Skip to main content

Being by my side

Days left. Four exactly. Then the Judge will wield his hammer and change will be logged in legal documents. We will walk away in separate directions.

I have spent this last weekend looking at our little house. Cleaning and removing the bits of him that have remained unstirred in the last 6 months. A hollow emptiness with dust sculpting the hemispheres of the undisturbed. I have been waiting for him to blaze through here in his furious style. That will still happen, but at lease all his things are in one spot. Less obvious, boxed and organised, that was always what I did well, anticipate & prepare.

Somehow I wasn't prepared for him leaving, this time. But I was absent and had left a long time ago. I had summarised that I loved the painter and couldn't live with the man. It runs deeper that this. Deep as a gulch you could get lost and trapped in. Trapped for almost 13 years.. 13 unlucky for some. Not me.

My spirit was no longer free in his world. It had been denied and disregarded again and again. Conditioned from the first steps of our relationship, where our stride was once in beat. All of my freedom being frivolous and an 'Indulgence'. Interfering with his poetry and his ability to create.

My service is done. I bow and leave. I do not wish to cause pain, any pain, more pain. It is too late for questions. I don't care, I actually want to run for the hills with reckless momentum. For the isolation of a mountain is more comforting and accepting than being by his side.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

two days of rain in the desert is enough of a shift in a elemental states to flip your synthysis overnight. Two days of rain, let it be nine, a revolution will happen if I give it time, if it gives me rain, I can discover my old self over again.

Fair weather friends

I am surrounded by fair weather friends. The slightest storm in a teacup and they flee like fleas on a wetback. Fleaing from adversity as if there were'nt an empathetic bone in their flexible body. 12 years of cocktail raising stands for nothing.

The Hans Holbein Connection

On our second year in the Wild West I took a trip without the painter, back to the Sequoia's where we used to live. It was an epic journey, extended by fleeing Los Angeles within 10 hours of getting there. Thus extending my time in the mountains by 4 days. It was prime time for my architipal journey. The solitary mind was flowing script and having visions that were then fulfilled. The swiftest of which was manifesting a bear within an hour of having the day dream while sleeping in a meadow on some unknown hill that beaconed me off the road. Yep it was one of those adventures. A time of independence and fulfillment that was an alixier that I was yearning for. During this trip, among other things I purchased on old postcard from the Louvre of Hans Holbein's portrait of d'Anne de Cleves. A rather osteir portrait of a woman, hands clenched, rings on most fingers, and an indifferent look on her face. I remember flicking through the cards, regarding it, and then ...