and wait for the right day to take it back out? Should I release it to the breeze and let it blow where it may? Should I burry it in the dark moist earth and leave it for the squirrels to dig up while looking for nuts? Should I give it to you daily over coffee and hope that you will take it and hold it and give it back to me generously kissed? 

Or maybe I should run fast and hard untill I no longer feel it. Run untill someone else catches me and takes it and wipes it clean from my hands. Run befor the month is up and its time for you to break my heart again. I love you. Should I run? 

Where is your liver?

So here we are, you declaring emphatically to wait staff and anyone who would listen that I am your girlfriend. You finally letting go and accepting what plainly is. You willingly sitting at a restaurant with me and my son. Does this scare you? Are you afraid of this reality you have found yourself in?

The other night as with many nights you let me stay in your bed, you let me wriggle my curves up to you cupped in comfort, legs and toes wrapped and curled, hands grabbing fingers. So why is there something missing? Should I tell you this? Should I say it out loud? Set it in stone with my words. Should I demand in your presence that you kiss me hard and long, nuzzle the back of my neck with your nose, want me sweet and lusty like dark chocolate, want me deep and slow like rivers in the forest that meander without agenda. Want me please. 

I sit across from you most mornings in a restaurant over cappucino. I look at you and admire your hansomeness in my presence. We enjoy each others company this fact sparkles as plain as day. But do you need me like water on a hot day, do you want me as much as you want that lemon merengue pie we unabashedly shared before we ate any real food in the morning? 

The other night when we wickedly smoked a joint that would have gotten us executed in this country of ours, I wanted you badly but you couldn't even find one deep passionate kiss. You blamed it on your busy hands bored in bed without me the day before. You yourself said you were oddly wooden in response to me. Your soul appeared to the novices eye an empty bucket, there were no kisses to be found, only thoughtfully spoken and felt words. A brain attatched to your handsome body. Does your heart exist? Or does the Balinese culture have it right and it is actually your liver and not the heart with which you feel love and yours is simply damaged from too many years of alcohol abuse. 

I look at you and find you endlessly sweet and handsome, but I still have no idea how you find me. You keep this secret feeling hidden to yourself. 

I told you the story of my sordid two year love triangle which was unfulfilled but had  more lusty unbridled passion without requite than you are willing to release to me now. Is it me? Is it us? Will you take the next girl you date home before desert and throw her on the bed without conversation? 

Is this just a moment in time? A beautiful moment filled with shared laughs and intimate thoughts and long intelectual conversations. Should I not degrade this moment by talking about it? Should I leave it for what it is and not pick it apart like the remnants of a turkey after thanksgiving day. 

This is my strategic plan, my logic model, my oath. I promise in this moment to court you instead of nag you. I will find secret charming ways to winnow out kisses from places even you didn't know existed. I will not demand them but instead invoke them like spells. I will conjure them like spirits, concoct them like soups in winter. Then and only then if after a time I discover your bucket is truly empty I will have to leave you to seek out greener pastures. Pastures full with so many kisses thrown my way that I can't even catch them all. I will not release you to yourself just yet man of my moment. I still have faith that there is a heart or a liver hidden burried beneath forgotten leaves of soggy heartache. Will you let me find it? 

You like a good fat rat in your mouth

Two days ago my cat caught a rat. It was large enough that she struggled to keep it in her mouth as she ran up the stairs. Grey and furry and totally disgusting by my meagre human standards. She would release it and let it run around my bedroom and then chase it and catch it again, like a wind up toy made only to amuse her. It was difficult to watch this constant torture of even such a wretched creature. I felt a combination of filth and pitty, and without real plossible intervention I abandoned the scene to shop for groceries and pretend it wasn't happening. Leaving her to fullfill her basic instinctual cat desires in solitude and  absence of human critique. Even as my mind logically understood these needs of hers, not for sustanance but for death and torture, I still none-the-less found them hard to accept. 

I feel the same about your need to eat strange new women whole and then promptly spit them out again withought any emotional engagement. Playing, releasing and then grabbing again. You just returned from your recent romp in Cambodia. You ran off to drink large quanties of alcohol and smoke cambodian weed while having wild and rampant sex with women you will never see again. Its like watching you chase a dirty rat and put it still alive in your mouth as it wiggles and try to understand why this is what you desire to do, wrap my sad wounded mind around why this is a delectable treat for you. Applying all the science I have in my academic bucket I try to understand that this is nothing more than a savage need from your ancient reptile brain, but I still can't accept it. Not really, I am only pretending, playing it cool. 

My cat is now snuggled up in bed with me. I am trying not to think less of her for wanting the rat. I am trying not to imagine that she is any less sweet, clean, or herself for having the rat fur stuffed in her face only a day ago. I let her sleep next to me, choosing to ignore this dirty deed of yesturday. 

Unlike my cat you will no longer be allowed in my bed. Or so I like to convince myself. But here we are again in constant company. You sit next to me at a dinner party with mutual friends, we order a side of polenta and broccoli to share. Taking turns dipping crispy polenta spears into the aioli dip I find myself trying a little too hard not to imagine you with a rat in your mouth. Was she delicious?