I took off my wedding dress for the last time and enfolded myself in your arms. Fourteen years ago tonight, we murmured over the day of celebration, of love and of champagne. Fourteen years ago tonight, we had our honeymoon spread ahead of us like clean sheets on a bed, and the unrumpled pillows of our marriage lay plumped up, ready for us to live, breathe and sleep on.
Today, it is over. Our marriage lies tossed aside like dirty linen, something we did, and were then ashamed that we had done it. It lies, like a crumpled duvet, as evidence that we didn't try hard enough, that we failed at tucking in the sheets correctly, failed at staying together and yet, and yet, there lie, tucked in the folds of that duvet, three gorgeous daughters. How can I ever be bitter knowing that we two created the most special people in my life? How could I ever be angry knowing that without you, those creations of love who have enriched my every minute, would not exist?
How indeed?
Minerva
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Rain drips down my windows,
thunder bangs across the sky and the lightning slashes the clouds. All day, the hands of the wind have ruffled the trees like the affectionate hands of an uncle. Paper and leaves have bounced along roads, against cars and bumped as change has flowed, like a river, into London. The weather is changing, and like a dog, newly caught by a lingering smell, I, too, stand and sniff the wind.
The day began gray like a dirty sheepskin held over the city. As the clouds drew away, the sun briefly shone, just to remind us that it was daylight before the clouds sunk again. The air, damp, humid, heavy loitered like a teenager, between the buildings ready to be swept away by the rain's broom.
London sulks in its room like a petulant child. We hole up in our houses beseiged by the storm, waiting to put down the drawbridge into that fresh, clean, washed world.
Minerva
The day began gray like a dirty sheepskin held over the city. As the clouds drew away, the sun briefly shone, just to remind us that it was daylight before the clouds sunk again. The air, damp, humid, heavy loitered like a teenager, between the buildings ready to be swept away by the rain's broom.
London sulks in its room like a petulant child. We hole up in our houses beseiged by the storm, waiting to put down the drawbridge into that fresh, clean, washed world.
Minerva
Monday, June 27, 2005
10 years ago today,
my twins were born. Two gorgeous girls, squirmy with fluid like fish, snuffled into my arms.
Today, ten years later, I am not with you.
I have heard your voices trilling excitedly down the phone about your party, about the presents wrapped in ribbon and paper waiting to be ripped open. As you bubbled down the line to me, did you hear my heart telling you I love you? Did you feel my arms, squeeze like chewing gum all the way down the line to give you a heart-stopping hug?
My children, my babes, my slices of lettuce, my rib-eye steaks, my slices of cheese through pregnancy have become extensions, limbs that walk, that chatter, that weep with fear...and being without you today, is like an amputation. Without you, parts of me are missing and all I see are the shadows where you are not. The rumpled beds where your warm hearts beat at night, your sticky pages which you mark with sweet-savoured hands, and your pillows, hugged in your arms.
Happy birthday my darlings.
I miss you....
Minerva
Today, ten years later, I am not with you.
I have heard your voices trilling excitedly down the phone about your party, about the presents wrapped in ribbon and paper waiting to be ripped open. As you bubbled down the line to me, did you hear my heart telling you I love you? Did you feel my arms, squeeze like chewing gum all the way down the line to give you a heart-stopping hug?
My children, my babes, my slices of lettuce, my rib-eye steaks, my slices of cheese through pregnancy have become extensions, limbs that walk, that chatter, that weep with fear...and being without you today, is like an amputation. Without you, parts of me are missing and all I see are the shadows where you are not. The rumpled beds where your warm hearts beat at night, your sticky pages which you mark with sweet-savoured hands, and your pillows, hugged in your arms.
Happy birthday my darlings.
I miss you....
Minerva
Sunday, June 26, 2005
London
was dazzling today. My little car and I chugged and chuffed all the way to the middle of the city, windows and roof open to the sky, opening up to the fingers of sunshine clawing their way onto my face and into my hair. Classical columns soared their way up to the clouds, flags flapping in the wind, and the hot, heavy smells of the city swirled around us, like the water disappearing down a drain. Faces jangled along the pavement, voices hollered, shouted, murmered and mumbled around me in my tiny, dashboard fronted planet, distant but connected, flying yet grounded, a part and apart.
