Divorce, Single Parenting, Dating, Sex, & Self-Recovery

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Is This Not A Divorce Blog Anymore? WTF?

still from stealing beauty

I’m not happy. Okay, I’m not mad either. I’m sort amused. “je m’amuse” my crappy French for, I amuse myself.

Here’s what’s funny to me. I’m looking at the current list of posts >> over there on the side navigation and I’ve just about blown the whole set of links with POETRY. What? When did this become a poetry blog? I’m sorry, I’m confused, too.

Here’s what I think is happening.

  • I’m happy. (I know I just said I wasn’t happy, but that’s not true.)
  • I’m lonely. (Not that I am not enjoying my time, because I am, but I’m also … longing.)
  • When I’m creative I write poetry and songs. (God, I hope this doesn’t become a music blog.)
  • Maybe it’s the change of the seasons. (And the ramp up towards my birthday is usually a time of great joy and striving.)

What I know about myself, is when my life is in top form, I am writing, writing, writing. All kinds of writing. (Music, poems, techie stuff, and this divorce/dating/dad thing, here.) So I’m ripping through a lot of content these days, here and elsewhere in my life. And what I think I am doing is allowing my mind to wander into the what ifs and wants of my heart. Not censoring or editing the romantic form, but amplifying it by giving it form on the page, an image to echo from.

I am sounding out the dark edges of my heart, here on this blog. And where three years ago the song came back harsh and hard, today the music is more lyrical and aspirational.

I won’t try to imagine a woman wandering into this garden and trying to make sense of the messiness. I will let my friend find her own way with all the material. She will either pick up the songs and the poems and reply or she won’t. That part I can be certain is not up to me.

And where would I go, if the symphony were to come alive with a new lover? What new form would I need to construct to hold an arrival and collaboration? I know it won’t be to broadcast it here. ACTUAL LOVE is much too fragile to publish. Longing is much more safe.

First, I am letting the words come to express what I am looking for. Sometimes that’s in the form of “dating” posts. But recently, it has come in the form of a more fluid language. I imagine that I am plumbing the edges of my desire with these streams of words, like sonar pings, searching for the boundaries and reflections. I am also writing them to make my love song more real, both for myself, and for any future lover who trips into my garden.

Second, in giving flight to all this poetry, I am slightly freed from the darker work of divorce, anger, sadness. What I think I’m saying, is this blog has evolved from a catharsis to an aspiration. In the early days of divorce I was wounded, howling, and acting out. Today I am patient, alone, and singing.

An amazing thing happened last night, but I don’t want to say too much about it. But a turn of events led me to share this blog with someone who I’m still very much interested in. I’m going to hold back the story, of course, because it is likely these words will soon be read by her… Hmmm. Isn’t this a fine kettle of fish?

As I wondered aloud, last night, about the wisdom of sharing such raw emotion with a future potential, she was happy to rejoin with encouragement. I can’t imagine what it would be like. She must have felt, last night, from time to time, as I burst out in lines of longing, as if she was in fact walking into some elaborately laid out trap.

Of course that’s not the case. This is not a labyrinth. Unless it is a labyrinth of my own imaginings. I mention snares, and nets, and quarries, but I am not hunting an animal. I am not hunting. But I am doing something. And maybe pulling the poems out of the “divorce” story will help them shine for what they are, love poems. In the classic sense of the term, I am trying to voice all the many abstract ways LOVE occurs to me.

What I know about myself, is when my life is in top form, I am writing, writing, writing. All kinds of writing. (Music, poems, techie stuff, and this divorce/dating/dad thing, here.) So I’m ripping through a lot of content these days, here and elsewhere in my life. And what I think I am doing is allowing my mind to wander into the what ifs and wants of my heart. Not censoring or editing the romantic form, but amplifying it by giving it form on the page, and an image to echo from.

I am sounding out the dark edges of my heart, here on this blog. And where three years ago the song came back harsh and hard, today the music is more lyrical and aspirational. I won’t try to imagine a woman wandering into this garden and trying to make sense of the messiness. I will let my friend find her own way with all the material. She will either pick up the songs and the poems and reply or she won’t. That part I can be certain is not up to me.

And where would I go, if the symphony were to come alive with a new lover? What new form would I need to construct to hold an arrival and collaboration? I know it won’t be to broadcast it here. ACTUAL LOVE is much too fragile to publish. Longing is much more safe.

