With Heart and Soul
I am finally feeling a groove with my writing. For a solid three weeks, I have been writing, deleting, pacing, stomping, smiling, smirking and rolling my eyes. I have named my short story, Positional Sacrifice, and I’m amazed that such a simple act could give me such a buzz and extra focus. I’m looking forward to the moment when the working title of the novel comes to life. I’ve had several stumbles, but one humungous, mother fucking hurdle.
I came up against an incredible block when I sat down to write about my lovers experimenting with hot wax and ice. You see, I was drawing from personal experience and all these intense feelings came erupting to the surface. I found myself in floods of tears and I just had to stop. I pulled myself up quickly though and thought how do I resolve this? I really want to be able to write about everything. As my friend is now dead I decided to write him a letter, to let my thoughts sort themselves out. It was really hard, with lots of tears but I have now written some wonderful words, and my characters are enjoying themselves immensely. Below I have posted some snippets of that letter.
It has been a very long time, and I don’t really know where to start. So forgive me if I ramble, I’m sure I will get to an end eventually, and by the end find some peace.
. . . I have been flirting with Romance, you’d have liked him, he is dashingly handsome and exceptionally sexy. We were talking chocolate and sex, which was one of your favourite conversations, if you remember. You made me laugh with your vivid descriptions of numerous chocolate escapades. . .
. . .I can still see the shocked expressions of my friends, and then their frowns across the dinning table, or maybe that was because you were only wearing your underpants and a cowboy hat. Not appreciated by most but always by me, you were so damn good to look at.
I have to say it, but sometimes I just hate you. You were just so full of life, cheeky rude and lurid, and so fucking sexy. Remembering your touch, your eyes, the way we moved together; how you would pin me up against the hallway wall and demand your payment for passage, you made me feel so alive. Then I get angry, and it all ends in tears.
. . . despite all your best sales pitches, I am still a chocolate sex virgin. I can feel you turn in your grave at the thought, what am I doing with my life? Well lots you pushy bastard, but right now in this moment I’m thinking about you, and now you evil prick, I’m choking on my tears. . .
Back to the point, Romance made me think, as he does, about how to describe wild richness, which was why we were on the topic of chocolate. I began to remember the wild sensations of hot wax and ice and, of course, all of that is connected to you. I tried to write about it, but I started to cry. The wild richness of my memories with you, before you got sick and let go, were consuming me. I told Romance, some moments and some people aren’t meant to be written about. I retreated back to my walls, I haven’t really let myself think much about you since you turned your back on me. That was nearly fifteen years ago, a whole other life time away. . . . I found out you had died all most a year after the fact. I was pissed off, I wasn’t given the chance to say good bye. Not that I’d have known what to say, I felt you had thrown your life away. . . So much time has passed now but the feelings are all still there, all as intense as the last day I saw you. Fuck you’re a prick, you’re holding on to part of me and I fucking want it back.
You know how much I disliked you that first day we met; you were so over the top, so confidently arrogant. You were so dramatic throwing yourself up again the door and proclaiming I was a walking goddess, I couldn’t get away from you fast enough. But you won in the end. That first date, was one of the most romantic moments of my life. I was forever yours under the stars in the botanic gardens, with your champagne flutes and music and the archery set. You were pure unadulterated magic. You made me so nervous, that fist kiss so expectant, and slow, you so tenderly taught me how to savor the moment.
,. . . but the real gift you gave me was to be comfortable being me. To appreciate my skin and relax with my sexuality. I will never have another lover quite like you, thank God, but I am forever grateful. I learnt about trust, when we played, and the feelings I have around those moments, those incredible sensations were all ballsed up because you smashed my trust against a wall and then just walked away. I am so angry with you, I just want to see you and shake you and now your gone.
So I have thought long and hard about how to make peace with you, to free your beauty within my memories, and to free my imagination to play with and enjoy you again. Tomorrow I’m going to the park, there is a beautiful ornate fountain there. I have made a paper bird, that this wonderful artist showed me years ago. It is white and elegant and peaceful. I’m going to put it in the water and say good bye to you, forgive you and cherish you. I hope you found your peace beautiful man, you deserved to have had a much longer and happier life.
I loved you. I love you. You will be in my heart forever.