From Chris, an unusual assessment.

Christopher Malcolm September 7 at 9:29pm

Ed,

For as long as I have known you you have been a man in the crosshairs of passion. Whether this places you (carfully listening) under the deck of a former lover or in the complexities of your relationship with T your dance with love has been a troubled gift. An extraordinary story. A deeply moved and moving set of experiences that you sought out in the grand fields of the unconscious and made them into a life. Had it not been for T it would have been L or P or R because these were all manifestations of that which you were seeking.

Breathe the toxic out with every breath....love is too frail to do otherwise.

You were beautiful at the Inukshuk.

Salut,

Love IXa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact.

Ditch; push into it.

Yourself, save; you

think to ditch saves

you. But no one can,

themselves, by cruelty;

they make themselves

cruel, and lost; not saved.

Empitted, not empowered;

you cannot rescue yourself,

yourself out of the ditch, pit.

That stinks, of death, death

Stinks. Ditch, Pit. Cruelty.

Love Ia

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

I want to draw

a straight line in your

mind and mine; from

my presently terminal

state to my long-ago

friend, long-ago lover,

a line of causation, a line

of fatal nourishment.

Sketching what I must see

as cruelty and a will to kill.

One who I fear, I need

and I may still love.

Why else want her

smile, her courtesy, her

thoughtful reflection, to

know why in a way that

speaks of hostility’s end?

Okay. I may just want to

not leave anger trailing

from my grave.

Love IIa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

The story began (of

course) with crazy

transcending superlative

love; then steam was lost,

coverup compromises, dis-

trust, fear, horned in.

The unfortunate usual.

But it, she, made my parents

smile, they unaware of modern

romance. We were underway

with too many deeply

invested hopes; afraid

to go forward afraid

to go back: Her

romance ended. My

romance couldn’t

didn’t wouldn’t; wanted

her love again.

Her skin was so soft her

eyes were so bright

her love was so sweet. I

could never be sure

of her.

Love IIIa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

My love offended, stood

in the way of an end; pride

played a part too on both

sides. and sides there were.

Gashes in the sides of each,

both offended, wounded.

No help for it

until the cancer. Then every-

thing changed; several times.

She intended to be my care-

giver. She didn’t want to be

my caregiver. She offered to

let me stay in her apartment.

She had no wish to share her

apartment with me. These last

two were the high and low of

our connection until there

was none. And then she

threatened to call the police if

I appeared on our property

(I didn’t know), while she

was visiting me in hospital

to comfort and encourage me.

Love IVa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

She is unsettled in

the degree of

hatred and distaste, of dislike

and contempt, of fear and

associated terms of

emotional (dis)engagement

she is willing to express

and, or conceal.

She has exhibited and in-

hibited exquisite sweetness

wrapped up in kindness, requisite

kindness appropriately,

fierce burning darkness flung like

a glove scathingly across my face;

wonderful warmth and bone-

breaking chill, sinister

happiness and sinister innocence

all in the service of what is likely

a mystery even to, particularly for

her. It would

seem her overriding concern is for

opportunities for flirting.

(Not sex, particularly: Flirting.)

Love Va

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

So here we have begun

a straight line; erased in spots,

shaded in others, scumbled and

blurred, sharp and soft.

A line in fact, for which there

is verbal testimony. In the period

we might call Early Post Breakup

or Paleobreakup, she told me, on

her way out for the evening, her

favorite activity, her greatest satis-

faction, was flirting.

Thus this from which all else

descended. It would be this

that led to her disengagement,

it was this that led her to refuse

me shelter during recovery, this

for which she negotiated my

legally enforced absence from

my home. This for which she had

crushed my spirit and fed my cancer.

But imagine the confusion, the mental

and emotional contortions. Poor woman.

A lost soul, hopeless confusion: Exhibit A.

Love VIa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

And the reason, the source,

the manner of generation?

Simple enough in its own

sort-of Freudian way. That

is: If I’m not completely

delusional myself. (And

since I speak, as most do,

from a smattering of tabloid

‘Science’, delusion is not at

all unlikely. So with a fist

full of salt for the wounds:

She’s a boy, in the genetic sense.

She has made no great secret of it

in the past; that may have changed.

But the fact only came to her attention

after her undescended testicles had

been cut out of her abdomen. Here

“came to her attention” is misleading.

The doctors had not told her what

they were after, not until after, later,

when any choice she may have

wished to exercise was

no longer available.

Love VIIa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

She, rightly, felt betrayed. She, rightly,

was angry. Very betrayed. Very angry.