London - the city of Dickens and Pound swirled around my head. The buildings towered over me, reminding me of my impermanence. The architecture, Edwardian in one street fights with the modern 50s monstrosity in another, in its own way a reminder of the damage of war, the scars of bombs falling in the streets, of previous Londoners reminded of their own mortality. A city with a story, a city with a history, and a city of a future.
London, talk to me.
Minerva
London - the city of Dickens and Pound swirled around my head. The buildings towered over me, reminding me of my impermanence. The architecture, Edwardian in one street fights with the modern 50s monstrosity in another, in its own way a reminder of the damage of war, the scars of bombs falling in the streets, of previous Londoners reminded of their own mortality. A city with a story, a city with a history, and a city of a future.
London, talk to me.
Minerva
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Thunder
howls across London like a toddler throwing his toys. The lightbulb of lightning slashes the darkness as it points its way to the ground. Rain, cool, restorative rain falls dripping down parched leaves, cooling the heavy, hot air, leaving its puddles splashing in the road. The heat is over, the golden heavy blanket that has smothered London for the past few days has been thrown back and nature has restored the balance.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
The Cupboard
At the back of my cupboard
Hanging between my jackets and shirts
Is my heart.
I sent it to the cleaners recently
For a dry clean and an iron
A little alteration along the seams
And it had a few stains on the front
From drunken nights and flirtatious days.
It came back yesterday, a little pressed,
Strange, I’d thought it flat already
But still it hangs ready, alone
For me to take out, shake and place
Newly washed, in my chest.
Minerva
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Sunlight
pulls back from London streets like a wave washed back into the sea ready to recharge again for its foray tomorrow morning. Night creeps in like a black cat which moves in front of a light turning the room into shadow. The familiar become the strange and the known, sinister and looming. Voices echo down the street outside, as I type, alone in my darkening room, alone in my mind, tripping over the shadowy words that trail, like footprints on the page.
Only the touch of my fingers on the keys, my elbows resting on the table, and the occasional blink remind me that I am feeling, sentient, sensing and yet, insensible...
Alone, but not lonely, in dusk, but not dark, I write my story on a screen. Do words live? I see spirals of words wrapped around my body like a coat, my childish stumblings playing like kittens at my feet, and words, like Medusa's tendrils curve and twist around my limbs. We are what we say, we are what we write, and we are what we leave behind.
Minerva
Only the touch of my fingers on the keys, my elbows resting on the table, and the occasional blink remind me that I am feeling, sentient, sensing and yet, insensible...
Alone, but not lonely, in dusk, but not dark, I write my story on a screen. Do words live? I see spirals of words wrapped around my body like a coat, my childish stumblings playing like kittens at my feet, and words, like Medusa's tendrils curve and twist around my limbs. We are what we say, we are what we write, and we are what we leave behind.
Minerva
Monday, June 20, 2005
Sleep little one....
Sleep the sleep of the innocent and the just. Your eyelashes rest against your plump cheek, and your mouth, in rest, slips out of its normal smile into gentle lines. What hills are you climbing in your dreams? I hope you are rolling down endless slopes, feeling the grass, no prickles there, flutter against your face. How many treetops have you kissed as you survey the view from the highest branches, the bark rough against your fingers and the leaves whispering their own tune in your ears?
How many animals' fur have you twisted wet with your tears, and brushed with your whispers? Heard the warm hum of purring in your ears and the murmur of unconditional love in your ears? How many wonderful adventures have you had?
Sleep little one, sleep and dream...
Minerva
How many animals' fur have you twisted wet with your tears, and brushed with your whispers? Heard the warm hum of purring in your ears and the murmur of unconditional love in your ears? How many wonderful adventures have you had?
Sleep little one, sleep and dream...
