Tag Archives: Love

Look Into Their Eyes & Wait Until You See Their Soul Leave

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We have been lied to via prose and celluloid . . . that when someone we love dies, you can see something alter in the depth of their eyes. A shadow is cast, or a light flickers out or a cloud hovers.

None of this is true.

When I stroked Horatio as he was passing, and I held his head in my hands, I didn’t even know he was gone. Although his eyes were still open and yet his body went limp, I had to ask the vet. “Is he gone already?”

I was looking directly into his eyes, but I didn’t see him leave.

And as I held Jack cradled in my arms I insisted that the vet let me continue to hold him as she sent him away. I sobbed as I knew he was going to be out of pain, but I would not know when this moment was to pass. I kept stroking him and telling him how much I loved him and would do so “. . . . for ever and ever”.

I loved him SO utterly.

My beautiful gorgeous old Boys. Neither time, was I able to see the moment that they left. And it hurts so absolutely. There is no flickering connection or last moment contact between souls. Death isn’t a journey – it’s just the end of life.

I know that my period is coming, so I am well aware that I am hormonal. Stiff shit to that! I know the anniversary of Horatio’s death less than a week away, but that’s not it either.

Last night at work, I was made aware of the fact that some ‘things’ have been said about me while I was not present. Petty, small minded talk that doesn’t actually upset – not the words or who they were spoken by.

But the emotion that flood me last night was disappointment. Disappointment in women my age or older who could behave as kinder people – but choose not to. So I was quieter and more removed, than I have been for many months. Someone thought I was unwell, and another thought I was stressed. Amanda asked me if I was feeling ok – perhaps I was catching a cold.

I quietly explained that I was grateful to rarely get a cold (although I am stricken with other shit – let’s be honest) as I don’t have children who need cuddles and loves, or a husband who breaths on me in his sleep – to pass on their illness/es. I was lucky to escape catching normal ‘bugs’ simply by exclusion. She pointed out that we work in a closed environment with air-conditioning for ventilation. As I walked back to my work space, I threw out the line “It’s not aircon that makes you sick. It’s love.”.

I didn’t realise how sad this truth was, until today.

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Why The Death Of A Dog I’ve Never Met, Broke Me

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You would be forgiven for believing that we have never lived in a more dangerous and deadly age.
Death penalty by firing squad.
Deadly earthquakes.
Extremists murdering school children.
Deadly riots in the ‘Land of the Free’.

However, the truth is the opposite.

We live in the safest ‘age’ since we evolved into being 200,000 years ago. Although this knowledge doesn’t really dampen the genuine sorrow following the tragedies we have seen in the past week. Carnage and death all over our blue planet. Mostly by our own hands.

However, it’s not any one of these tragedies, nor the combined sadness of them all that dropped me into a sea of sadness this evening.

It was the death of a dog that I have never met.

My online friend Mel, lost her beloved poodle just recently. And I sobbed as I read her words. I crumpled  in my chair and covered my face with my hands, and sobbed. I still feel utterly wretched at losing Horatio and Jack eleven months ago. Almost a year – I can’t quite believe that number.

Ginger having a nap after a bedtime story

Ginger having a nap after a bedtime story

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Despite all the human casualties that have passed in the near gone days, only the news of Ginger’s death was enough to make me succumb to misery. Dogs are such genuinely wonderful creatures whose hearts are larger than their earthly bodies. All they do is give.

But somehow I need to move past my sadness, so I will attempt to empower myself with the words that Mel shared about her departed pooch . . .

 . . . . ” all pets returning to their healthy state, trotting around with butterflies and birds”.

So my Beloved Jack & Horatio – please take Ginger under your wings and show him around. Show him where the sweetest water is, where the sunniest patch is and take him to your fluffy warm bed each night.

I know you’ll all be best buds.

I love you.
Thank you for loving me all those years.

