Hey, that's no way to say goodbye...
Sep. 22nd, 2003 04:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tyggerjaiBut what *can* you say to someone who no longer has reason to believe anything you say?
What's left for a wordsmith whose words are worthless?
Casper was the first great love of my life. The first woman I thought I'd be with forever. Back when Kahlil Gibrahn seemed profound, and the summers seemed eternal, Casper and I stood on the edge of a life together and dared each other to jump. To fly. She led me - with laughter, with anger, with moments both of tenderness and sorrow, to a life I'd imagined but never truly dared to believe. She took me by the hand, and made me jump. And fuck me if I couldn't fly after all. And everything - but *everything* - that's led me here has stemmed from that. Leaving the warm, stifling comfort of Canberra for the life in Melbourne that has been so exquisitely rewarding? Happened because Casper showed me my wings. Finally tossing in the University degree to chase Lisa to Adelaide, and every moment (and they were never dull) with Lisa that followed? Happened because Casper taught me that my Goddess would never let me fall. A single morning of swings in the park and smoked salmon for breakfast. Three and a half years with the perfect rabbit. There are a thousand, a million moments of bliss and glory tattooed on my heart because I had the courage to make them mine. Because I would not sit quietly by and let life do with me as it would.
But there's a price for that. Against that I have to set an equal number of moments that I *want* to forget, and they all come down to this; that to grasp something new you must, ultimately, let go of something old. To move to Melbourne I let go of Casper the first time. To chase Lisa I let go of her the second time. And I never got a third. After the second - especially after Lisa, when I was swallowing my pride and crawling back on hands and knees to those I'd hurt, I'd spend nights with a phone in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, but I'd learnt by then - I never rang.
What, after all, could I say?
Or more to the point, how could she possibly believe it?
Because I never said thank you then. Never even acknowledged that without her, I'd still be crawling on the ground. Ironic, innit? A decade after our finest hours, a decade of flying solo, a decade of making it clear that I *can* fly without her, and now I want to say thank you. Ten years ago, when I really did need her, I never even realised it. And certainly would never have acknowledged it.
So I never rang. And because I never rang, because the last time we spoke we didn't say goodbye, there's still, perhaps, a feather or two in these wings of mine that belong more properly to her. And sometimes - just sometimes - they sit uncomfortably. I catch glimpses of them, and wonder (as I do for no other) where she is now. and what we could have been. And now, I wonder what she called her child, and whether it's a boy or a girl. And most of all, I wonder how to say "thank you", and "I'm sorry", and wonder if there's any point, beyond salving my conscience.
There isn't. And the only thing harder than saying "I'm sorry" (for me, anyway ;), is not being able to. And she said this day would come, when pretty words and glib lies weren't enough, and she was right about that, too.
Sa. And now I've spent hours and pages justifying not saying sorry to the one person who really deserves it from me. And she's probably forgotten me, and probably doesn't even care anymore. Probably laughs to think how seriously we both took it, and would laugh even more if she knew I still even thought about it. I hope so.
But if I'm being honest, there's a part of me that also kinda hopes her son is called Christopher, and that there's a poster on his wall that his mother drew, that says "Move over sun and give me some sky, I've found some wings and am learning to fly...". Because it'd be nice to know some part of our dream survived.
Casper's Song
I remember you writing the words I sing,
And the peace that your touch used to bring
When I woke, afraid, in the cold moonlight
When bad dreams came in the darkest night.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright.
I remember the inspiration you breathed into my guitar,
I remember guiding my life by your brighter star.
And the scars of the beautiful pain of our beautiful game,
And I remember the nights we ran through the warmest rain.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright.
I remember the travelling feathers you plaited through my hair
And I remember walking with you into the lion's lair.
And patterns of sweet deceit, the delicate charade
And watching life's so strange and strangely wonderful parade.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright ....
Solitaire.
.
What's left for a wordsmith whose words are worthless?
Casper was the first great love of my life. The first woman I thought I'd be with forever. Back when Kahlil Gibrahn seemed profound, and the summers seemed eternal, Casper and I stood on the edge of a life together and dared each other to jump. To fly. She led me - with laughter, with anger, with moments both of tenderness and sorrow, to a life I'd imagined but never truly dared to believe. She took me by the hand, and made me jump. And fuck me if I couldn't fly after all. And everything - but *everything* - that's led me here has stemmed from that. Leaving the warm, stifling comfort of Canberra for the life in Melbourne that has been so exquisitely rewarding? Happened because Casper showed me my wings. Finally tossing in the University degree to chase Lisa to Adelaide, and every moment (and they were never dull) with Lisa that followed? Happened because Casper taught me that my Goddess would never let me fall. A single morning of swings in the park and smoked salmon for breakfast. Three and a half years with the perfect rabbit. There are a thousand, a million moments of bliss and glory tattooed on my heart because I had the courage to make them mine. Because I would not sit quietly by and let life do with me as it would.