Minerva
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Sunshine
Sunlight flows like a liquid omelette over London. Trees in leaf like fountains, spray their shade over parched parks. Skirts flutter like birds and suddenly, it is the season of sunglasses and convertibles. Oh, the freedom of riding in an open top car, hair spraying in the wind, music thumping, vibrating through the door.
It reminds me of an hour spent up in the cockpit of a 747 flying from Hong Kong to London and watching the dawn slip over the horizon. We were so high, we could see the gentle curve of the earth, and the blues of the sky changing from deep, dark indigo to fluffy, baby blue as the light crept in, like a child, scared in the night, slips so silently into his parents’ room.
Noise sweats from the open windows and doors of neighbouring gardens and the meaty smells of barbecues curl into the heavy, hot air. A blanket lies across the city and we swelter in its heat.
Minerva
It reminds me of an hour spent up in the cockpit of a 747 flying from Hong Kong to London and watching the dawn slip over the horizon. We were so high, we could see the gentle curve of the earth, and the blues of the sky changing from deep, dark indigo to fluffy, baby blue as the light crept in, like a child, scared in the night, slips so silently into his parents’ room.
Noise sweats from the open windows and doors of neighbouring gardens and the meaty smells of barbecues curl into the heavy, hot air. A blanket lies across the city and we swelter in its heat.
Minerva
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Falling in love is like
A stone falling into a pool. At first, there is the splash of ecstasy; of water meeting stone; of softness meeting hardness; of two elements, fundamentally different, coming together and making one. This is the glorious passion of the first few meetings where you meet and become one.
Then the ripples start growing larger as you gently meet others in your circles. Your kids, your parents and your close friends meet the other and you see your lover reflected in their eyes, and their worlds. Slowly you learn more, both about your lover and your friends and family as the ripples grow larger.
Then you become an acknowledged couple. The ripples have fused and you are recognised as being together in the larger circles. You meet people together, entertain together, even, perhaps at this stage become engaged, living together, married. Still fundamentally different, one a hard stone, one yielding water, you become a third entity, together ready to rest together, always.
Finally, the ripples reach the end of the pond. The degree of depth changes and become shallower. You find those ripples further away from that initial passion, that beginning splash that combined you together. Either you both move together into a further dimension and become part of the main fabric of society, happy and co-joined, stone and water, or else, lose that essential connection to that first splash and divide once more into separate elements. Of course, even if you divide, you are changed. Even if one of you is still a stone, and one of you is still water, your essential matter has experienced that immutability of stone and the freedom of water. You move on to seek a different pool, another body of water, to make your own.
Then the ripples start growing larger as you gently meet others in your circles. Your kids, your parents and your close friends meet the other and you see your lover reflected in their eyes, and their worlds. Slowly you learn more, both about your lover and your friends and family as the ripples grow larger.
Then you become an acknowledged couple. The ripples have fused and you are recognised as being together in the larger circles. You meet people together, entertain together, even, perhaps at this stage become engaged, living together, married. Still fundamentally different, one a hard stone, one yielding water, you become a third entity, together ready to rest together, always.
Finally, the ripples reach the end of the pond. The degree of depth changes and become shallower. You find those ripples further away from that initial passion, that beginning splash that combined you together. Either you both move together into a further dimension and become part of the main fabric of society, happy and co-joined, stone and water, or else, lose that essential connection to that first splash and divide once more into separate elements. Of course, even if you divide, you are changed. Even if one of you is still a stone, and one of you is still water, your essential matter has experienced that immutability of stone and the freedom of water. You move on to seek a different pool, another body of water, to make your own.
Friday, June 17, 2005
I saw the flashing lights
before I saw the debris lying in the road. The broken glass and twisted metal splayed across the tarmac like broken limbs, and there, there in an island of cars filled with busy commuters, lay a body, covered with a red blanket. That flash of colour against the grey road highlighted the waste, the hurt, like a scar across a child's skin.
Busy commuters cursed the delay, tired faces gawped from the bus windows and children bubbled their days in the back seats. Traffic lights signalled the passing of time like the cars which crawled like long caterpillars past the island of calm.
