short short story

Cellular lover

She once told him, his caped crusader as she was at the time of telling, that every time she changed lovers, she changed phone numbers.  She’d learnt to her cost that her love was so overwhelming, that her being was so astonishing, that her way of touching the soul of another was so absolutely dumbfounding, that no man she met or ever knew – in almost any way at all – ever forgot the person she was.

Thus it was, they never misplaced her phone number either.

Which, equally, led her to realise – in the inevitable madcap pursuit of a now-ended once upon a time – every old lover meant a discarding of every old phone number.

This also meant, of course, that the story once told – in the main, to lover of current practice – was never to be forgotten, nor unlearned.  And once the recovery process in question, long and arduous (and why not?  Better to have loved in such amazing circumstances than never to have experienced them at all …), found itself properly begun, no way would respectful ex-lover ever find it in themselves to make the call that a loving situation might require.  What was the point, after all, of phoning a number which years down the line only a stranger would end up answering?

That was just dumb.  Actually, very dumb.

As dumb as could be – and not dumb in the sense of geekily, crazily, warmly dumb either.

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short short story

Es[caped] crus[ader]!!!

She was a gorgeous wonderful woman of tall slim constitution.  They had once flitted one by the other in languid quick-step along Liverpool Road.  That moment of recognition never left the either of them.  That was the moment they crossed that curiously delicious frontier between knowing each other in mutual respect and wanting to know each other in total abandon.

She was the kind of woman you never would mistake for the kind of woman you’d mistake for anything.  She was firm in her thoughts, her way of thinking; she was firm in her hold, almost manly in its power; she was firm in her opinions, but never opinionated; in the end she was firm, as were all her family, in taking life and meeting it head-on, and never forgetting the knowledge and wisdom it might offer.

And for a few intimate days – and then far more distant months – she was the caped crusader he’d never heard of: almost a woman of unearthly superpowers: at least, with him; at least, on him.  And maybe it was magic; and maybe it was more a weird latterday chemistry; and maybe it was something he’d still not worked out.

Then it collapsed under the weight of his indecision.  And things like that do not get remade unless both parties remain under the heady parasols of love’s summertime haze.

After eleven years or so, for him it was the case.  He did remain, every day of his life, in the haze that were the ways they had lived.

And although he could see he was moving on slowly, his life moved on much faster than he’d liked.

He realised now, for sure, that home and love would need separating.  It was a curious thing to suddenly believe in: he’d been brought up by a mother of devout Catholic belief.  He couldn’t quite rid himself of certain spasmodic actions, which temporarily incapacitated him for broader and braver and more coherent behaviours.

It didn’t happen so often these days, mind.

Nor did he really mind either, any more.

And like some DC fan, he imagined her sinking one day from the sky, her cape fluttering around him and embracing his frozen soul: and then warming him up until within his very core an explosion of light might bring to him some semblance of the roar of victory he felt that time they walked together, arm in arm along Liverpool Road, as they found themselves crossing that curiously delicious frontier between knowing each other with mutual respect and wanting each other in total abandon.

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poetry

Break with the passed

There’s a past which remains constant and a past

which is passed.

Moving on, changing life, re-

patterning toxicity, requires us to live not in the

past but, rather, with the passed.

And understanding the difference is so bloody hard.

And dealing with its implications is so fucking

painful.

And I’m not sure any more that – even with help –

I’m ready to break with the passed.

 

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trails of thought

Sur[{r(end)}er] or …

I read a post in a supermarket cafe this midday.  It almost had me weeping.  I’m getting a bit better at not doing so in public.  But even so, I almost went and did.

You can find the post in question here.

Its winding tale is summed up by this phrase:

Surrender is expression not suppression.

Now my life has clearly become a battle of wits, and all I want of life is the wit to be loved.  And when I say loved, I mean not just that kind of love which is burnished and proud, and never needs to speak itself out loud: and that love is fine, and maybe enough for many.  But the love I really need, on top of that love, is the love which involves a person I love wanting me physically; finding me good; seeing my being as something they’d find so essentially attractive they could spend a whole lifetime not knowing exactly what I was.

But even so, even then, even in confusion, still being able to pursue the tail of the tale of my lifetime, and thinkings and beings.

To be in the physical presence of a person that physical: to be able to transmute my love of the world into the golden silences of skin upon skin … to that I would surrender in the way we could surrender: not as a giving in or a giving up but as an entreaty – a delivering – of oneself to another: yes, use me as you will – I trust you that much.

And I don’t want any more to hurt myself with people who see myself as something which physically repels – which disgusts – their very being.  And I know it is hard, and I’ve spent such a long time, and I’d love to find out, and I’d love to know why … and more than anything I’ve ever wanted, I’d love to be able to help … but if a person, a being, a human of social love, is refusing to help themselves, what else can I do?  Where else can I go?  Who else can I turn to?

Who else knows enough to square the circles I find above me, of awful vulturing realities which soar and fall and drop to carrion – like stone thrust onto an unforgiving savannah?

That’s how I feel; that’s how I’m living; that’s how much I’m needing another way forward.  For any way which repeats the past is destined to repeat the past.  And either way, suffering shall ensure.  And either way, I’m in the grip of a fate I claw with tooth and fight.  But the fight and tooth I have chased madly to date is clawing my soul from my body and heart.

Yes.

I surrender my all.

Not because I have no choice.

But because I want to be free.  And that freedom is me.  And if I am to properly surrender, and that surrender is to render me a different kind of lifetime – in the time that is left of the lifetime that is left me – then let it not be a lifetime where rendering rends an end.

Let it, instead, be a lifetime where rendering rends a beginning …

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