How many times must one travel down the same path and have the same result before one can see in advance what the problem is. How many times before trust waivers? How many times before one gives up on the whole damn mess of it? It is certainly what I feel like doing now. I am angry, sad, heartbroken, and drained all at the same time. I feel in one sense betrayed for the broken promise and that hurts most of all. I feel angry at myself for allowing myself to believe, to care, to get involved again and most of all to love. Geoffiepoo, in his blog
I've known him for less then a decade, and more then a lifetime. He's been at varying times and degrees, my friend, my lover, my roommate, and so much more then i could ever put into words, really.
And I've watched him, time and time again, fall in love. He's the only person I've ever met who falls as quickly, and as deeply as i do. He also get crushed from the end of love. We all do, but Geoffie finds it harder then most to brush himself off, stand up and walk away.
Why?
I know. Pat knows. I don't think Geoffie does, though.
So I'm going to tell him.
He finds endings so hard because he thinks, everytime that it was his fault. If only he could try again, maybe he would figure out what he is doing wrong and fix it. maybe this time he could make it different.
What Geoffie does not know is he's not at fault. And neither, necessarilly, is the other party.
Sometimes relationships end because they are done. Most things don't last forever. They last only as long as necessary, to teach us something- or to bring us something we needed...even if, at times, we aren't aware there is something lacking.
Geofie lives his relationships holding fast to the notion of forever. It's an easy thing to do, and a very seductive idea; the notion of having things settled, finished, and therefore, no longer requiring that lonely search for understanding.
I know this because I've done it, too. So have you, in all liklelyhood. Evolutionary speaking, we are pack animals. We survive better when we aren't alone.
But, like relationships, being alone does not last forever, either. And we don't need to be with the same person forever to avoid lonliness. Herds are not static. New members enter and leave, adjusting to the environment around them.
Zen phillosophy is based on the experiences and conclusions of Siddhartha Gautama, now known as Buddha(he who is awake), who realized, during his quest for enlightement, happiness and understanding, that everything is subject to change and that suffering and discontentment are the result of attachment to circumstances and things which, by their very nature, are impermanent entitities.
It's a very healthy outlook to have. To grasp the notion that we should live in thankfullness for what we have today. Not to yearn for things we have not yet achieved. Nor mourn for things that are no longer part of our lives. Rather, happiness comes when we accept that everything we encounter has something to bring us, to teach us. And when the time is right, it too, will finish. To make way for new things.
Regret is an emotion most of us encounter at some stage. But it is also an entirely unproductive one. We are not blessed (or cursed) with the ability to travel back in time and change things. We do have the ability, however, to shake ourselves off and take yet another step forward.
Turn the page, Geoffie. A new chapter awaits.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Can we have a kitty? Pweeeeaaase!
So the boi's been harping at me since i arrived, dropping hints about getting a kiten, and downright whining about same. I'd been trying to discourage him. I've left pets behind before, in my constant global wanderings, and i hate doing it. And i figured leaving him behind would be hard enough, there was no need to throw a smaller purring kittenlike creature to the mix. Something else for me to love. Something else for me to miss, yanno?
But, he knows me well. Knows I am a sucker. Knows where my buttons are. So I gave in. With one admonishment; "Ok. fine; we will get a kitty...but only if we will love it, and pet it, and call it GEORGE!". So, a week later found us carying home a box from the SPCA containing THIS impossibly tiny little furbag called George.
She's the best entertainment value for dollar I've ever seen. She was 8 weeks old, but really abnormally tiny, with a wee little voice to match. She could sit up in the palm of one of my hands. And i have girlie hands. She was roughly equal to the size of the puppy's (a 4 year old German Sheppard named Tier (no, not as in "level/layer", but as in "beast/animal in German))snout. And he, in all his large gawky clumbsy curiosity, was achingly gentle with her.
3-4 weeks on, shes still tiny, and she's taken after her adoptive dad; she is he goofiest, most graceless cat i have ever seen. She thinks she's a dog. Her miaow is still tiny, she falls off furniture and runs into walls with alarming regularity, and she is utterly adorable.
She is incapable of walking. She just can't. If she needs to be anywhere, it must be gotten too whilst doing Mach speeds, as though, if she does not get there right away, thats it! The world is gonna implode and the couch, which has always been there will just dissapear and be gone by the time she arrives.
She's fearless. Probably comes with her boxing matches with the dog, who plays by bowling her over and gently mouthing her. When she first arrived, that meant she pretty much entirely dissapeared into his gaping maw. Also comes from the fact that he is the best bodyguard ever. No one is allowed to hurt or steal HIS kitty, goddamnit. The cat next door tried. Once. So this tiny assed furball of ours does not know the word "danger", and will climb trees taller then the house (and deftly back down the tree without any trouble), and takes on the neighbourhood cats...and wins!
She's also incapable of not loving you. Instant box of rumble if anyone touches her. We've tossed her about, blown raspberries on her belly, packed her into tingy clear plastic boxes, poster tubes and whatever else amuses us. And she comes back for more everytime.
She's perfect.
But, he knows me well. Knows I am a sucker. Knows where my buttons are. So I gave in. With one admonishment; "Ok. fine; we will get a kitty...but only if we will love it, and pet it, and call it GEORGE!". So, a week later found us carying home a box from the SPCA containing THIS impossibly tiny little furbag called George.
She's the best entertainment value for dollar I've ever seen. She was 8 weeks old, but really abnormally tiny, with a wee little voice to match. She could sit up in the palm of one of my hands. And i have girlie hands. She was roughly equal to the size of the puppy's (a 4 year old German Sheppard named Tier (no, not as in "level/layer", but as in "beast/animal in German))snout. And he, in all his large gawky clumbsy curiosity, was achingly gentle with her.