And you, you were past all caring. You saw nothing, felt nothing, lay motionless, immune to the buzzing of police, ambulance and paramedics. Only a red blanket signalled your life, declared the danger of death, flagged that someone had lived, had loved, had lusted and now, was beyond all that life had to offer.
Who was waiting for you at home? Did your children keep running to the door to ask if Daddy was home yet? Did a dog prick its ears listening for the clicking of keys in the door? Was a mother listening eagerly for the creak of your entry in the gate alleviating a long day spent with young kids at home? Was a hot meal and cooling beer waiting for you on a Friday evening?
And when, tonight, that knock finally arrives, when that creak of the gate finally announces an arrival, tonight, an innocuous date will become a fatal reminder that we are all just one second away from our non-existence, our non-life, our non-family.
Minerva
Busy commuters cursed the delay, tired faces gawped from the bus windows and children bubbled their days in the back seats. Traffic lights signalled the passing of time like the cars which crawled like long caterpillars past the island of calm.
And you, you were past all caring. You saw nothing, felt nothing, lay motionless, immune to the buzzing of police, ambulance and paramedics. Only a red blanket signalled your life, declared the danger of death, flagged that someone had lived, had loved, had lusted and now, was beyond all that life had to offer.
Who was waiting for you at home? Did your children keep running to the door to ask if Daddy was home yet? Did a dog prick its ears listening for the clicking of keys in the door? Was a mother listening eagerly for the creak of your entry in the gate alleviating a long day spent with young kids at home? Was a hot meal and cooling beer waiting for you on a Friday evening?
And when, tonight, that knock finally arrives, when that creak of the gate finally announces an arrival, tonight, an innocuous date will become a fatal reminder that we are all just one second away from our non-existence, our non-life, our non-family.
Minerva
Thursday, June 16, 2005
I should be working
but I am blogging.
I should be feeding the dog, doing my ironing, making myself some healthy supper but instead, I am blogging.
What is it about blogging that is just so addictive? I long for the comments, love reading what my fellow 'blogmates' have been up to and their latest thoughts. I feel remiss, as though something is missing when I don't blog in a day.
Certainly, an addictive personality anyway by nature, I am completely hooked to blogging, to my blog and to perusing others. But, the eternal question, why?
Certainly, blogging is a release. As I write, I feel the tension in my shoulders seep through my fingers, to be released in letters which swim, like fish, away into the blogosphere. But if that was the case, then why doesn't writing in a diary feel the same? It must be the recognition, or the public aspect of blogging which makes it so satisfying and so addictive. For me, certainly, it is probably the only way which I will ever reach a public audience, and somehow, seeing one's work in type, out there in cyberworld does give one a buzz. A labour of love, from the archived posts in the sidebar to the specially selected bloglinks - all reveals a side of the writer that no one else may know. Only one other person in my life knows that I keep a weblog - the other people are all fellow bloggers and maybe that is the key.
Maybe, it is the sense of belonging, of recognition, of being part of a community where one's deepest thoughts and feelings are not laughed at, but instead, are carefully considered and commented on....
Minerva
I should be feeding the dog, doing my ironing, making myself some healthy supper but instead, I am blogging.
What is it about blogging that is just so addictive? I long for the comments, love reading what my fellow 'blogmates' have been up to and their latest thoughts. I feel remiss, as though something is missing when I don't blog in a day.
Certainly, an addictive personality anyway by nature, I am completely hooked to blogging, to my blog and to perusing others. But, the eternal question, why?
Certainly, blogging is a release. As I write, I feel the tension in my shoulders seep through my fingers, to be released in letters which swim, like fish, away into the blogosphere. But if that was the case, then why doesn't writing in a diary feel the same? It must be the recognition, or the public aspect of blogging which makes it so satisfying and so addictive. For me, certainly, it is probably the only way which I will ever reach a public audience, and somehow, seeing one's work in type, out there in cyberworld does give one a buzz. A labour of love, from the archived posts in the sidebar to the specially selected bloglinks - all reveals a side of the writer that no one else may know. Only one other person in my life knows that I keep a weblog - the other people are all fellow bloggers and maybe that is the key.