Imagine, she was in theory on the verge of

being of child-bearing age. She had no

doubt begun to dream of herself as an

adult woman. Now everything had

taken on new shapes. New shapes

to which she had been looking,

forward. Newly imagined shapes

to which no one could have

been looking forward.

But she was the one

for whom there was no

pattern to follow, no con-

venient conventions to help

her over the usual rough spots.

Nor had her parents been a help.

She had been betrayed by them too.

She had no one who had shown themselves trustworthy. She had been cut adrift in

a body with no maps, no rules, no

training, and a lot of fear a lot of

pain: and no one who could comfort or help .

Love VIIIa

No longer drawing

back from an in-

commensurable fact:

Lost knowing lust but

that in part a social con-

struct destroying as much

as it builds: On top of that

most people have some form

of guidebook; much construction,

much destruction, deception of the

other, the self, integral, necessary for

success, survival; protective weaponry.

Her parents ‘meaning well’, not

helping, at all. Her friends, ‘meaning

well’, not helping, much. She, proud;

‘superior’, confused, lost. Deep down,

very angry. And, now, this fuckup,

this stubborn idiot, this offensive

asshole blocking hope of forward

movement; willfully offensive, revolting,

offensively stubborn, lacking in so

many ways.

Dump him

as fast as you can whatever

it takes; be merciless to

save yourself.

The Event

To begin; two pertinent posts composed in something like heat from the glowing embers of the day.

Slim tendrils of; connection grew in a shortspace to (of course,still tenous vestigially grasped) vistas of substance known, excitement of epiphany, able understandings to leap tall buildings faster than a speeding bullet train across universal distance, briefly dismissing disconnection for moments I’ve been dreaming of off in my sometime silent cornering. Getting glimpses of fabled treasure formed from sacred clays.

And—

Breathing marvellous freshness of inspired exchanges. Still blocked by diminished energy but I’ve been waiting sooo long to be there, out with good people, surprise of compatible minds flashing shining surprise being out with found friends the only effort that of not drawing away even that not effort but to remind mindfulness. Drink it in. Treasure it. Thanks. Thanks. Thanks.

And a photograph from Bart Kreps, an old friend with unique distinctions:

Poly Returns

Looking at the most recently published post makes clear how long it’s been since I had the heart to apply myself to appraisal. The primary catalyst returning me was the visit this afternoon from an old friend, going back to the Fall of 1993. He had written the text for a dance piece memorably performed by the Collective Unconscious Collective at the Toronto Dance Fringe and subsequently for two consecutive nights and two consecutive full Moons in Guelf, which experience redirected my life. It involved as well Guh, who became treasured friends and whose music never fails to make me smile with pleasure and excitement.

David Jhave Johnson, as his name is, based his text on The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and the refrain, ”Let it go, let it go, let it all go Now” remains vividly present with me to this day, with of course obvious application to most of my recent experience. Further description may, should, come, but not now.

In any event, the most recent post was published just after I had gotten my All Clear, as I understood it, from my oncologist. Now I have just received my final injection, two days ago, of my current round of two chemo treatments. (Yes it did indeed prove not to be an All Clear.) I still have a peach-pink glow, which should be gone by Monday; and I find that as with the first of the two, the pattern of physical and emotional reactions differs from previous experience. That is to say, among other things, that I’m more tired than I expected, and perhaps more irritable, more volatile perhaps, than I might have reasonably expected.

But then so much has altered in the intervening period. Two things stand out at the moment.

First, progress has been made in loosening the bonds that prevented any movement outside the influence of and dominating desire, need for the woman for whom I still long quietly from time to time. Some of the intensities of that tempestuous bond have been traced in, in fact permeate these blogs.

The other is that tomorrow I will be reading some of my poetry and quasi-poetry in public and in the company of poets, no less, for the first time ever. I’m probably not preparing properly; perhaps I am. Either way, it will be. I expect pleasure, I hope for further acknowledgement, I may suffer crushing embarrassment. I will cut this short, still finding it difficult to feel any interest in recording events since the last post, and leave the way clear for reporting The Event.

Less ambiguity

Yesterday, when I wrote the post immediately below, the day after I got the good news, I was terribly tired.

Being terribly tired has not been unheard of here; perhaps it’s been a more or less regular occurrence. But it took me by surprise; I expected bursts of energy, sparkly, perky eagerness to bounce and bound around. 

