Mauve Skies

Why

“Why?”

After the long silence, one word is what I get. I didn’t see it coming. I’d gone to brush my teeth, and walked back in my room to find my mobile screen light had come on. I opened the message from my estranged former partner and stared at it.

“Why?”

What am I supposed to respond and say, if anything? What is he talking about? Why we broke up? There’s blame in that word, accusation. In a sense, “why did you destroy something that worked so well?” or “why me?”. He was a master of blame, looked for it everywhere around him but himself. I hated that. Is he really trying to blame me for everything?

Beneath the layer of accusation I can also read despair. I can see him now, on his sofa flicking through the channels on television as he usually would, not watching much, though now I suspect the volume would be turned up a little louder as he tries to scare away my ghost lying there next to him, hugging him from behind and falling asleep with my head against his. I know this is probably what he’s doing, I know because this is what I have done.

I’m not as sad about losing that relationship as I am heartbroken over what I’ve done to him. I love him still, I never will stop caring for him because I know him so well I can see past anything he says or does.

Yet this one word, staring me in the face, I can’t even reply to. Why.

A few possible responses run through my head. The one I began to text back was “You deserve a lot more than I can give you right now.” Corny, but true. I wasn’t ready to move in with him, throw in the towel so to speak and focus what little time I now have every day on just furthering a romantic relationship. This is obviously an item on my agenda, but it is one of many. Or maybe it was because I’ve betrayed him several times during the 3 years we’d spent together, and, finding that I could no longer maintain my own self-respect, I decided to run in the other direction. Or maybe it was because I felt so weak around him, used him as my moral compass, felt bad when he felt bad, and only happy if he felt happy; I’d lost control of myself and my own conviction, and I resented him for it. Maybe that’s “why”.

In the end, James, I really don’t know “why”. People’s paths cross, and some souls are closer together than others. Life without you is in many ways a living hell, but I’ve just begun to get back on my own feet, feel like my own self again. Maybe that’s overrated, but right now, even with all this doubt, it feels right.

Sticky and Sweet

“I want to thank God, and all my friends, that it DIDN’T FUCKING RAIN TODAY!” screamed Madonna mid-set. Sean, standing behind me, was 30 minutes into screaming and now his voice sounded more like an owl after a swig of diet coke. JS had got us tickets so close to the stage, I could practically smell the dancer’s resilient anti-presperant. Now that’s what I call Sticky and Sweet.

Sticky and Sweet, though not nearly the emotional tour de force that was the Confessions tour, was sexy, and total innovation – from the stage design to the remastered versions of all her great songs. Aside from some punk-ass bitch that tried to cut in front of us, the show was a visual treat, and the sounds that came from the mega speakers were divine. All hail the Queen.

Less than 48 hours later, I was strapped in a tight flight suit, bracing myself to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet. I wasn’t even nervous, but at the fear of looking like the Dalai Lama I tried to joke around a bit. My instructor was more playful than I was. Since it was my first ‘Jump’, he was strapped to my back to guide the skydive, and, when it finally opened at 3,000 feet, the parachute.

“Mate, what’s the difference between a Ferrari and an erection?” He yelled at me as I sat on his lap in the cramped, noisy wooden plane (yeah, I was ready to jump out of that thing if it ever got us to 10,000 feet). “What?!” I managed to yell back. He moved in a little closer and said “I don’t have a Ferrari”. All of a sudden, the air got colder, the sound of the engine faded. I was dropping, so fast. The clouds were far…below me. I was coming at them full speed. The air was so clean and crisp. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, yet it was going by so fast.

I was coming up on the clouds, and as the mist hit my face, the parachute shot up.

A tale of two cities

He makes him feel alive.

In London, the dark streets smothered with impatience and the silent shuffle of black suits blur his vision as he paces towards his office. The grey clouds above swirl, and in his eyes they merge with the square pavement, the asphalt, and the stone, steel and glass towers. The Royal Exchange and its Corinthian columns bear the Greco-Roman qualities of autumn like no others. A cold breeze runs through the streets unchallenged, floating around black taxis, down escalator shafts and through his own jacket.

The monochrome bleakness of his surroundings drives and animates his thoughts. His brain, surrounded by robotic movements and disengagement, jolts inwards, implodes with thought and colour. His thoughts take over his senses, simulating powerful sensations and memories of times long lost; like an ex drug addict hit by a flashback each feeling tingles through his veins and sends a sharp pang through his hollow chest.