Maybe, it is the sense of belonging, of recognition, of being part of a community where one's deepest thoughts and feelings are not laughed at, but instead, are carefully considered and commented on....
Minerva
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
I looked in the mirror this morning
and saw the years fall away. In front of me, shy, gawky and embarrassed stood the plump teenager that I was, can be, and still am at times. Strange how skin stretches and changes, and yet, inside, inside that physical, tactile, sensefilled self, is the same person as you were in your teens. 38 now on the outside, I am tall, I have long hair, map lines on my face but inside, inside I am still the sensitive, fragile jangle of emotions that I was when I was 16. I still have apotheoses of delight, seconds of emotional brilliance contrasted with adolescent, self-indulgent troughs of despair. I still fundamentally believe that it is better to feel, to lose, to hurt than never to have loved, felt or cried with the sobs of the truly devastated .
The promise of love around the next corner still beckons me with its crooked finger, and the world lies open at my feet like a blanket of dreams, waiting for me tiptoe over it, in sheer wonderment that I exist.
Now I only have one dream; that this feeling of novelty, that all is ready for me to look, feel and sense in wonderment never changes.
Lucky? Indeed.
Minerva
The promise of love around the next corner still beckons me with its crooked finger, and the world lies open at my feet like a blanket of dreams, waiting for me tiptoe over it, in sheer wonderment that I exist.
Now I only have one dream; that this feeling of novelty, that all is ready for me to look, feel and sense in wonderment never changes.
Lucky? Indeed.
Minerva
Monday, June 13, 2005
A song of Independence.
When I met you, I was clay.
Uncertain, unformed, shapeless, a mass
shaped by your hands
into your Galathea,
the woman you wanted me to be.
When I left you, I was molten,
hot, red, fiery, burnt
hammered on the anvil of divorce
sizzled and splashed with pain
I didn't know who I wanted to be.
When I am on my own, I am bronze,
carved, etched, lined, curved
chipped away from rough rock
into the beautiful woman
I always hoped I could be.
Minerva
Uncertain, unformed, shapeless, a mass
shaped by your hands
into your Galathea,
the woman you wanted me to be.
When I left you, I was molten,
hot, red, fiery, burnt
hammered on the anvil of divorce
sizzled and splashed with pain
I didn't know who I wanted to be.
When I am on my own, I am bronze,
carved, etched, lined, curved
chipped away from rough rock
into the beautiful woman
I always hoped I could be.
Minerva
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Changing Name....
When I set up this blog, I was seeking a new name looking for a sign of rebirth and resurrection. Phoenix, as suggested by the wonderful Evil Minx fit the bill perfectly but recently I have seen that there is another one who has been around a lot longer than me...
Given that I don't want to tread on anyone else's toes, I am now soliciting suggestions for new nicknames.. Most of you who regularly read this blog have a good idea of how I write and I need some new ideas.
Current thinking?
I am looking for a name which is sassy, strong but which doesn't typify the traditional attributes of women so Aphrodite, for example, would be out.
Panthergirl suggested Chrysalis which would certainly typify rebirth.
Any other ideas?
Given that I don't want to tread on anyone else's toes, I am now soliciting suggestions for new nicknames.. Most of you who regularly read this blog have a good idea of how I write and I need some new ideas.
Current thinking?
I am looking for a name which is sassy, strong but which doesn't typify the traditional attributes of women so Aphrodite, for example, would be out.
Panthergirl suggested Chrysalis which would certainly typify rebirth.
Any other ideas?
Saturday, June 11, 2005
My lover has a smile
that goes straight to my hips and a laugh that shakes me at the knees. He has eyes which make my skin tingle, and lips which make my mind sing. When he touches me, all is right in the world, the planets are suddenly aligned, red lights turn green and I feel as cossetted as an egg, warm, new laid in straw.
Unlike other relationships, I am not half a person when I am away from him though. I am fully able to function, to go for hours without thinking of him, completely able to immerse myself in the laughter of my children and yet...and yet...
When we are together, our two halves become whole. Wholly complete apart and completely whole together.
We are one.