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Dance Hall Days

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I wish I had a photo to show you of this time in my life,
but,
even though my Mum had a camera in my youth the truth is we couldn’t afford
to get the photos processed ($13 for 24 photos back in the 80’s!).

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When I was fourteen or fifteen years old, I used to go to an underage disco in Perth. It was located right in the middle of Perth. Teens from the whole Perth metro area were welcome. I am completely unaware if it was privately owned or run by the Perth City Council. A decade before computers became prevalent and twenty years before the age of the internet, I can’t find any record of it.

I use to go with my best friend, B.

Music was such an escape for me back as a teenager. Like it is for so many young people. But mine was a different form of escapism from the norm – I was less enamoured with the words as I was with the melody. Actually, it was the beat that I was addicted to.

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I’ve talked before about how I feel music in my marrow. I feel it right inside of me. Deep. As a teenager who was exposed to a poisonous anti-male upbringing and with little or no love being shown towards me (or my siblings), who had no redeemable physical or intellectual features with which to excel in life and as a youth who was ‘plain’ to say the least . . . . music became my safe place.

Such a beautiful and remarkable safe place.
I LOVE listening to music.

But I LOVE dancing to music even more.

Now, I’m not a pretty dancer. I get right into it – if you know what I mean. I throw my body around in perfect tempo with the rhythm and beats of music. Quite often head down concentrating the efforts of my arms and limbs, to perfectly synch with the next beat that I know is coming. My torso is always moving, either swaying, twitching or convulsing. I told you – the music gets right into my marrow. Into the nucleus of every cell.

Unfortunately, this expenditure of energy does produce some fairly unattractive results . . . . . mainly a sweaty, red-faced girl. Can you imagine it?!? Not pretty, is it? It’s just one of those unfortunate inherited traits, where the red-headed Irishman/convict of my past, shows itself with utter regularity, whenever I am energetic.

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Put this together with a frenetic and not-altogether-scary vision of the contortions I make while dancing, and perhaps you can begin to see why boys never rushed to my side.

Being a ‘normal’ adolescent, I wanted to be attractive to boys. For boys to ‘like’ me. It wasn’t until a particularly nasty comment from one of my sisters in my mid 20’s, that I begun to become self-conscious of how I danced. I begun to care what I looked like rather than how I felt when I was immersed in dancing. But in my teens, I was oblivious.

My unattractive state while I moved was made even more glaring by my beautiful girlfriend, who was just swaying to the beat. Can I paint you a picture? Long, long auburn hair, thick as Rapunzel’s. Thick and dark lashes on cat-like brown yes. High cheek bones and a smattering of freckles. She already had a budding hourglass figure and developed boobs wayyyyyy before me. Long legs and slightly taller than average, my girlfriend was a boy-magnet. In fact, they swarmed.

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Looking back now I can see that this difference in our physical selves and how we were perceived by the opposite gender, had a profound effect on our friendship over the coming decades. Not by design, envy or malice, purely because of human nature.

What do I mean?. After only a few visits (a few Saturdays in a row), a young deaf guy called M, started to really fancy B. As I said, she always had boys around her but there must have been something about him that she particularly found interesting. Thankfully, the 1980’s were still innocent enough days, where a bit of snogging was the ‘most’ that could happen at an underage even. Well for the majority of kids anyway.

B’s Mum was usually the one who picked us up at the end of the evenings, as (I now realise) mine wouldn’t have been in a state to drive. I was always so embarrassed and apologetic to B’s Mum that she had to be the one to pick us up. I fretted and felt so painfully guilty. I remember one night she was a bit snappy and seemed annoyed at having to pick us up. From that night on, I was always so anxious to be on time whenever she was picking us up.

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Another night that sticks on the tracks of my memory train, is a Saturday only a few weeks later, that we went to Angels. B & her beau M, were dragging their feet even though the music had stopped and lights were on. I was just so anxious to not keep B’s Mum waiting. But B had other priorities and of course we never treat our own Mum’s how we treat others, do we? She was happy to make her Mum wait.