Sincerely,

The Off Parent

image: is a still from the movie Stealing Beauty

Resources:

afternoon here

afternoon-here-s

[from Misconfigurations of Love – poetry]

it is afternoon here
and i still don’t know
where you are
poems measure
mappings of desire
still
the nets remain empty
laying out letters
and stones
in formations
arranging flowers
within the grass
giving you signals
directions
openings
i will continue
until
a blush
smile
and
reply

10-19-13

against beauty

mermaid series - jesse sublett - aug 2009

[from Misconfigurations of Love – poetry]

the nuance is lost
when i hunger
with such intensity
i wear myself out
i cannot imagine
her
my heart bursting
wouldn’t
run

anytime there is a glimmer
i jump with both feet
as into a fresh rain puddle
without care or map
i am reckless
and abandoned
i thrash slightly
with romantic epiphanies

there she is
beauty personified
wings folded
smile alight
there she is
hovering
dipping
smelling of salt

an easy death will not come
not little deaths
but large ones
i do not haunt or hunt
i craft and scheme
and write missives
hoping she will
receive

here she is
listening
within reach
still fluttering
amazed
both of us
at the closeness
and heat
and risk
of flame

i have the patience of a surgeon
and the passion of a teenage boy
i do not fumble
but ready my arrow
and give voice to flying instructions
asking for her assistance
a little lift
is required
but we pause

the is nothing simple about falling
nothing casual
about what I am craving
i fall well
i love even more intentionally
at least…
at least i imagine i will

given the chance, the shot, the siren
i will gladly crash into her
burning all maps
forgiving all plans and transgressions
as we explode
but there is no exploding
today i am only dreaming
today i am doing
my romantic poet

i can tuck this craving under a stone
and go on about my business
today has many turns left
while rubbing up against beauty
ever familiar
ever distant
inspiring yet again
without tangible evidence
that i am getting any closer
to her

10-18-13

image used by permission: mermaid series by jesse sublett

fall and falling and me

burning leaves - poetry

[from Misconfigurations of Love – poetry]

tonight the burning leaves
bring mysterious memories to mind
of women, rough blankets, hard kisses
in this cold turning of dark
i am alone
and walking
remembering

is this exquisite longing
this curating of desire
an escape for jumping back in
into the pile of leaves
and dirt and chaos
and scraped knees
am i enjoying my musing
more than i would a good kissing

or something rarer perhaps
at play
at rest with myself
i am not longing with my soul
i am longing with my heart
refinding center
at peace
as me

i love the falling
i would love to fall
i have a fear of falling
an error could set me back 11 years

i miss falling
i won’t settle for hopping
or hoping
i need full flight
breathless abandon

without that
the fall is scented with imaginings
again of who or where she might be

i don’t want all right
i don’t crave steady, or solid, or sure
i don’t fall for youth or red lips
i see them, i see potentials everywhere
but they can’t hear me
there is not much to see at the moment
i am reforming
recalculating
calibrating
re
me

10-17-13

image used via creative commons: heat

accidental angels

accidental angels - the off parent

 [from Misconfigurations of Love – poetry]

accidental angels have landed in my life
only a few times
each had a message
usually about sex
sometimes about hope

imagine my surprise at 21 years-old
to find an angel in my car with me
taking her clothes off as we speed towards the lake
it’s too cold to get out of the car or swim
she is naked
says she’s a virgin, but I can’t believe that
and i remember the music
and kissing and
driving her back to her cousin’s house
she was visiting
i guess angels have cousins too

the second angel came with flower tattoo on her shoulder
and a smile that lit up the selfie network
unlike any before or since
and she spoke of rain and cure songs
as the chorus of mutually assured flight was determined
she liked tequila and sappy love songs
on her second return flight she hit a dense fog
and never arrived
though her smiling selfies and empty coffee cups
still flutter by occasionally

the most recent flyby was more dangerous
she was still encumbered in the process
in the leaving
and i must’ve seemed like a perch of pause
but i became a leaping off point
and she has since flown away
though her whispers are also still echoing
across the cellular airways

i’m not ready for another angel
i’d prefer a woman
and even then, i’m not sure i’m ready
but perhaps you never are
they are all angels
after all

10-17-13

image is used courtesy of ricardo acevedo and model sera