Posts Tagged relationships
Correlations
Posted by yoursinwriting in Poems on December 9th, 2007
There are correlations
between how far you have fallen in love
and how many cars will try to hit her
between the frequency with which you check your phone
and the number of bears in the woods where she walks her dog
between how primal is your lovemaking
and how steadfast are her stalkers
between the clarity of her face on your closed eyes
and the likelihood her basement wiring is faulty
So when our passion faded
it was replaced with the relief
that you
would be
finally
safe
But still today
there are moments
that clutch me by the heart
when I fear just a little for your life
Blueprint of a Break Up
Posted by yoursinwriting in Everything Else on July 29th, 2007
The mutual break up after a long relationship is a strange beast. One of you has the burden of raising the topic, of ripping away that moldy old bandaid, and the other one knows immediately, almost as the first words are out of their partner’s mouth, that This Is It, this is The Discussion. It is a relief, really. It is For The Best, really. And it is, it truly is.
But the brain, now left free from having to spend effort on how to end the relationship, will begin its post-relationship analysis, including hourly emotional updates. If you are the band-aid ripper, you will wonder why she went along with it so willingly. You will wonder why she didn’t cry, or if she did, you will wonder if it was authentic. If your band-aid was ripped, you will wonder why she chose that particular moment to bring it up. Fatigue? Could she simply no longer bear living the lie? Or did she want to troll that upcoming wedding with all the hooks, lines, and sinkers of the newly-single?
Your mind will agitate between reasons you liked her and reasons you knew it couldn’t work. During the break up, you could list all the latter, but now your mind is full of the former. You see her face again for the first time. Her voice is in your ear again like a tongue. You wish you could have stored up extra sex on those days you took a pass so that you could cash it in slowly, luxuriously, over the upcoming dry time. You romanticize the future you have lost.
Worse, your mind, not enjoying this, sets out to teach you not to repeat this experience. You are treated to images of her laughing about you with her friends. Talking you down to her new guy.
Even in a mutual break up, this is hard. It can make you doubt yourself. Doubt the world. Doubt love. But in time, the truth comes clear: she is a wonderful person, who you were lucky to have known so well. You keep her in your mind and would jump at the chance to introduce her to someone who could bring her the happiness you couldn’t. You remember what drew you to her with nostalgia, and what drove you apart with humour and compassion. You hope she feels the same way.
And then you make a list of all the shit you left at her place.
Good Marriage Advice
Posted by yoursinwriting in Everything Else on July 4th, 2003
Happy Birthday to my Uncle Ed! When I was in Virginia for my buddy’s wedding last week, I gave a toast at the rehearsal dinner. I ended with this tidbit that I heard from my Uncle when he was asked why his marriage was so successful:
The key to a happy marriage is falling in love, many times, with the same person.
Ed Guthrie
Also Happy Independence Day to my American cohorts. You crazy kids give me hope for your country yet.
Open Mic with Adrienne Pierce
Posted by yoursinwriting in Articles on February 24th, 2003
I am having a hard time typing this. Fingers with minds of their own. And after only three Guinness.
Tonight I went to the Green Room. It’s a club around the corner where my friend Adrienne Pierce hosts an open mike on Mondays. The sessions are an entertaining mix of established rockers, nervous-but-talented neophytes, and eclectic artists whose performances make you look about anxiously for a gong.
Adrienne is a tiny, quick-witted nymph who is gifted with song. She has an incredible ease with people, and I watch her work the room, greeting friends, strangers, and talentless open mike regulars with equal grace and humour. She could be an Ambassador. Or a bawdy house madame. But she is positioned perfectly in the middle: an up-and-coming Canadian music star.
Chris, the bartender, reminds me that my glass is getting empty. He is one of those great bartenders who knows when to get in your face, when to smile knowingly, and when to leave you the hell alone. Another pint, Chris. Thanks.
A blonde girl arrives and orders a glass of red wine. Her hair is held up and back in a clip. She takes off her puffy black insulated jacket, and lovely full breasts lean out against her blue sweater. She is writing something down in a notebook. This makes me happy, and I like her immediately. She could be writing, The best place from which to expel the anthrax would be from under the booth to the left of the stage. I still like her. I watch two guys approach and get shot down in conversation. I respect their efforts.
Local yokel Janet Panic arrives, with two men in tow. To the left is a Ross Geller look-a-like who talks during her set. Probably her boyfriend. To the right is a man who stole Freddy Mercury’s mustache; his hair looks like a dark brown electrical storm. Janet has no waist, but her legs and hips and ass and stomach have enough lovely thick curve that I can’t help but watch the space between her halter top and low-rider jeans. Janet plays her signature tune, “Lousy Wife,” and after a few words with Adrienne, leaves with Freddy Mercury Frazzle Man. Ross stays behind and chats with Adrienne; damn, I got them backwards.