One can make sense of it; a collapse into relief, a sudden (pretty much unconscious) evaporation of death-bound tension leaving me limp: these and many more like them would suffice as explanations. But I was surprised, nor was it a happy sort of surprise; but it did serve to remind me that progress toward a satisfying resemblance to health would be slow; perhaps, at least occasionally, difficult; and perfectly reasonably, challenging. After all it’s been a long time since I could be described as healthy; a year or two before the diagnosis of cancer at least.

We press on (as strength allows).

The News

The doctor said I am free of lymphoma.

No more chemo.

No more expectations of impending death.

Strength and vitality will return,

Body mass, too.

I will be able. 

Romantic

I came smack up against a surprise yesterday.

I had received and enjoyed an opportunity to flirt on facebook.

In itself this would have been a most unlikely surprise.

To heighten the unusual and unusually pleasing quality of the event, the woman who chose to find me beautiful and to flirt with me was a woman who can claim distinction as her right, at least as I count distinction. She is a poet, a writer, a journalist, and an academic. She excels in these roles.

To begin with I reminded myself it might be a joke or a game, that I ought to take care not to believe flattery too quickly; and for me, her interest alone was extravagant flattery. Still, neither does resisting the pleasure seem very much to the point. So a see-sawing, trapeze-swinging oscillation seems the best strategy: Enjoy it, with reminders frequent or not, to take care.

So it went over the weekend. Light-hearted, warm, and frequent, with lots of X’s and O’s. It was, well, a little exciting, at least on the surface. Beneath, I suspect my excitement ran pretty deeply. She is the sort of woman I might hope to have for a close friend; (as the diligent reader may discover, elsewhere in these blogs I describe sex growing smaller in my rear-view mirror). So at present a close friend is my dearest wish when thinking of women. Which translates into the flirtation carrying more power than one might reasonably suppose.

But then...

I had taken it seriously, and began to be afraid it would turn out badly; as, depending on the definition, it may yet. So, the diagnosis was cold feet. I begged off, pleading illness, which was true, and took a nap. When I returned to the page, she seemed to have taken up flirting with someone else.

I was, so to speak, crushed.

And so things remained until this morning: There she was, friendlier than ever, and so our back-and-forth continues; to what end, Heaven only knows, though I expect when she has absorbed the extent of my destitution, she will wisely and gracefully withdraw.

too late

I’ve been afraid of old age for a long time. For a while it was simply mourning the loss of lovely smooth flesh, seen in my parents and later in their retirement community. The grotesque folds, wrinkles, discolourings,  and abraded-paper effects dismayed, appalled me. I felt no threat personally but I regretted all the lost beauty and inevitable ugliness.

There was a period of unease as I saw such things impending, even wondering about the patterns the wrinkling might take; but fearing most the effect on women I might hope to befriend. That (failed hopes for friendships) went on for a lengthy period, but I seldom thought my flesh was the repellent at work. There was such a feast of causes from which to choose. There seemed at times very little health in me; nor was there.

Then I met a Someone. She seemed very funny (the dimples! the dimples!), seemed to know a lot, with unusual, interesting tastes, followed me home, said she could talk theology for hours, and when I took her to visit my folks she wreathed my mother’s face with smiles by tying her shoelaces, and rubbed balm into the ruined flesh of my father’s arms. Oh, and I nearly forgot, very cute and strikingly beautiful, with flesh in most places rivaling the proverbial baby’s bum. Her breasts were perfect too. We were engaged by midsummer, as soon as the divorce papers came through (my ex-wife had been pushing for a divorce for perhaps seven or eight years). We had bought a house with “potential, potential, potential”. Obviously I never need be concerned again with the anerotic effect of my figured flesh. (I suppose I haven’t mentioned, because I thought it must be obvious; we were head-over-heels in love.)

Once the mood had shifted, by perhaps 182 degrees (see accompanying blog  Bitterbuoy)  the issue of my decadent flesh did come up, unfavourably. 

Now it makes no difference at all. When the woman I (still) love pushed me out of bed for good, sex lost its overwhelming appeal, and seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. If I haven’t been quite clear: My lost love is still the only one who might be able to stir my loins, but only if she, say, kissed me, say, on the mouth; and scrupulous and particular as she became about our physical contact, I feel I can safely say: That will never happen. 

 

HEREWITH Ta-dah; the resuscitated suinolopxilef, awaiting his chemotherapy graduation certificate and not yet knowing his GPA, goin’ all buggy (as in ‘normal’) waiting for the results.
First, there’s a CT-Scan next Thursday, followed on the 25th by a heart-to-heart with Dr. Davidson at St.Joe’s.
Y’all stay tuned, y’hear?