welcome to the next chapter...

once a long time ago, i read on a blog, "i am a lesbian but thats not all i am". i was then just teetering on the edge coming out as a lesbian. back then, although i understood what she was saying, i was completely drowning in that one dimension of my identity. i knew then i was more than also but such turmoil tends to shrink your field of vision. it is scary and exciting and anticipatory and it is exhausting.

i am almost 5 years out now. some things look differently in my life. some things are the same. but i revel in the knowledge that i am a lesbian and in the knowledge that i really am more than just... my field of vision has grown to include the wide open spaces of life's endless possibilies.

for those of you who know me, you will be able to find the familiar places of my old writings which i will have on the sidebar. for those who stumble upon me and find yourself confused by fragmented references or are struggling to come out later in life, you will find the Closer to Fine link most helpful. I recommend reading it from the beginning, it makes more sense.

one more thing, blame my lack of capital letters on e.e. cummings...

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

how long is long enough? how lost is lost enough?

writers of all sorts and poets of all styles write with passion and  longing and despair over lost loves.   we read them and we feel all the pain, the desire, the death of an unwanted ending.  but we are so far away from their time, their place.  we can only speculate on the who was behind the death throws of unrequited or  unattainable passion.   we just cloak ourselves in the melancholia and tear up at the grace of the author as he/she explains how his/her  heart dies.  hope dies. dreams die.   they are untouchable with the splendor and safety of antiquity.

we can't say "oh yeah, that was mary and ethel down the street.... gossip gossip gossip"    we cant talk about the blood flowing out of their veins over a moment in time IF we realize that life just hurts too much and we want a way out.  my god the gossip and horrible names one would be called if one fell so low that one would harm themselves.   what would be a tragic romance from  100 years ago, would be turned into a  situation where one can mock, or pass over in indifference with a shot of whiskey at a local venue.   it will not be poetry to them.  if they have the least amount of humanity they would try to reach out,  if they were able.   call authorities, if they were able.   but would anyone stop to assimilate the emotion, understand the fine line we all walk,  would anyone be honest with their friends about our hidden similarities?  would anyone stand up for  the need  the author has to tell the story.   by God i hope someone would at least sadly shake their head once before ordering another round and then changing the subject to something more comfortable.    not many  would read it over and over again,  feeling the chill of the scepter by the sea, the crashing of the resounding waves surrounding  his beloved Annabell Lee.  Not without a snuggy anyway.

the literature,  the style, the time that has passed has robbed us today from waxing poetic,  speak of a love that will kill slowly from the heart.  or cause the mournful indian maiden to to jump to her death from Mt Timpanogos.    or a maiden who could jump to her death from any bridge that speaks to her.   now if we read anything of that nature, especially if we "know" them, they risk ridicule.   i wonder if 100  years from now, someone will, being far removed from any connection between the characters might read the story, poem, essay or cry for help and instead of rolling their eyes, will internalize and empathize and remember strangers who loved, lost and felt the emptiness that being human is able  to experience among those brave enough to put pen to paper.


Are we bound for glory?
sadly we may never know
until the light fades
completely from our eyes...