Friday, November 28, 2003

I burn for you...

I burn for you (words and music by Sting)

Now that I have found you
In the coolth of your evening smile
The shade of your parasol
And your love flows through me
Though I drink at your pool
I burn for you, I burn for

You and I are lovers
When night time folds around our bed
In peace we sleep entwined
And your love flows through me
Though I lie here so still…
I burn for you, I burn for you

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

Leaving my home

I have stepped outside to bring boxes holding my belongings to my car. I wish I could stuff my heart into one of the boxes and just leave it for a while...I am heavy, sad, tired and frightened.

I can smell cookies baking - they smell like anise and it takes me back to my childhood for a moment and memories of my mother...Her husband (my father) cheated on her - how did she deal with all of this I wonder? I remember her devastation and her sadness - I remember her crying herself to sleep at night, missing my dad. I ache to have her hold me and stoke my hair the way she used to and tell me it will all be ok.

I put my boxes in my car and go into the house to pack up the rest of my life

The story thus far...

I guess it all began when I decided it was time to find passionate love in my life. I was in a marriage that was unhappy and we did not talk much anymore or share any intimacy. My husband brought home a computer and I entered the world of IRC and found many people who shared my interests – I began to walk down a dark and risqué path – meeting people I had talked to on-line – not even realising how dangerous this could be…

Enter the poet: I met him through a mutual friend from on-line – we both attended a concert on campus at CWRU – he was beautiful young man and a writer and before long we became lovers…it was intense and passionate and wrong. I ended my marriage to be with him….my family was devastated but I was madly in love/lust and he filled a need for me that had been there too long. Our passion was the stuff of novels, Wuthering Heights, gothic, dark, fires burning, it was uncontrollable and breathless…

After sometime of being together I found out that my dear poet had a dark side (don’t they all?) – brooding and angry and depressed – he dragged me down into the depths of his madness. I found out he was seeing women behind my back (perhaps I should have paid better attention then?). Hindsight is always 20/20….because of his problems we parted ways. Eventually we found ourselves back together and on the mend. Eventually we found ourselves married.

He wanted to get married and I warned my poet that we (especially he) would not like this – that is can sometimes drench the fires of passion – but he did not wish to ‘play house’ – so we married…had a nice honeymoon and then – enter boredom, tediousness, day-to-day life. Almost as if a self-fulfilling prophecy my poet got bored…he began to act differently – depressed again – I was busy with my own life and pursuits and in ways I suppose I neglected him and his needs. He began to stay away form home more and come home late. At one point he was very excited because he found his writing again…the writing he presented me with that particular time was about fucking a girl in a bathroom – as a wife (not as Colette) I became suspicious – I questioned his gaming friend - to find out that my husband had been 'seeing' someone I did not know.

Enter Aurora 18-year-old ‘friend’ of my poet – I kept trying to put pieces of the puzzle together and found their respective blogs with his romantic writings about her – not too much on hers about him.

I confronted her (she told me they were just friends), then I confronted him…he finally admits has feelings for this girl – not knowing her I am not sure I can blame him – that is aside of course from the fact of their age difference - not that that should matter either.

I am heartbroken...I have asked the poet to leave...

Monday, November 24, 2003

The Play

La vie est belle,
La vie est gai,
Chere Mad'moiselle,
Est-ce que
Parce que
Vous m'aimez?

Chere Mad'moiselle,
Est-ce que
Parce que
Vous m'aimez?

Dites-Moi - lyrics from Roger and Hammerstein's South Pacific

Tell me why life is so beautiful, tell me why life is so gay, tell me why my dear Miss, is it because I love you?

The Players

Enter stage left:

Colette: Young bored housewife, looking for some passion and poetry to make her feel whole again. She discovers the Internet as her marriage begins to unravel...

M - : Colette's ex-husband - the Sicilian - not as fiery-tempered as one might thing and certainly not as passionate. Collette leaves him (and her family) behind for the poet:

C - (Tezcatlipoca/Dreamer) - The poet - beautiful boy with fire and poetry running in his blood - he is exactly what Colette is looking for and an intense affair ensues, costing Colette her marriage. After a very stormy relationship the poet marries Colette

Aurora/Erin - the lost little girl - 18-year old 'friend' of Tezcatlipoca - he decides to throw his marriage to Colette aside for a forbidden passion.

Friday, November 21, 2003

"COLETTE" (pseudonym of Sidonie-Cabrielle Colette) (January 18, 1873-August 3, 1954), French novelist and memoir-writer, was born in the Burgundian village of Saint-Sauveur-en-Puisaye (Yonne), the "Montigny" of her semi-fictionalized reminiscences. Her father, Jules-Joseph, a retired army captain of the Zouaves who had lost a leg in the Italian wars, was a tax-collector with local political aspirations. He was, by Colette's account, a picturesque character who loved his bottle and his arguments, wrote pamphlets on military matters, and harangued the bewildered peasants in the name of "natural history, physics, and elementary chemistry." Her mother, also named Sidonie (the "Sido" of her daughter's memoirs), an unconventional and lovable woman devoted to her pets, books, and garden, was Colette's well acknowledged tutor in the matters of village and country life. She was a precocious child, a voracious reader, and the star of her local school because of her fluent compositions, which came to her as easily as "frying eggs." She was to retain this fluency throughout her long life.

Copyright (c) by The H. W. Wilson Company. All rights reserved.

Born into an unmonied family, I never learned a métier. I knew how to climb, whistle, and run, but no one ever suggested that I earn my living as a squirrel or a deer. The day necessity put a pen in my hand, and in return for my written pages I was given a little money, I realized that every day thereafter I would slowly, tractably, patiently have to write . . .

Welcome to the dream. Welcome to the love, sadness and joy that make life worth living. Life as it imitates art. All the splendor and terror as we walk the tightrope of our dreams, scratching. clawing our way through all the crap.

It is here I will try to chronical and put some sense to my life. Hurt seems to be the badge I wear these days. It should be my moniker...Colette meet pain, pain this is Colette...enchanted I'm sure...

How is it we do this day after day? This dance we call life - how is it most of us are not in a straight jacket in a rubber room? Ah but what fun - what madness, what delight it all is n'est pa?

A bientot my dear readers - until next time.