Investing in you

Two years ago, I fell in love, hard. It was the kind of love that sneaks up on you, when you fall against your own will. I tried so hard to keep my emotions close but when I finally let myself fall, my lover had disappeared. In the course of 24 hours, all communication stopped and it was over without explanation.


 I was so broken, angry and sad. For months, I couldn't date. I couldn't write. I couldn't feel. 


Lately, writing has come so easily and I feel like I can pick up old emotions like river rocks and turn them over in my hand. Like a geologist, I can see their orgin, the forces that formed them and reflect on how time has changed them. Better still, I can write about them. It's a pretty special place to be.


This is something I should have written years ago, but I couldn't find the words. Now they've come.


To that love: I did all the things that we said we'd do together. I saw Niagara, I ate at all the restaurants, I watched the films. Though I thought of you, I didn't miss you; but you missed out on a lot of good things. I can't listen to Robyn without seeing us dancing at 4 am drunk off bottles and bottles of champagne; somehow, no matter how much you broke my heart, I'm still grateful for that memory.


You spilled
your romance
into my life
sticky and sweet,
I waded ankle deep
unable to avoid the fall
for you.

Now all the stars that twinkled above us,
all the bubbles that danced in my champagne,
the brush strokes that filled the galleries,
the actors that emoted in movies,
the bricks in your bedroom walls,
the threads in all your sheets,
raise their voices to mine.

We scream.

"How could you leave us behind?"

Our banshee cry goes unanswered,
like my questions
like my calls.

And I sit here thinking,
if I could buy
all the integrity in the world
I would.
So I could keep it
and invest it
and watch the interest grow.
I would be in charge.
I could hire and fire
advisers
who would help me
watch my investments in integrity grow.
And they could forecast
how continuous its supply would be
and it could be there to save me
on rainy days
when I could withdraw it
and I could use it to pay
the debt of empathy
that you owe to me.
 
Then I wouldn't have to pay
with tears
desires
time
and fears
or question
the validity and sanity
of my own emotion
passion
and intuition.

And I could use this integrity
to fill all the gaps in our conversations
to get the to the truth.
Not to make true the fairy tale you spun for me,
but to reveal your true identity:
thief of hearts
hoarder of affection
spinner of lies
and romantic deception.

And I could still love you,
and you could still love me.
But at least that integrity
would save me
from this ache
in my heart
in my rib
in my neck
and my spleen
because I would know...

which is all I required to make your debt to me clean.

Looking for...

I've been told I shouldn't think of you,
that nonchalance,
not looking,
not seeking,
searching for your grin,
desiring your hand in mine,
is the missing ingredient
to establishing our chemistry.

But missing you comes so naturally.

They tell me, "Don't look and you shall find,"
But I can't help but scan the streets
in hopes that we can meet
and I can bring you home.

See, we haven't met yet
but I can bet that,

On Sundays,
you like to sleep in.
And I'll wake up early
jog with the dog,
return to pry you
from last night's sweaty sheets
with sweet kisses and salty bacon
we'll laugh into pancakes
and your smile,
sweet like maple syrup,
will make my stomach flip
just like our first date.

We'll spend lazy afternoons
a tangle of legs and feet
brewing daydreams over magazines
about the places we'll go and grow together.
We'll talk till our mouths meet,
or enjoy the still silence
that made us feel home,
that first weekend we spent just us, alone.

And sometimes we'll argue,
I'll be moody
you, bossy.
Sometimes I'll blame you,
and you'll grow frustrated with me,
but we'll take off our gloves,
get our hands dirty,
and do the work.
Then I'll say the right thing, you'll soften,
You'll say the funny thing, I'll laugh,
and we'll love away the fears,
while kissing away the tears.

And I'll stress about which flowers to bring to your mom
and shaking your dad's hand with sweaty palms,
only to win him with political conversation,
her with washed dishes and polite consideration.

And when we hit the town,
we'll arrive with your hand on my lower back,
you'll make your friends laugh,
and I'll glitter,
girls will flirt with you
but I'll know better than to be bitter
while you work your side of the room
and I'll work mine.
We'll meet on the dance floor,
the only place we sweat more
than when we're tangled in our sheets,
the memory of which will make us
hit the streets
head home
to be alone.

And when I come to,
from thinking of you,
I can't help but look for you,
miss you,
and pray that you
are looking for me too.
So we can go home,
to build and to break,
and grow the love that will make
each half of us, whole.

After we meet...

She strolls through my dreams
and stirs me awake
with the want to write of her.

Yet pages remain blank
as the empty sheets
that know nothing of her.

She's left me with nothing beyond
phermonal first impressions
scraps of staccato conversation
and the residue of fingertip flirtation.

Like a painter dreaming in colour
confined to monochrome
I nurse an appetite whet for more.

