everything, everywhere, all the time for me, is a work in progress.

lips lick natural curling
and enjoy the soft unfurling
of a hip heavy heart giving way

messing and caressing
the limbs lovers undressing
then deeply punching pressing
away the grief grown gray

relief and tension mingle
tingle, and single out the sorrow
smothering with a luke-warm lay

believing and breathing
through truth's sieving and the leaving
so the solid sinks like sand
and hearts sail out onto the bay

a heartbeat of flutter
do we brave to even mutter
the most human of all our daring hope

that we rope and grope and tie
to the beds of all our lies
and chant and chant and chant
our loves free will did lead the way

hold and enfold a hopeless like dope
and rope nope
to the lovelingered night

bite at the plight
of throbbing delight
and wonder if you're ready to fight

because boys toy
do cloy and destroy
at your soul with testosterone might

the fright of your life
and the life of all fright
delivered with will and last right

the pleasure and treasure
you search through the ether
begging silent to hold and taste

won't stay and fulfil
but will sway and spill
through your fingers at record pace haste

the moment you smother
the lover with cover
of your social mask fabricate paste

run run they will
it's a pity still
such a love such a love
goes to waste.

coming to terms with singledom, is risky. risky because that's when boys enter the equation. they don't arrive when i would tear my hair out just to have someone hold me at night. they arrive when i have made plans alone, and when i don't want anyone else in my room, or freshly washed sheets.

but this is usually a resolve that arrives at the conclusion of someone. give me a couple of months and i might be humming, nay, chanting, a different tune.

which begs the question: is just having a man, any man, or unfortunately, boy, really the point?

the exact words came out of a friend's mouth the other day. "but at least you're having sex". really? really?! is that what it has come to? or cum to?...

sorry. couldn't help myself.

dating people we kind of like, but wouldn't rush home to meet mum, just for company?

but. seriously. the "atleast i'm having sex" tag feels like some kind of pseudo-liberated-i-just-watched-greer-on-youtube-while-txting-for-booty-at-11pm line. i for one know that when you watch a romantic comedy, and feel jealous of the kiss scene because they have known each other for, like, atleast, like, two weeks, then there are some serious questions to be asking.

for me, they start with, how liberated are we, as females, really, if we aren't happier?

or maybe that's just me.

...

blurry lines

1:45am
(Written Monday January 4)

The line between 2009 and 2010 for me was a blurred one. I worked that night, and the next three. I was very very drunk - and had a teeny tiny amount of speed in my system. So on what level the line was blurred, I'll leave at that.

I have started writing a few pages down from the next blank page in my diary because I feel like starting a diary fresh for this year; however a new journal is something I presently don't possess. And perhaps having new pages, that have only once but sufficient to seep, shared the cover of my last few years with inked pages - perhaps that is more fitting than memoryless paper.

I went for a walk tonight. I got home from work and walked. I found myself sitting on the sand in the middle of an almost empty Bondi, under a sky inked in night and half illuminated by the seeming endlessness that cloud cover lends to light noise. I could have almost reached up and drawn a line in the heavens. Two sides of our heavenly reality somehow made clearer and more interesting for having each other. Almost perfect half light, half dark. Read into that or not.

So I found myself, crying isn't the right word: breathing, heaving, gasping, tearing, tear-ing, weeping, sobbing and releasing. At this magnificent, terrifyingly interesting sky. Talking too. Regurgitating. About mum and dad, L, his new girlfriend, the divide between his actions and words. B. My own strength. Trust. And every shade of scared in between. And every shade of scarred in between.

I will admit I had B on my mind a lot. In a different way to the last few months. Like someone rounded the edges of my jagged aching.

I thought I saw him as I had found myself combusting mini sobs and heading for the sound freedom of the beach and roaring waves. But it wasn't him. I accidentally stared long enough to get the guy's attention. He asked where I was going - I said Oh I thought I recognised you. He looked similar to B, especially in the bathe of pallid beach street lights that slightly fluero the Bondi beach path. He said Here, as he then reached over the railing now between us, handed me a frangipani, and said, I've been looking for a pretty girl to give this to. Or words in a slightly different order. I can't remember exactly, as I had already started oscillating into an emotional state brought about by the uncontrolled muscle release of a rhythmic brisk stroll.

And so this random kindness by someone who looked like B; a stranger resembling the person holding my pinned to hopes and fears, left me laughing and heaving as I began my conversation, release, acknowledging catharsis to whatever you might otherwise call, God. (It is worth noting at this point I am still currently Agnostic - I like to say, searching).

I would say I have to go because I've lots to do tomorrow - and list all the things- belatedly - I want from this year. And my glorious suspicions of the hope there is to be found for 2010. But maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next day.

For now, despite the journey ahead - having that glorious hope for some brighter days in my heart, is enough.

x