3-4 weeks on, shes still tiny, and she's taken after her adoptive dad; she is he goofiest, most graceless cat i have ever seen. She thinks she's a dog. Her miaow is still tiny, she falls off furniture and runs into walls with alarming regularity, and she is utterly adorable.
She is incapable of walking. She just can't. If she needs to be anywhere, it must be gotten too whilst doing Mach speeds, as though, if she does not get there right away, thats it! The world is gonna implode and the couch, which has always been there will just dissapear and be gone by the time she arrives.
She's fearless. Probably comes with her boxing matches with the dog, who plays by bowling her over and gently mouthing her. When she first arrived, that meant she pretty much entirely dissapeared into his gaping maw. Also comes from the fact that he is the best bodyguard ever. No one is allowed to hurt or steal HIS kitty, goddamnit. The cat next door tried. Once. So this tiny assed furball of ours does not know the word "danger", and will climb trees taller then the house (and deftly back down the tree without any trouble), and takes on the neighbourhood cats...and wins!
She's also incapable of not loving you. Instant box of rumble if anyone touches her. We've tossed her about, blown raspberries on her belly, packed her into tingy clear plastic boxes, poster tubes and whatever else amuses us. And she comes back for more everytime.
She's perfect.
Art Gallery
I've deliberately put off typing this post from paper journal for ages now, because I was a tit and forgot to get the Artist's name. But I have to give in and realize that all my good intentions about returning to properly credit her have gone awry, passed over and forgotten time and again by more pressing things, like smoogling with the boi or yet more home reno stuff (such as this nifty tv room outside on a deck!), so bugger it, I'll post it without her name.
October 24, 2004.
I've a friend visiting from Norway. This is her second visit since I've arived, and also her last, as she's on her way to Tailand and then back home to Norway...so I've been crazy busy trying to show her everything.
It rained all morning, so the default plan was the museum and art gallery. Museum was dissapointing. Art gallery was not. I'd been last here only a few weeks ago, and was delighted to find so many ofthe exhibits are not static ones, and had plenty of new things to contemplate.
I had, on my last trip here, been dissapointed with the aboriginal art section. I had been hoping to be blown away by a large collection of art I'd not be able to see anywhere else in the world. But then, nothing grabbed me. It all hazed into one big similar blob.
Not so this time.
There was a piece by a female artist; digital manipulation, oil, and pastels all added to a pre-exsisting photograph. The pictures themselves she pulls from government archives decades ago. You know the sort of pictures I am talking about. Every country has them. Each cultural drowning seems to be accompanied by the pressing need to document the "transformation" from savage to civillized, contributing member of an higher society.
So a stranger comes into a community, takes hollow, mournfull pictures of the locals, either singly or as a group, all dressed "appropriately", of course, in respectable, taillored clothing.
Such photographs never depict an actual smile. Subject always look morose and uncomfortable. They sit quietly, disjointed, dejected...beaten...as the camera steals yet another piece of their soul.
The eyes always look haunted.
She sees it, too. Capitalizes in her own way on this little rape of her ancestors by reclaiming their essence, taunting the photographer by transforming the photo once more.
She's accentuated the despair of two aboriginal women, posed standing side by side in a faceless studio. Layer upon layer is added to the image. Part of her manipulation includes adding a lonely bleak background; barren harsh landscape that stretches off into the distance, echoing the lonliness. She's painted a delicate trail, like a spideweb, that tracks off over the horizon. The whole thing is then topped with a digital overlay, a misty veil like covering, like a ghost has floated accross the lens.
The end result is creepy, surreal beauty.
October 24, 2004.
I've a friend visiting from Norway. This is her second visit since I've arived, and also her last, as she's on her way to Tailand and then back home to Norway...so I've been crazy busy trying to show her everything.
It rained all morning, so the default plan was the museum and art gallery. Museum was dissapointing. Art gallery was not. I'd been last here only a few weeks ago, and was delighted to find so many ofthe exhibits are not static ones, and had plenty of new things to contemplate.
I had, on my last trip here, been dissapointed with the aboriginal art section. I had been hoping to be blown away by a large collection of art I'd not be able to see anywhere else in the world. But then, nothing grabbed me. It all hazed into one big similar blob.
Not so this time.
There was a piece by a female artist; digital manipulation, oil, and pastels all added to a pre-exsisting photograph. The pictures themselves she pulls from government archives decades ago. You know the sort of pictures I am talking about. Every country has them. Each cultural drowning seems to be accompanied by the pressing need to document the "transformation" from savage to civillized, contributing member of an higher society.
So a stranger comes into a community, takes hollow, mournfull pictures of the locals, either singly or as a group, all dressed "appropriately", of course, in respectable, taillored clothing.
Such photographs never depict an actual smile. Subject always look morose and uncomfortable. They sit quietly, disjointed, dejected...beaten...as the camera steals yet another piece of their soul.
The eyes always look haunted.
She sees it, too. Capitalizes in her own way on this little rape of her ancestors by reclaiming their essence, taunting the photographer by transforming the photo once more.
She's accentuated the despair of two aboriginal women, posed standing side by side in a faceless studio. Layer upon layer is added to the image. Part of her manipulation includes adding a lonely bleak background; barren harsh landscape that stretches off into the distance, echoing the lonliness. She's painted a delicate trail, like a spideweb, that tracks off over the horizon. The whole thing is then topped with a digital overlay, a misty veil like covering, like a ghost has floated accross the lens.
The end result is creepy, surreal beauty.
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