Minerva
Unlike other relationships, I am not half a person when I am away from him though. I am fully able to function, to go for hours without thinking of him, completely able to immerse myself in the laughter of my children and yet...and yet...
When we are together, our two halves become whole. Wholly complete apart and completely whole together.
We are one.
Minerva
Friday, June 10, 2005
Is there a right time to say I love you?
When is the right time in a new relationship to say those three little words? If you say it too early, then the other person runs away screaming; if you say it too late, after they have just said it to you, it sounds glib and as though you are only saying it in return. If you say it to someone and they don't say it back, you sit, agonising with self-doubt wondering if you really should have said it at all but if you DON'T say it, then you sit, squirming with those three words squealing in one's mouth like a dog in quarantine just longing to be released.
This poem is about that feeling.
This poem is about that feeling.
Phonology
I can feel it up against my lips
pushing up from my throat
on the tip of my teeth
vowels unvoiced and consonants unexpressed.
The long vowel, the eye of insularity, of islands
the space, the close of the lips
The tongue against my teeth, the soft l of lust,
liking and limbs, yours against mine.
Then o but not O as in Dido, the cry of Aeneas,
but o as in up, unto, us
then the fricative, not the f of fuck, but the v of view
as you are the open window of my closed room.
Magic e follows that transforms that which it ends.
We turn to the final fifth,
the y of ye, of yes, the gentle affirmation;
We have gone too far now, too far
to stop at our last dipthong;
the ou of doves, of passion spent
the boo of ghosts, of those far behind
and as I finish, I look down
too shy to look, too shy to see
the echo of phonemes your eyes shout to me.
Minerva
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Why is the Net so positive?
When I started blogging, one of the things that I was concerned about was the degree of raging, rude, hatred-filled asides I would get, the inarticulate invective that might start being spouted on my comments page really worried me. Having now blogged for quite a while, to those of you whom I haven't met before I was here in a previous life, it seems the contrary is true. Whilst there are always detractors, and very, very occasionally, a neanderthal may slip through the net, it seems to me that by far the greatest number of commenters are positive, supportive and friendly.
Having percolated this idea around my mind for a while now, I have come to the conclusion that this degree of support and friendliness exists because we bloggers feel we are in a community. The vast majority of us do feel we have something to say and feel incredibly protective about our little dust speck corner of the blog galaxy and recognise that everyone who blogs has actually posted a little bit of themselves up here, for anyone, remember that...ANYONE to look at. When you think about it, that is actually an incredibly brave and courageous thing to do but because we are ALL doing it, we treat others as we would be treated.
Arcadia? Maybe, just maybe, we insignificant bloggers have created our own heaven on earth.
Welcome to Paradise....
Minerva
Having percolated this idea around my mind for a while now, I have come to the conclusion that this degree of support and friendliness exists because we bloggers feel we are in a community. The vast majority of us do feel we have something to say and feel incredibly protective about our little dust speck corner of the blog galaxy and recognise that everyone who blogs has actually posted a little bit of themselves up here, for anyone, remember that...ANYONE to look at. When you think about it, that is actually an incredibly brave and courageous thing to do but because we are ALL doing it, we treat others as we would be treated.
Arcadia? Maybe, just maybe, we insignificant bloggers have created our own heaven on earth.
Welcome to Paradise....
Minerva
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
To tell or not to tell.....
A furious debate is raging on DH's blog about infidelity and whether one tells if one is having an affair or not.
The true answer is, I don't know and I wouldn't judge anyone else's choice but here is my story.
I told my husband that I had had an affair. I figured that if I was in the same position, I would rather know that he had had an affair so that I was continuing our relationship, if that was what I wanted to do, free of all illusions about my partner. I also felt that the only way we could hope for a truly happy old age was if we knew the truth about one another.
I knew it was a risk; that if he felt strongly enough, he would leave me but I felt at the time that at least I hadn't fooled him, at least he wouldn't be living with me under false beliefs. I also felt that if I had strayed, as I had, that it was symptomatic of problems within our relationship, problems that could only be truly sorted out if we looked at the cause and the effects that these problems had on my behaviour and on our lack of communication.
