When you miss someone, you think of all that happened
Should I have said something then?
Should I have laughed openly at that? And raised hell over this?
It might have caused a fight, you realize, and say
That’s why I didn’t.
But if I had,
I wouldn’t have been left with things that should have been said, but weren’t
Or intensity unexpressed, worse unacknowledged
And the ugly truth, unexposed
And yet, is the truth ever ugly?
Or an emotion not deserving of expression?
You miss someone most when you miss things that didn’t even happen.
So much comes up in silence, even somebody else’s silence. I was struck in an overwhelming manner by Gentleness. Notice, when Ulay approaches the table where Marina is seated. He’s a goodlooking man, dapper and obviously confident. But all of that softens in the second he looks at her and walks up to sit down. And he waits for her to open her eyes, eager anticipation but also vulnerable and hopeful.
Next, I noticed Marina’s reaction. Surprise. Wonder. Excitement. And then pain and love and fondness and memories in an uncontrollable current. The smile on Ulay’s face when she reaches out her hands. The sheer gentleness in his nod, the unmistakable male conditioning of ‘It’s okay, I’m okay’ even in a man used to thinking about and expressing emotion, as an artist. The gentleness, the utter gentleness in each of them and in their meeting.
I think I’ve forgotten to be gentle. There’s a place inside me where I feel what each of them feels but it gets overshadowed by pride, by fear, by arrogance, by wanting to create an impression. And it gets forgotten and lost. But it’s there deep down.
Gentleness brings forth gentleness, is the lesson I’d like to take from this. It’s so scary because it means in some way, promising to be gentle and trusting that the world will be gentle back. That it won’t hurt the tenderest part of you that you offer up to it. Yes.
But gentle has a serenity about it that I haven’t felt as yet. It feels devoid of the trembling that fear brings, the hard grit that the courage to face that fear adds. It just is, itself, whole and pure.
It must start by taking a deep, deep breath. I am.
I run with my words
Racing my thoughts
Getting ahead of my emotions
Because I’m scared you’ll turn away before I’m done
But then I pause
To catch my breath
And realise you’re still listening
And also that I’ve forgotten what I was saying
Then you hold me close
In a way I’ve never known
But, which makes me forget
How life was before it began
When, at length,
We move apart,
You look just as you always do
Gruff and gentle
You consider my frantic
“What? What? What?”s
And tell me I have a lot of fears, many I need not,
And then you hug me again
I giggle and thank you
When you ask, “For what?”
I reply, “For being the man in gentleman”
“Also the gentle in gentleman”, I add afterthought
You feel like home. You feel like mine. My very own. Home.
I miss you.
I miss you without fully comprehending why I miss you.
I miss you, wondering how it is possible for me to miss you.
I miss you like that vague empty feeling in your stomach when you wake up suddenly at 3 a.m. and then remember you had a great dinner. I hold the feeling of missing you, like I’d savour the memory of that dinner, at 3 a.m.
All I know, is that I like this feeling of missing you.
Come back, soon.
I was surprised that you didn’t care so I went away
And now I’m stunned to discover how much you actually do.
Why does my absence make you feel so much more than my presence does?
What a week!
Every morning waking up with a bad headache
A foul taste in her mouth and the most unpleasant feeling of all…
That the world was just the way she had left it the previous night
Improved not a whit, insurmountable problems waiting to plague her again
Evening was a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol
Replacing the daze of screaming and insomnia
Tonight, bodies entangled
An ode to the twisted tango of her emotions all week
Yet, underneath the stupor…
Dad, how could you? Forgive me, ma, just couldn’t take it anymore so I ran away. Leave me alone!
She thought she might’ve been able to call them moans of passion
They were after all…moans…of passion
It was just great sex, wasn’t it?
She shrugged, unhappy realization
It never is.
A night of great passion is always followed by a hangover. It felt exactly the same as every other morning this week.