It seems weird doesn’t it!?! The three strongest memories I have of those juvenile hedonistic dance nights are
* how beautiful my girlfriend looked when she danced
* how unattractive I was compared to my girlfriend
* a severe anxiety at making other people wait for me, even when the situation is controlled by others.

My strongest memory isn’t of my own love and joy of dancing. That’s a bit sad wouldn’t you say? And what of my girlfriend B?

She is as remarkably beautiful a woman, wife and mother as she was as a teenager.

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Lastly, I just had to share this utter classic from the 80’s.

If this video clip doesn’t make you fucking lose it laughing – then your soul is dead.
I’m sorry, but it’s true!

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Valentine’s Day

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Val #1

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So tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

Although I’ve never been a huge fan of it, I’ve never really been ‘against’ it. The red roses and chocolates and romantic dinners – all seem like lovely gestures of affection. Making an effort for someone you love is important. One day a year to remind ourselves of this importance is a great idea, in my humble opinion.

Heck, I’ve even accepted a marriage proposal on a Valentine’s Day (another story for another time).

But . . . .

. . . . Valentine’s Day is now a recognised economic boon for associated businesses to make higher gross sales than the previous year. Hotels, florists, chocoletiers, restaurants, jewellers, greeting card companies, novelty manufacturers (toys, costumes, stuffed animals) lingerie makers, etc, etc, etc.

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Val #2

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I dearly wish our society would go back and honour the true meaning of Valentine’s Day, without all the spending and gratuity.

Especially for young couples. If they could avoid the whole $150 red roses & $50 giant teddy bears & $300 romantic dinner & $350 jewellery. That’s not love – that’s just spending!

And it’s scary to see that schools over here in Oz, are starting to follow the American trend of children swapping Valentine’s messages.

Say what !?!

Yep – the teacher has a little letterbox in the classroom and the children write little notes or make cards and address them to their friends in the class. Can you see any possible problems with this scenario ?

Legend has it that, Saint Valentine was executed and then honoured for his efforts in secretly marrying Roman centurions against the order of the Caesar. He committed this act as he believed in love.

That is what Valentine’s Day is about.
Love and the commitment to it with another.

So this year – please honour St Valentine’s memory and sacrifice, and make sure that your Love knows how you think and feel. Make the effort to share love with those who are special to you.

Bring back the real Valentine’s Day.
It’s in your power, peeps.

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Val #3

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Losing

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Can you imagine being so lonely, that you crave physical contact?
Simple but small gestures like a hand on a shoulder or a brush of your arm?

And can you imagine how a soul would harden
when denied that contact?

When I lost Jack last May, I lost the one being on this Earth who still let me touch him. He would allow me to pick him, cradle him, cuddle him, stroke his back, massage his scalp, rub his ears.

He would let me love him.

And I loved him so much. More than I can express in mere words.
And I don’t care how pathetic that sounds to other people, because I had no-one else to touch. He was my last link to keeping an open heart.

Poor Max, HATES to be touched. He really isn’t comfortable at all being picked up or held or even stroked. I’m not allowed to touch his head – he ducks away – and he doesn’t like laying on my lap for a tummy rub. He just doesn’t like contact with humans. And because I love him, I respect that he needs his space.

I don’t have anyone to love.

The scab over my heart is so dense that there is
no salve,
no treatment
and no possible means of revival.

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My Beloved Jack

My Beloved Jack, just two nights before he died

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Max - 2015

Max – 2015

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My Boys . . . . 2009

My Boys . . . . 2009

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My Body Is Borrowed, My Mind Is Not

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I don’t know if I’m a fan of Beyonce.
My own prejudices and life-learned judgements impose themselves.
I’m not particularly proud of this.

But, I cannot deny her strength of character and her intelligence.

I was blown away by this mini-doco.
You will be too.

I hope.

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