She is an outlined tattoo on my skin,
her compelling contours
crying to convey their chromatic depth,
left temporarily empty except for expectation.

wake.up.

sometimes I wake up immediately.

sometimes a nudge slowly rolls from slumber to consciousness.

and lately I've been a sleep.

a sleep walker through life.
a-sleep at the creative wheel.
a sleep away from satisfaction.

obsessed
addicted
passionless.

a zombie hungering for the next check mark on the to-do list.

until the full moon intervened.

she illuminated the night sky

her light fell on my shoulders
gold down my back
silver up my neck
that started the shiver
that raised the goosebumps
that aroused me from sleep.

the sun spilled over the horizon
and the morning breeze blew the sheets of night away.

her light faded into the blue of day.

I exhaled.

she was the nudge.

and now I roll toward day

awake

alive

creeping toward creativity

pulsing with passion.

Happiness

"Happiness hit her, like a bullet in the back." -Florence and the Machine

That is what life feels like lately.

Explosions of pure joy erupt in me like stars that illuminate the night sky. And like those celestial bodies those moments make me feel hope, a certain connection to divinity, like I AM on the right track, going in the right direction.

But like those stars I still find myself sinking in the lonely darkness of the night sky. And so I leap desperately, willing my patience, perseverance, and keenly trained perspective of positivity to carry me seamlessly toward the next bright light : a romance, an opportunity, a cherished moment with a friend, a perfect yoga class or dance, a well written line.

But there are too many times lately that I feel I miss and fail to make the next constellation connection to my starlit bliss. Instead I falter and fall, down to a place where I miss home, miss dancing, miss the yoga studio, miss my friends, miss being energetic, miss my sleep pattern miss the chance to write when I want to.

I then doubt myself, my path, my dreams and my resolve.

I continue to fall. doubt. pray. persevere.

Only to unexpectedly land on a new constellation, filled with a new elation that stretches perhaps farther than the last.

So I continue, leaping and praying, practicing and pushing, analyzing and reflecting, hoping that my leaps will become more consistent and my falls won't go down so far as I create my life's own constellation.

He used to sleep with his back to me.

The first few nights it went unnoticed. But when insecurities about the security of our bond crept in, as they always do, the waves of my restful sleep broke against the wall of his back. Pressed between the contours of his scapula, hoping to erode the hardness of his spinal column, I prayed for signs.

And so when his hand reached for mine in the small hours of the morning, I exhaled. It was as if each finger locking into mine whispered a single word...

I

will

not

desert

you

So I believed him.

But the addition of his promises were as valueless and dishonest as his hands that night. That last interlock was instead a parting handshake. A pre-emble to his final goodbye: a sinful act of making love. Before he attempted to slip out of my life, as silent and unnoticed as he slipped in.

Britney Spears defaces Alexander McQueen

Britney Spears' hotly anticipated video, "Hold it Against Me" dropped today to the delight of the blogosphere.

Set in a gleaming, sexy, post-apocalyptic world, director Jonas Akerlund does a pretty good job of disguising the once talented dancer's incompetence. While the quick cuts were enough to make question if there was something wrong with the video card in my computer, then contemplate descending into a seizure, the product placements were what really induced the nausea. But the final and most insulting part of the video was the rip off of Alexander McQueen's Spring/Summer 1999 fashion show.

In the video Britney, dressed in a huge white dress, reveals highlighter coloured paint that sprays from the tips of her fingers, colouring the fabric that flares beneath her. As tweens and fans are oohing and ahhing, Alexander McQueen must be rolling in his grave.

The original concept debuted in McQueen's 1999 Spring show, where the fashion world was brought to tears when two auto-painting robots spray painted a frightened model wearing a white dress. The message was complex; it was a thoughtful commentary on the evolution of fashion as a commodity, a critique of our descent into a digital roboticized age, and a reflection of our exploitation of creativity. The show was iconic and one of the most referenced moments in McQueen's career when the fashion world reflected on his death one year ago.

Today, Britney Spears and Jonas Akerlund spat in the face of the original genius behind this concept.

It is true that art evolves over time, is adapted, referenced and often bastardized. But it breaks my heart that amidst a spastic comeback attempt, where bad editing is only outdone by tasteless product placement, the memory and work of McQueen is defaced. Britney's reference to his work is the antithesis of McQueen's original message.

While artists like Lady Gaga frequently reference McQueen's concepts (the Bad Romance was designed in part by McQueen and debuted at his final Fall 2010 show) at least they pay homage to him and his work by honouring his message and his intent. It is clear all those behind her music are only interested in exploiting true genius for a buck, much like they did to the young southern belle.

The result a bastardized, defaced and cheapened version of the original subversive, intelligent and thought provoking message McQueen first created. But, I suppose by now, we shouldn't expect much more from Britney and her team.

Watch the real deal below...