But there's a price for that. Against that I have to set an equal number of moments that I *want* to forget, and they all come down to this; that to grasp something new you must, ultimately, let go of something old. To move to Melbourne I let go of Casper the first time. To chase Lisa I let go of her the second time. And I never got a third. After the second - especially after Lisa, when I was swallowing my pride and crawling back on hands and knees to those I'd hurt, I'd spend nights with a phone in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, but I'd learnt by then - I never rang.
What, after all, could I say?
Or more to the point, how could she possibly believe it?
Because I never said thank you then. Never even acknowledged that without her, I'd still be crawling on the ground. Ironic, innit? A decade after our finest hours, a decade of flying solo, a decade of making it clear that I *can* fly without her, and now I want to say thank you. Ten years ago, when I really did need her, I never even realised it. And certainly would never have acknowledged it.
So I never rang. And because I never rang, because the last time we spoke we didn't say goodbye, there's still, perhaps, a feather or two in these wings of mine that belong more properly to her. And sometimes - just sometimes - they sit uncomfortably. I catch glimpses of them, and wonder (as I do for no other) where she is now. and what we could have been. And now, I wonder what she called her child, and whether it's a boy or a girl. And most of all, I wonder how to say "thank you", and "I'm sorry", and wonder if there's any point, beyond salving my conscience.
There isn't. And the only thing harder than saying "I'm sorry" (for me, anyway ;), is not being able to. And she said this day would come, when pretty words and glib lies weren't enough, and she was right about that, too.
Sa. And now I've spent hours and pages justifying not saying sorry to the one person who really deserves it from me. And she's probably forgotten me, and probably doesn't even care anymore. Probably laughs to think how seriously we both took it, and would laugh even more if she knew I still even thought about it. I hope so.
But if I'm being honest, there's a part of me that also kinda hopes her son is called Christopher, and that there's a poster on his wall that his mother drew, that says "Move over sun and give me some sky, I've found some wings and am learning to fly...". Because it'd be nice to know some part of our dream survived.
Casper's Song
I remember you writing the words I sing,
And the peace that your touch used to bring
When I woke, afraid, in the cold moonlight
When bad dreams came in the darkest night.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright.
I remember the inspiration you breathed into my guitar,
I remember guiding my life by your brighter star.
And the scars of the beautiful pain of our beautiful game,
And I remember the nights we ran through the warmest rain.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright.
I remember the travelling feathers you plaited through my hair
And I remember walking with you into the lion's lair.
And patterns of sweet deceit, the delicate charade
And watching life's so strange and strangely wonderful parade.
And do you remember the way we flew?
Well do you remember feeling blue,
But knowing it would be alright?
I always thought that it would be alright ....
Solitaire.
.
Poignant
Date: 2003-09-22 06:55 pm (UTC)I remember much of what you are talking about, including the Adelaide jaunt. I even remember the conversation where you mentionied that Lisa had asked you what the point of remaining in contact with C was.
The feeling of unfinished business, of lacking the appropriate resolution can be very powerful. Common feature of life, of course.
Send flowers with thank you?
Re: Poignant
Date: 2003-09-22 07:12 pm (UTC)If she's over it, and forgotten it, then I can see that as being entirely the *wrong* thing, and far worse than just letting it go. It re-awakens all sorts of suspicion, and unpleasant memories best left sleeping. "Oh great, now I have to be reminded of all that crap I got over years ago, just because Jai feels guilty. Get The Fuck Out Of My Life." And if the only reason for doing that is to salve my own conscience, then it's the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. Even worse if I'm renewing contact just to say " ... but I don't actually want to renew contact...". I can't think of a *worse* thing to do. If she's over it. If not, well, different kettle of fish, but in the absence of actual knowledge, it's probably safest to assume she doesn't want to hear from me. I probably wouldn't, if I were her :)
Ah well.
I'll live.
Thanks for the thought, though.
jai.
.
Re: Poignant
Date: 2003-09-22 07:28 pm (UTC)Ah well.
Shit happens. There are very few things in my life that have turned out to be both irreversible *and* hard to get over. Most of the irreversible ones I've managed to just walk away from. Worth having one kicking around to remind me that sometimes, just sometimes, the things you fuck up can't be fixed or walked away from.
sol.
.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-22 08:05 pm (UTC)Another question: was that child yours?
(no subject)
Date: 2004-01-22 08:49 pm (UTC)And for exactly the reason you give - it *can* move mountains, no doubt. Sometimes it really does make a huge difference. But sometimes it makes exactly the opposite difference - sometimes it really is an unwelcome intrusion. Especially after ten years. But yes, that's exactly why I'm torn, because sometime it can heal, and sometimes it can hurt, and my instinct in this instance says to let it go, however hard that is.
If the child were mine, it would be a whole different scenario. But again, the fact that she has a child, and had it 7, 8 years after we parted, is further evidence of her having moved on.
*shrug*
I suspect the entire problem is that there are good arguments for both cases, and we can never *know* which is right. Ah well. You've given me a little more to think about, at least :)
sol.
.