At his desk, the computer’s processor hums silently, almost imperceptibly. Hundreds of documents lie in neat folders and piles around him. He picks up a piece of paper. The font is uniform and small. The language looked familiar. His eyes search for the beginning of the first sentence, but just as he starts reading a dab of blue jumps at him, strikes him from between the lines. Like a watermark hidden behind the black ink. He bites his cud, pauses. His eyes struggle to readjust on the page. A few more words and the sharp pang hits him deep in his chest, again.

A page and a half later, he gives up. He closes his eyes, leans back in his chair. The dab of blue swirls in his head, like cotton candy. It creates a pattern, then a circle. An eye, an eyelid, an eyebrow- a face, a smile.

Poems on the Underground

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

-Robert Graves

Meet him at the Love Parade

I go for long periods without writing anything at all. I like to say to myself that I’m too busy living life, which may very well be the truth. I say that, and then something happens, inspires me, makes my surroundings so inadequate that I have to work with the joy, pain, or often a mixture of both by writing something down. A record.

My last true summer vacation is coming to a hasty end. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. The wind blew me a lot of places I had so looked forward to seeing. What is even better is that on every trip I was surrounded by people that I loved and enjoyed. Rio was a dream. So was Rome. Cairo, Siwa, Sinai, and the Egyptian sun that once inspired the first monotheism brought me back to earth and in utter beauty I found myself emotionally regenerating. The last leg of my trips was not necessarily the most overwhelming, but certainly the most intense. Attending Pride weekend in Amsterdam was an experience I don’t think I will ever forget.

I flew in early in the morning on Saturday. Jim’s friends happened to be staying the hotel next door, so I met them briefly for breakfast on the beautiful PC Hoofstraat. DK, SL, and SF had all flew in from Cairo and were sleeping still in the hotel. Soon we were all making our way to the parade which went down the Prinsengracht. The atmosphere was euphoric. Scantily clad men and families (children included) danced and waved in the streets, confetti and celebration floating in the air. DK, SL, SF and I were all in bright clothes, our surroundings clearly elevating us. We watched and played and met yet another two friends from London, who had gone slightly ‘out there’ with the outfits. One of them spent the good part of an hour posing for pictures with tourists. It was a lot of fun.

Soon the party moved further north to the gay neighbourhood. Music was loud and everywhere, people hopping, jumping and laughing. What struck me the most was how friendly everyone was (but I guess living in London always makes that a truly remarkable feature). I had met this German/Canadian guy earlier at the parade, and I contemplated having a little fun with him. My two friends from London offered me some dancing chemical inducement, and, figuring it was legal and probably not so bad an idea once in a long while, I happily obliged.

Somewhere between the rolling bass and dancing bodies, a beautiful man caught my attention. He was about my height, or a little shorter. Trimmed beard, short blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, and athletic/slim stature. He saw me and smiled, and as soon as he did I felt this odd sense of familiarity. Not like a déjà vu, but more like a sense of relation, though I was sure we’d never met. JS he said his name was, Iranian but from the States. We spoke for a bit amidst the madness. His mannerisms were Middle Eastern. I figured that may be what was striking the sense of familiarity in me. He was very sweet, and his kisses were simple, not glaringly sexual. In the circumstances, he was a little drunk and I was still recovering from the amphetamines, so at the end of the evening after he’d gone to the White party and I to the Bear Necessity party with DK, I promised him we’d have lunch together the next day.

Sunday was a dream. I stopped by his hotel and took him to my neck of the woods for food. The city was quiet, beautiful, and a little cold. I put my arm around him to try and insulate us both, and we strolled through the narrow roads and over the canals. As we were both a little tired, we opted for a nap together, and it was one of the most amazing few hours I’d spent with anyone. Though not sexual, it was an intense experience, like prayer. We held each other, gently touching, tasting, feeling all there was to feel. The gravity of his skin kept my arms in motion, engulfing his body. Soon we both fell asleep, practically glued together.

Then SA arrived by surprise from Austria. I promised JS we would meet later in the evening after I’d spent some time with her and share a drink as a group as his cousins were also in town. I hopped in a cab and picked up SA, and by then the streets had filled up again with music. We danced as we walked to Rose’s Cantina for a bite and some alcohol. JS met us there with his group and we had a substantial amount of Petron. I watched him as he laughed and joked around. The sense of familiarity was so strong at this point, but coupled with even stronger infatuation. I was lucky and honoured to find out that he felt just as strongly about me. We had a great night, took all of the bar staff at Rose’s Cantina out partying with us to a couple of clubs. SM was having a blast, making friends left and right. I had missed her so much, and was so happy that I was able to offer her great company and a fun night in Amsterdam albeit my last one.