I told him and he was distraught. I hurt him badly. We limped along for a year before he asked for a divorce. The decree nisi was through in nine months and he was remarried within the year. Did I cause pain? Undoubtedly and I so regret the pain and anguish that I caused him. I was thoughtless, uncaring and blind to what I was doing to him.
Do I regret telling him? Yes, because of the pain and no, because I was honest, honest to a fault perhaps but now he has a chance of true happiness, and maybe, just maybe, I do too.
Minerva
The true answer is, I don't know and I wouldn't judge anyone else's choice but here is my story.
I told my husband that I had had an affair. I figured that if I was in the same position, I would rather know that he had had an affair so that I was continuing our relationship, if that was what I wanted to do, free of all illusions about my partner. I also felt that the only way we could hope for a truly happy old age was if we knew the truth about one another.
I knew it was a risk; that if he felt strongly enough, he would leave me but I felt at the time that at least I hadn't fooled him, at least he wouldn't be living with me under false beliefs. I also felt that if I had strayed, as I had, that it was symptomatic of problems within our relationship, problems that could only be truly sorted out if we looked at the cause and the effects that these problems had on my behaviour and on our lack of communication.
I told him and he was distraught. I hurt him badly. We limped along for a year before he asked for a divorce. The decree nisi was through in nine months and he was remarried within the year. Did I cause pain? Undoubtedly and I so regret the pain and anguish that I caused him. I was thoughtless, uncaring and blind to what I was doing to him.
Do I regret telling him? Yes, because of the pain and no, because I was honest, honest to a fault perhaps but now he has a chance of true happiness, and maybe, just maybe, I do too.
Minerva
Roleplay
I have always despised conventional roles in a relationship. I may be female, but does that mean I should do the most cooking, cleaning and washing? Does it mean that I am the passive person in the relationship? Absolutely not just as in the same way, if you are male, then you shouldn't be doing most of the providing, hunting and gathering. You are not the one who always decides what to do when you just want to leave it to someone else, you are not the one who necessarily organises the money, reviews the bank account or decides how we are going to meet next month's bills.
No, if we are a partnership, then that is what we are, partners, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers and parents side by side on our journey, on our path through life and through our relationship. If you want me to walk behind you, or if you expect to walk behind me, forget it! We can both run, with our hair streaming out behind, hand in hand, fingers locked in happiness, into the horizon.
No, if we are a partnership, then that is what we are, partners, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers and parents side by side on our journey, on our path through life and through our relationship. If you want me to walk behind you, or if you expect to walk behind me, forget it! We can both run, with our hair streaming out behind, hand in hand, fingers locked in happiness, into the horizon.
Monday, June 06, 2005
You may recognise the style,
and it is the same. Minerva is back from the ashes... back from the grave or even the dusty bookshelf...
I was removed, and now I am back, battered, bruised but never bitter. However much he tries to destroy me with his false accusations, his bitter thrusts as my tender flanks, I will not bow down to despotism. I have moved on, and for that, in his mind, I deserve to suffer, for my success, I deserve misery, for my new job, I deserve humiliation, for my love to my children, I deserve shame. Why, oh why does it have to be this way?
Thank you to all those who expressed such support, particularly,Evil Minx who was always there for me, empathised with me and saw me through some of the dark hours. I so appreciate you....
And finally, to Londinium always a source of inspiration and support to me and never more than during these dark, dark days... Thank you.
I was removed, and now I am back, battered, bruised but never bitter. However much he tries to destroy me with his false accusations, his bitter thrusts as my tender flanks, I will not bow down to despotism. I have moved on, and for that, in his mind, I deserve to suffer, for my success, I deserve misery, for my new job, I deserve humiliation, for my love to my children, I deserve shame. Why, oh why does it have to be this way?
Thank you to all those who expressed such support, particularly,Evil Minx who was always there for me, empathised with me and saw me through some of the dark hours. I so appreciate you....
And finally, to Londinium always a source of inspiration and support to me and never more than during these dark, dark days... Thank you.
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