When Denial Slays Love


Today, is a day with sun blessed cobalt blue skies, glistening jungle green expanses, and a quietness of nature few places on Earth can duplicate. The environment outside of me is healing and energized with life and death forces both in subtlety and grand schemes.


Within my spirit is heaviness that two days ago I wondered if its burden would choke every whisk of gentleness and kindness. Am I to be replaced with cold bitterness and brittle disgust?


Being a seer in one’s own reality on this planet is not to my liking. I prefer the mystery to unfold without influences of my mind or inbred stupidities. I do not harbor a faith centered in religiosity. Being a freelancer of the cosmos is not living in a gurgle or floating around the solar system. IF my consciousness lights upon an awareness of the wonders it is because there is no special invite I generate. Gifts arrive to be teachers of growth and while I balk at most, I eventually surrender to understanding the experience. If I cannot comprehend, I am seriously stubborn refusing to agree to the unacceptable. Understanding is not predicated upon brainy bulky awareness or a brutal smack to my point of view. My heart acknowledges what it can, when it can. The why or where of experience is of little import. I gladly wear my sobriety like a loose garment and let the winds of change do their efforts knowing the only control panel in my life is not of my making.


When I worked inside a studio booth aplenty in electronic boards of sound, light, and lens manipulations my focus was the whole picture we were creating to convey the message. I held my script in my lap and my vision in my head while relying upon the technical and creative expertise around me to fashion the thing. Occasionally, my heart transmitted its wishes but intuition and honed expertise carried the heavy load. Once firmly seated in this creative zone, ideas took on a life of their own to come forth with magic. Not my magic and not my ego. Collaboration occurred beyond any mindset scripted, or present.


What many of us would admit to each other sitting in the after glow of the finished piece was something else skulked around the studio. An encompassing ether, an offering, and an ambiguity one almost could smell but never really see and forget about physically touching. I called it the ‘other’ sensibility because its anonymity was a near mystical whodunit. We all felt its presence when the work of the day resolved into the sweetness we sought but not a one of us felt responsible. Our job was to channel and be the conduits as puzzling and absurd as it seems then, or this instance.


Being overwhelmed with obscurity of satisfied creativity a human being has two blatant choices. Surrender or run. It takes an odd combination of courage and confidence manufactured not in the ego or the spirit.


Life became art. Art became life. The message delivered with the highest aspiration of aesthetics and significance carried the day.


With this portfolio of experiences, the desire to be inspired shadows my relationships with others. At times being inventive is probably not the happy camper to imagination. Limited wherewithal and human availability and being ingenious while giving one’s self over to the love of another are choppy waters inside a roiling in-coming tide at the inlet. Too much is prone to capsize the boat and drown the occupants if the captain is not fully awake.


Last night, I experienced something brand new for me and at my age surprising but at the same moment not unique, I am sure.


I was told so many wrong things about myself from another I felt the elevator drop to the basement in nano-seconds. Once flat on the floor of the cage I looked into the darkness and realized what was being said had absolutely no relevance to me. At first, I thought, to my self, I was being my normal stubborn freedom fighting self and the assailant of my heart was revealing a new me. I mean, I reviewed in fast forward my words and deeds between us attempting to believe he was spot-on. This is a tack I use to teach myself tolerance. Immersing my self onto the other person’s flip-flops allows one to take a gander at the core of the encounter.


Then, I stepped back into the space of detachment and just let the crap he was disgorging pass by me. Now, please do not think for one moment, my heart took a powder. No, I stood silently adding a comment there and then without anger or being re-active while riddled with his hurts. Not him only hurting me, him hurting himself. Watching some one level love with their self-loathing is as unpleasant as it gets. Fear of intimacy is a universal war zone with the field littered with the sideway rejections of others.


When he had concluded his stuff, I attempted in my artsy fartsy way to respond from the universal heart. Without even asking for assistance or knowing, I let it flow. Neo-gentle and quasi-soft was my style as I fought against the deluge choking my heart. Why even feeling slammed, destroyed with dishonor and prone under an avalanche I did not take up the sword? How can you say you love without doing the work? When someone you love is melting down in front of you, in cyberspace, options are not bouncing around like party balloons. But, hey, if I missed the boat then please add your insight. My heart is an open road.


This morning I have no answers as I had none at midnight then, or five AM lying in the after gloom of the night’s drama reviewing what had or had not happened.


