An impermanent romance

I found the box of letters and poems from my muse that I buried on April 2000. After 7 years in a plastic bag they have all survived altho soaking I was able to separate the pages and dry them. Her picture is completely clear and unfaded, her world still with the writing on it and the bottle of Eternity fragrance still as fresh as when I buried it.

Reading her letters briefly in the cold light of a less passionate heart as I did the forensics, a clear pattern emerges. She never felt love. She didn't even believe in it. She was trying to escape this as much as I was. Within a few months a peom describes how her "picturesque orb" was smashed and her feelings and the words became hollow. The initial flurries of excitement and passion that had so enthralled her faded so quickly. The following two years we battled through poems and letters, me trying to keep it alive to create a lasting heart and she sceptical. The normal course of this would have been a sexual relationship but only as long as our feelings remained and both of us were profoundly aware of how short lived that would have been.

The rule I had created ages ago was the deferal of sexual pleasure builds a stronger heart. That has been the yoke around my neck. I knew that were this to become a sexual relationship it would become very ordinary and the special quality would be lost. I have deferred sex all these years and so kept the dream alive. I wonder if she ever understood and how far our hearts were pulled through the imperfect world of temporary meaningless liasons. I made myself precious by noit giving in, I made her even more precious by treating her as more than just an object of sexual gratification.

Well its undone now. I broke this most fundamental rule this morning. Everything is impermanent. Sex and female/male union is about childbirth and the vain attempt to set back the process of aging and death. What use is there for men and women after death? What is the use of love after death? How can there be people desiring each other after death? When Death strikes we have lost and our petty romances are shown to be what they are. With a photo of her recovered picture I had a short and pointless wank this morning in which she was simply an object of gratification and so broke the rule. She is not that pretty, she is not that special to the eye.

What does remain however is her poems and they still enthral as much today as when I met her. She had such an extraordinary talent. I always wanted to learn and match her writing but I never will, that was a talent unmatchable. In this sense and the sense of our friendship she was very special. It is such a shame that the body and the mind were never going to unite, that the temporary sexual boy-girlness and the joy that gave us had no place in the purer picture of our souls. I am more convinved now that such a unity is impossible that we much make our friends independent of sexuality and make our sex independent of our friends. Its a sad day for romantics and life long partners. In this sense she was right and my attempt to say otherwise has fallen into the void, just as she said it would.

An extraordinary bird has taken up residence in my mothers garden. It is a black bird with the yellow eye ring but a finer and redder beak, and has the behaviour of a thrush. It is clearly a Turdus sp. But it's song is loud and extraordinary. Like nothing that exists in the UK. From early morning to late evening it sits in the horse chestnut next to where I buried the poems and fills the garden with its simple motif. Horn Pipe, Horn Pipe then a falling note. I was looking at it on Sunday and wondered if it might show me where I had buried the memories. I have been looking for them for 3 years. Later I went to the spot and had a think. I realised that the path through the undergrowth may have moved in those years. I took a spade started to dig at one point but gave up quickly realising it was futile. I looked again and moved to a different spot. Within seconds I saw the plastic of the bag. i couldn't believe after all these years and all the trying to remember I had it. No emotion that has all gone, I just opened it all up and began the task of separating the pile of papers. All this really has and must come to its close.

My mother said later in the day that the bird must have a special affinity with me because whenever I am home it sings all day and doesn't leave the garden. i didn't know that. We have silly thoughts I wonder what it means?