3rd April 2011 

I make the bed my lover and I slept in last night, pull the crimson blanket high over the pillows, no visual evidence of our intertwining. I look for his smell on the pillow, but it’s the smell of the house, the smell of this damp forest. I smooth the covers, he will be here again in an hour and a half, and I have yet to bathe, yet to wash him from my last night skin, this morning still breathing him, still resisting him, curious, defeated, detached, open. A river running over boulders of different forms, so it was with him, just being, now, now, now.

I bring the crystal wineglasses down, down the staircase from the loft, bring down the water glasses the last night’s clothes. Bringing it all down, I eat, I tidy the room making space for the new day, and I feel deeply relaxed, watching the inclination to do things fly by, like the squawking crow outside.

Only to tell you of this, this encounter, which left my heart strangely neutral, table flat and trembling, the terrain unknown, the signposts I had erected to defend me now rusty, forlorn and speaking of another time, another place .

He told me how much he enjoys being single, and I waited for my heart to sink, but it didn’t. He told me the extent of his unavailability and his unwillingness to commit, and I was reminded at the clarity of my choices. To travel, to be free, to create, to do work that seemed important at the time, to follow my heart and soul’s voice. And how this style of life is a house for one, what kind of person it would take to move into it. And I wonder at this thought that surfaces in jest and in gravity, that I am looking for the man that will pin me down, anchor me, and then I will stop.

Between that, and looking at some kind of career change, I am up against myself, soothing pictures of Canada coming to mind, where I work in a remote small town coffee shop, maybe Tofino, somewhere wild and massive, where I live a life on the land and with the land. How lovely to dream of this, and I know the reality that something may bite at my heels, demanding to be bigger, to be done.

So I observe this tender heart of mine, the layers grown over and how my body declares stubborn resistance to being penetrated, when its enough, when its enough of penetration and a limited heart connection.

I’ll speak with him about this at 12.30, when he arrives. I’ll speak to him and see if I can make my way past the projected masculine who only wants to fuck and have a taste of me … aaahhh … that’s it, that’s set my heart in motion, that’s where the fear is. How to do love like this where there is no net to catch me, except me.