All, I can state, is truth. My goal is to keep beating the drum of conciliation and diplomacy as the path to preventing war and murder to cultures, the Earth, and the love between us. You and I are plunked down in the dusk not the dawn of humanity. As the gloom of our desire to species-destruct spreads we can fall down and weep, or we can stand on our tiptoes and wave a petard of surrender. The ego, of course, the counterfeit pride, the bogus flags of our hearts, the stupidity of mood-altered words evaporate slowly, and the guts of the matter stick to us like hot tar.


From the view here at Finca Vigia, I will wait forever, as the fool on the hill, selecting optimism and forgiveness over meanness and revenge. Honestly, I do not know how to destroy. I have lived inside the bubble of creativity these many decades and now at this late date I cannot get out.


I am trapped in a tiny world of my own sympathies if not survival. A personal situate where light prevails, the birds sing with no reason or season, and love endures, under fire by the other or placed on a pedestal of protection.


I love you. I love life. My mantra is for God’s will. I know when I hit bottom I lashed out at the dearest one in my life because the soul sickness within wanted to breath a forever madness into me. The funny thing is on the way to the forum of sobriety once my egomaniacal self was flattened a glow surrounded me. The epiphany was not of my making except I had to get low enough to see it.


We say there is no bottom too low except those who chicken out and actually kill themselves. This act is the finest way to destroy those you leave behind. Suicide is the ultimate act of war and rage. The sick ego tells itself wedged inside the pity pot the only escape is self-induced death. Now, the stage is set for this ultimate f**k you God act because there are years of slowly killing one’s self via booze, drugs, or some other addiction. Sure, it takes longer sipping potato juice compared to my death wish cocktail of drugs mixed with alcohol, work, and other addicts. We swig down the lethal potion, over, and over again, and then it finally captures our souls finally owning us with its conflated lies, complicated fear, and total absence of operating self-esteem.


Standing upright, sober, and clean, I have to step over the dead bodies falling off the cliffs of their own making. I weep. I scream. I grab onto others who understand.


The crime has been committed. The supposed murder of our love took place about 1:10 AM, Costa Rican time, September 3, 2013. The autopsy was performed and found both still breathing. One is satiated with clarity, life, and understanding, the other turned upside down cornered in his muddy glass banging for freedom. The spewing of hard won wisdom and soul-bent poetry, continues. I am not to be excused. There are always two sides to a love explosion but really; I think my street is swept nicely melodious and tidy. Okay, okay, I may have been horrific because I dared in my enthusiasm to post one of his better poems on my Fedbook page. The awful transgression probably was the twisted decaying straw that broke the two hump camels back. However, ya know, sometimes the plot and the characters get out of control by becoming real before the funding stream signs on the dotted line.


Herewith is a simple uncomplicated rope offered down the well. It is stable and will remain over the ledge, forever. Love and/or friendship does not die in two days, or after death. At some moment, a celestial intervention arrives as the grace of God, for each of us. When Eve gave Adam the apple and the present of knowledge our species no longer lived in paradise. Being cognizant and alert is at times the worse possible circumstance especially when your loved one is imploding or dying in your arms.


I have no answers or a special pass to avoid the jammed up pain, except to state now and continually, love shared and offered even in rejection, is the only way through the insanity, we fashion.


How we got here is not our responsibility. How we leave is. I prefer to know I conducted myself with loving poise telling few lies while remaining childlike in the face of crazy shit – to the best of my ship wrecked abilities. None of us is innocent. We are held accountable. I never really throw in the towel because I am one of those cranky oddballs. I do not fit inside any noble parameter except one of expanding funky love and lighted Scottish honor. My selective process is highly evolved as God is very fussy who I spend my time, energy, and emotions with. Yet, please know, I feel violated today, my heart was raped last night by something, not someone.


I may, or may not get over it. The vulnerability of me is at a lifetime level of mega-minus. Richie’s death, Arthur’s death, Dewey dying now, and this latest atrophy of the heart are beyond my faith. Looking out from my eschewed viewpoint, I am more than disappointed by my foolhardiness, I am overwhelmed by it. Nevertheless, and this is one of those regurgitations only a fool who loves can spit up – so what.


Shit does happen, too regularly, and the unpopular trick in living on this plane is actually silly. We get up from the floor, we wipe the shit off our souls, we straighten our heart, and we take the next step into the void. Freedom is not a safety net. Independence is not an ice cream cone. Justice is Maya. Although, as a working meta-value our species can probably not find another more needed attribute for peace.


