The Biscuit Question

Well, I've done it again, pulled into myself and stopped writing.  I could cite a number of reasons but I suppose the truth is I've run headlong into another relationship.  It was just a few weeks after the Professor sent his letter ending our time together.  The headlong dash was the sort of behaviour I had deplored in others in the past, but then if I've learnt anything from the years since the Absent Father departed, it's never to say 'never'.

If I'm honest I knew that before the AF's departure, but it has been apposite since that time.  I've been through so many changes of mind, belief system and understanding of what might be truth, the idea that 'never' could be a concept has risen up to bite me on occasion.  It's part of what makes the blog so interesting and embarrassing.  I have written with such absolute passion, and quite a lot of pain, then at a point in the future I have realised I've done another volte face.  It is, frankly, a tad humiliating.  Who am I? What do I believe? Shall I just let the emotions wash over the stones of time and flood away so I don't have to question the nature of my identity at any given point?  I am who I am now.  The fact that 'am' was different from the 'am' 6 months ago is just endearing, isn't it?  It isn't to me, it's quite frightening that this, sadly unchanging, adult body contains something so fluid as my mind.  Are there any constancies that I can hold onto, anything that I could claim as 'me'?

This comes to the fore when the new relationship emerges.  I have previously disapproved of others not giving time for themselves, when I have to admit part of the reason I had time to do the work was that there was nobody for me.  Others had urged that it was the best path to be alone and learn to like being alone.  But as I looked around all those years ago, it seemed that the 'good ones' got snapped up and the rest of us made the best of it.  A bit like the dating scene for teenagers, and to some extent that's true.  There is a desperation that strikes when you have been 'dumped' (as I insist on saying)  You may put a big, brave face on it, although we all know that wasn't my modus operandi; not wanting to talk, or appear to be bothered about the fact your life structure has been smashed, your hopes and dreams left in tatters.  The important thing is to get the job in hand done and nobody else is to be concerned for you: you are a cog in a machine and you can look after yourself.  The truth, as I see it, is that path may hold more desperation than mine.  If you look like you're doing fine, you don't talk about the 'ex' and hold yourself together, then maybe people will see you as a decent prospect not the write-off you feel inside.  Who needs to see inside anyway? Certainly not you, and as the last person in your life clearly didn't care for your inner machinations, then maybe they are just not for public consumption and best left buried.

The trouble is such emotional burying never really works.  Either the body absorbs the stress, and starts failing, or the mind builds pools of pain, deep and dark, that would take the sunshine of a lot of love and understanding to dry out.  Perhaps that is why second marriages have such a high attrition rate.

As you know, dear friends of the blogsphere, I have dabbled in internet dating, although the Latest Lovely Man was met through more conventional means, on holiday.  I believe women who are slightly more commercially savvy than me have already published witty tomes on their adventures, so my thoughts on internet dating are hardly novel, but I'll give you my angle for perusal.  There are the desperate, the sad, the bad, the adventurers, the diamonds and the ones who lie, although they could include all of the above.  I have never felt in danger on an internet date, frequently bored and occasionally had a lot of fun.  I have made one really good friend and learnt quite a lot.  There was the man who went back to his Ex's house to use the iron because 'it's half mine isn't it?', clearly not in a place to start dating again.  He didn't go on and on, and in early emails was apparently trying to move forward, just once you started talking you realised there was a film in his head still playing the 'I'm married and she will have me back' reel.  There are the liars about age, relationship status, health and income.  There are those who don't know what they want, but they want someone to show off to their 'friends' (as if real friends would be bothered as long as you are happy).  And, of course, there are those who want what they had and lost, and are looking for something as near as possible to a replacement, because either they still love their ex, or they believe that's what worked for them and so they have a relationship 'slot' that must be filled with the same type of person.  You can see the logic in that one, but the screaming issue is that the last relationship didn't work, so why do it all again?

I suppose I can congratulate myself that my relationships have been varied.  Others maybe able to see the link in the few who have made it to boyfriend status, I can't.  They have appealed to me at the time, and as time passed, that appeal waned, but always I have taken something out the experience.  But perhaps I've paid a price too.

So here I am, part of a partnership again, learning our rules, being described as 'like an old married couple' by some friends of my LLM already.  It's easy, this one; it's comfortable, fun and private.  But there is a part of me that knows we are all desperate, sad, bad, adventurers, diamonds or liars at some point in our lives.  Not that we all do it consciously or with malice, and so I found myself writing this poem.  It's the first in a very long time

The Cage

The bars slot into place
Clasps clip in smooth grooves.

And you build the undulations
You imagine should be there
That grip in damp necessity
Round the frame
I made so sturdy.

The clay dries.
And you paint upon the smooth skin,
Scenes wondrous to behold,

But just, perchance,
I shake.
The struts vibrate,
In free form bliss,
Crumbling the biscuit coating
To the ground beneath my feet.

What horror!
I am not a doll
Of rare, reflecting beauty,

Just a woman in a cage,
She closed upon herself.