I kept dreading the morning, when I knew I would have to leave. JS and I fell asleep on the couch in his hotel room, with him resting his head against my chest. At some point in the middle of the night (or morning as it was) we moved to the bed. Again we fell asleep together and woke up far too early to catch our respective flights. As his flight was an hour later than mine, we spent our last few moments together by the gate D14 in Schipol. It was a beautiful day and the sun lit his eyes up like the sky. I kept him very close until it was time for me to go. On the short flight to London and until this moment, hours later, the pain of leaving him behind has been multiplying, though equally has the feeling of joy at meeting someone that managed to shake up my reality. Before boarding I had given him my Bedouin scarf, just to make sure he didn’t wait too long before visiting me in London. But any time at all is too long at this point. As I write this I stare blankly at the trees in Battersea park, feeling like someone’s ripped a piece of my gut out.

Failure rates

A new Chief Executive at Proctor and Gamble recently decided to take the issue of corporate busines strategy to the next level. To him the biggest threat to P&G was the strategic inertia that kept it from adapting and taking the innovative lead in the market. He re-structured the company, and created subsidiaries aimed at innovation and only innovation. But instead of setting a success rate for these subsidiaries, our fellow CEO decided to set a common rate of...failure.

When you think about it, it is ingenius. His argument was that if the new subsidiaries weren't failing enough, they weren't taking enough risks with their innovations. By setting a rate of failure, he ensures that his thinkers were thinking far enough outside the box to make mistakes or, when they get lucky, come up with something brilliant.

I wondered, learning all this, if we as individual should set a standard rate of failure for ourselves - just so we can make sure that we're taking enough risks in our lives, and truly maximizing our benefit from it. I personally shudder at the very idea of a standard rate of failure. Failure to me has never been an option, and when it has happened on very random and few occasions, I struggled with it immensely. Not on a self-esteem level necessarily, but simply mourned through the de facto situation.

I realized that perhaps the reason I fail so infrequently is because I take very little risks with my life. Maybe I am not really living, just going through calculated motions which are in the grand scheme of things at best circular, anchored down to a center, like the limb of a protractor. Not that I've never taken risks - falling in love was a risk, moving away from home at 17 was a risk. Still now more than ever I feel inertia, and perhaps taking a risk (albeit an intelligent one) is the answer?

Sex and Emasculation

e·mas·cu·late

1.	to castrate.

2.	to deprive of strength or vigor; weaken.

–adjective

3.	deprived of or lacking strength or vigor; effeminate.

With the gradual revival of my sex life, and with the ebbing of the tide of monogamy, I've gained a perspective on sex and particularly my sexuality that had been lost on me in the past. It is in those moments of ascending suspense, of nearing sexual climax, and the resulting 30 or so seconds of pure ecstasy by which (if you're of the freudian persuasion) the human psyche is eternally mesmerized; yes it is in those few but parallel moments that inhibitions are truly lost, as if with every physical thrust our conscious inertia loses ground and our deepest fantasies and secrets merge for the glorious tour de force.

The feeling I get during sex, uncomparable to any else, now is matched with intrigue at my own thought trajectory. As I near my own climax, thoughts rush through my head at an alarming rate. Suddenly, and though i see a beautiful male form before me, I stare him in the eye and my brain begins to emasculate him. Little by little, he turns into my beautiful, hungry...no... sex-starved...girl. I go even faster. My thoughts spiral into four letter words demeaning him, reducing him, objectifying him, all to get what I want out of him - a solid orgasm.

I lay in bed next him thinking about what just happened. Am I actually straight and in the closet about it? No. I'm fairly positive the reason I emasculate my random sexual partners to get a good kick is because, on a very fundamental level, if they retained their masculinity during sex I wouldn't feel as confident or as dominant. Society has taught me that, at least in bed, women are on the receiving end, seeking the domination of their male partners. That scenario either is natural or convenient for me. I seek to dominate because not only is it sexually pleasurable, but it also takes away any nervousness I might be going through in light of how gorgeous or 'masculine' this guy is.

The good news is, once the sex is over, any trace of such sexist animalism is gone. The human being that he is resurfaces and my sexual rants are drowned out...