Those brave enough to accept the assignment, trudge along the road less traveled because we have no other friggin’ choice. The mission hidden by the idiocy of our own uncertainties (read fears) or puffer fish acts eventually peals the rotting onion.


I was accused last night of being suspicious and when this was flung, the Zen monastery bell rang all the way from Big Sur. I have never in my life been a person who lives in the world of mistrust, doubt, or distrust except when coked up to the nines. My sober dumb m.o. is to trust from the get go and believe what is to be revealed as the layers of the onion fall to the ground as clues. My brother use to say I was the goddess of naiveté. Then one day, he looked at me, and the telepathic message between us was, “Trust is the roaring antithetical to intellectual skepticism, eh?”


Jealousy is also not an ingredient in my genetic code for unknown reasons. Turning green is about nature not envy. Curiosity is feared by those who prefer to live secret lives? I do not snoop. Investigative journalists publish or become nothing of importance if they breach their sources. I cannot breath without seeking knowledge, plus it is a factual question of deployment of resources. Living in truth is easier on the heart, simpler for the mind, and usually generates its own reward of newfound bliss, eventually if not instantly. The stress of fooling one’s self compounds the madness and further acts as the justification to tip the glass or snort the line.


Those under the influence, deep in their cups, and I speak from plenty of prior experience, manufacture stress/drama to be used as the corrupted reason we need a drink, a line, or whatever the addiction. In this muck of self-delusion we use to use. The division of honesty from reality becomes panoramic as the alteration of personality and destruction of soul proceeds ever down into a void of no-whereville.


Being blotto and railing on a loved one serves two masters. Lit to the gills one feels nothing, really, and spewing out self-loathing releases (read relieves) the self from splitting into fractions. The entire Humpty-Dumpy (H-D) profile used by therapists to rebuild a person shattered into a million pieces is not play dough at the pre-school of life. Re-habs need at least thirty days to try to break the chains around a drunk/addict and then time to rebuild a support system where H-D is back up sitting on the wall, cracked, but not leaking innards anymore.


I admit, last night, there was a pivotal moment, where I wanted to say f**k-it and click off the chat, block him, and wipe clean our histories of conversations. This is typical blabbering from the insidious demon glued to my shoulder. An entity not so heard from as in the past but refuses to take a hike, evermore. I tried burning it with goodness and it still appeared each time my heart heaved from an assault by another or nadakind blows up one more child, destroys one more eco-system, and so forth. The imp’s timing is perfect. It waits for the precise moment when I am losing it, emotionally.


F**k-it was my former pattern of no change. On this perpetual wheel of ceaseless who gives a shit I maintained the perfected status quo of why I deserved to get f**ked up.


I am different now. Brushing off the irritating fiend whispering in my ear last night, I took a very deep inhale and wrote back the opposite of what was being advised from the impish jerk who prefers me stoned. Once I reached this plateau, I continued to not mince my words or walk on egg shells yet in a nice way with manners and class asked questions because specifics of what was being leveled at me where so general. My mother and Arthur I am sure where beaming in their own way because without them and 28+ years sober and clean I probably would have blown the lid off my head and fallen prey to the unrelenting of the f**k-its.


Supernatural is love. Tormenting is love. Mischievous is love. Never ending is love. It makes no matter if the coupling is one or a whole society gone nuts.


The arts and crafts lantern is lit by the bamboo gate, and the entry is slightly ajar. Why? I took down my elaborate defensives because they were self-defeating but I am the first to admit my delivery system needs constant work and why I write.


Dropping blood on the keyboard is attending a wounded heart – his, mine, and yours.


What I read last night was not a real you, it was abusive fuel fired up by a whopping case of the f**k-its, as your birthday sneaks up on the horizon. I was the unwitting punching bag.


Those who now have confirmed to your selves I am ‘crazy lady’, so be it. The rest of you who disobey the social norms by going against prevailing denial, thank you for joining the bird tribe, or at the very least, realize in the final analysis, we are here for a very specific set of reasons. One, I believe is paramount – the actualization of love.


4 thoughts on “When Denial Slays Love

  1. Pingback: The Secret Deciphered: Part Two (again) | Melanie's Life Online

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    • Thank you for your kind words. Please do return. My goal with this blog is about heart’s blood spilled on the keyboard. So, to see I reached someone with my efforts if rewarding.

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