I write a short note for Blonde Girl. It asks her to come read this. This journal entry. She will see here what I am thinking about tonight, about her, about the musicians. I will give it to her, folded, and say, “Goodnight.” Then I will leave the bar. She will be left sitting there, red wine frozen halfway to her lips. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? It’s irresistable, isn’t it? But Blonde Girl is putting on her puffy coat and smiling kindly at the men around her. She shoulders her purse and humps it out of there.
I laugh to myself, at myself.
Adrienne returns to the bar and reminds me about the piece I wrote that she wants to turn into a song. I am still unbelieving, but we plan to have lunch to talk about writing it together. I suggest a title to her untitled song, and she loves it. She is so kind that I suspect she is humouring me. Her video release party is coming up next month. She still hasn’t seen it herself.
I want to ask her if she worries sometimes. If she doubts herself. Her dreams. Her talent.
But I have seen her. Heard her. And I want to tell her: Don’t.
Another Breakup? Pull Up Your Socks
Posted by yoursinwriting in Articles on February 18th, 2003
My girlfriend and I broke up tonight. After a couple of weeks of denial, she made me admit the fact that I’m not falling in love with her. That our relationship is doomed to failure. That what I thought was patience and hope on my part is actually inertia and cowardice. And maybe misplaced compassion.
In the book she lent me, “This All Happened” by Michael Winter, I’ve just come to the part where he thinks couples should write breakup statements when they part ways, that could be kept in the public archives for future couples to read. To see what they’re in for. I’ve come to the part where he talks about how our instinct is stronger than words, how people can sense how you’re truly feeling from your body language regardless of what you might say.
In the car, when I took her home after the movie but declined to stay. I wanted to get some work done at home.
Her: Oh. Okay.
Quiet in the front seat.
Me: What’s wrong.
A pause.
Her: I guess… I guess I’m feeling insecure.
There are enormous things I love about her. Her raw, grudging honesty. How she doesn’t back down from an argument. Her hands in my hair. The way she sings Corey Hart’s “Boy in the Box.” Pieces of love that I can’t seem to put together. Perhaps our hearts start off broken, to be built when we find love with someone else.
“This All Happened” is essentially a day-by-day diary, and I have come to the last chapter: December. To winter. By Michael Winter. My high school English teacher, Mr. Keat, would approve.
Goodbye Bambi. You are a wonder.
King Street Phone Booth
Posted by yoursinwriting in Poems on March 1st, 2002
I will see you in December
until then, what I’ll remember most
about that King Street phone booth is
not the full-blooded crush of your lips,
not the thudding of your heart against its bars,
but the vision of my hands
steepled between us
and the criss-crossed rubbing of your palms
against my kindling fingers
trying to start a fire
Four Men
Posted by yoursinwriting in Stories on March 15th, 1999
Four men, four countries.
We agree on English, so that we will all know a few words, how to apologize. We speak slowly, pause often, move our hands, look at each other, smile.
Danish gurgles a little laugh at our efforts. It sounds as though his real name is devoid of vowels, and none of us were able to pronounce it to his satisfaction, so we simply call him Danish. His eyes are half closed, and he has lit a stick of incense, as though anyone in this sleepy hostel would care about the smell of what we are smoking.
Rinaldo is doing all the talking. His English has improved with each circuit of the thick joint, and sometimes he speaks too quickly for Yurichiro, the compact Japanese with a walkman on a chain. “Too small. Not in US. Stolen this.” After some debate, we determine that he’s worried of having it stolen, and he bought it legitimately in Hong Kong.
“If you go down, very down in you,” Rinaldo says, pushing his palm from his throat down towards his stomach as he lies stretched out on the floor, “man wants woman for sex, and children, and house, only.”
Danish nods. Yurichiro is concentrating intently on Rinaldo’s words. Every person is a new English teacher. He has never tried marijuana before.
“And if a woman looks also down deep, but no listen to… lesbos?” they look to me: Rinaldo for confirmation, the rest for translation.
“Lesbians,” I say, nodding at Rinaldo. I will not try to stop his argument. I am an impartial messenger for the language, and will debate the idea separately. “A woman who likes women,” I explain to the other two. Danish says, “Ah,” and Yurichiro stares at me blankly.
Rinaldo makes a peace sign with the fingers of his right hand and looks at Yurichiro. “Woman,” he says, and Yurichiro nods, “who do like this,” and he slaps his tongue into the crotch of his fingers, and slops it all over the sides of the V. Danish howls and slaps Yurichiro on the knee, knocking himself backwards in the process. The Japanese blushes, “Hai,” he says with a smile.
“So,” Rinaldo continues, “if woman no listen to LEZ-BEE-INS,” he sing-songs at me, “she know she wants man to have her and to protect her. She wants to protect children also. So, man and woman have separate jobs,” Rinaldo finishes.
The other two nod. Yurichiro doesn’t seem to understand why this is an interesting subject.
“What about if a man wants to take care of the children instead?” I ask.
Rinaldo pauses. “I think,” he begins, “I respect his… decision?” he looks at me and I nod. “To become a woman,” he concludes.
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