I Miss You.

I Miss You.

The worst thing about losing you

was your choice to END the dialogue.

Now, I have to smile and pretend that you are:

“Just someone I used to know.”

But my rebellious nature

holds the truth close:

You were always,

more than

just about anyone,

to me.

– conchita.

(if) My Heart Could Speak to YOU…

(if) My heart could speak to YOU…

She would be (subjectively) honest.

She would tell you…she knew she never possessed delusions of forever, but that she cherished every moment…as precious.

When I left you that night, things were finished, we left out past to evolve into the next stage…

I felt good.

I felt bad.

I felt loss.

I won’t apologize for wanting more for you, more than I could give, for pushing you away so that you could have everything, every desire, everything I heard your heart screaming for!

She (your heart) was loud.

She (your heart) was right.

So, squeezed my heart tight and let you go.

I believed our love would transcend. That we meant more than public declarations or tokens of affection. I looked forward to watching you grow…seeing in you as the beautiful woman I know you are becoming.

I had hope.

I had love.

I had faith…in you.

I felt you pull-away. I expected this, “it’s natural.” I backed-up as well, to allow you room to heal…time for the old spaces to fill-in and new ones to appear; spaces for us to flourish, new.

Then I asked for the return of something that was mine, of great sentimental value, it was a gift to me, and not for you to keep indefinitely. If I sound defensive I am, because I never expected what came next.

Perhaps it was the final blow to your pride…I hurt you, too much. And, in return, you lashed out with the only weapon you felt you had, perhaps the weapon you knew would impact most:


…or in this case text messages, which are in so many ways worse because you can wound without ever looking your victim in the eye. I liken “murder-by-text-message” to launching missiles at a target as opposed to hand-to-hand combat…if words were weapons and communication was war.

(if) My heart could speak…

She would be (subjectively) honest.

She texts:

“(you were) A complete waste of my time.”

Time is never wasted…and the moments we shared encompassed some of the sweetest, most divine in my life.

“Thank God I still have my youth, you are DEAD and GONE.”

This hurt. Bad.


“Dead”? The word hangs, pulls me down…yanks of my fears and tests my will. I have wished many things on my enemies, and shamefully worse on the ones I love…in times of anger or rage-filled tantrums. But, I have never wished death…metaphorically or otherwise. It seems…too final.

Death = the end.

And here we have it…this word hurts me…the most…because it means we are truly over; that there will be no new spaces for us in her life, in our lives.

I have never been good with separations.

Hell, I have never been great with attachments.

I run screaming from the former, and cling desperately to the latter.

Still, DEATH…seems so cruel to me; too recent in my present, too present in my past.

I remind my heart that she is still so young…of the many missteps I took at her age.

(if) My heart could speak to YOU…

She would be (subjectively) honest.

“I still have my youth…” (she types)

Yes, you do. And with that youth you have the expanse of expectations without the control and compassion that accompanies life experience.

And yet,

in all my experience with love…I have never found death.

My heart…my heart loves forever.

She sends you a kiss, and wishes your heart…peace and loving kindness.



(for Jessica).

Note: I hope that this entry is not overly self-indulgent, my intention is to be open to the emotional process, however messy and uncomfortable it might be…it IS a process after all, thank you for…listening.

Celebrating LIVING Through Death: A Thought for Gi’

I find it frustrating that so often grieving is filled with comforting the living, rather than celebrating the dead.

I wonder if the death of another frightens us in such a way that we become fixated on the fragility of LIVING and not just “life” itself.

Suicide seems another matter entirely. Its impact seems to only intensify this reaction to death.

I have been touched multiple times by suicide, my father, my aunt, my patients…and now my friend and lover Gi’. In a very real way, I can identify suicide as a primary factor in my own development. Suicide has shaped who I am: my choice in career, my relationships with others, even my personality.

Suicide has given me a rich appreciation for life, for the impermanence of relationships, the enduring nature of love, and the importance of contributing to society as a whole.

Perhaps I have hit on it, where my frustration lies, it is not in the fixations of others, but rather in my own.

It is difficult to go on living with death on your back (literally and figuratively, I have a calaveras de azucar tattooed on my back); frustrating to look for “life in death” constantly. Yes, it is painful and trying…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lately I find myself re-reading the Hume…returning to his and other related work on suicide, with the intent to make philosophical sense of this unthinkable “life”-choice. I found this excerpt…which rings true, for my (our) most recent loss:

Suicide is justified when man’s life, owing to circumstances outside of a person’s control, is no longer possible; an example might be a person with a painful terminal illness, or a prisoner in a concentration camp who sees no chance of escape. In cases such as these, suicide is not necessarily a philosophic rejection of life or of reality. On the contrary, it may very well be their tragic reaffirmation. Self-destruction in such contexts may amount to the tortured cry: “Man’s life means so much to me that I will not settle for anything less. I will not accept a living death as a substitute.” – Leonard Peikoff, Objectism: the philosophy of Ayn Rand

Reading this…I can only envision Gi’ dancing in the spotlight…


xxx c.

“Still I Rise” – Back at it (Blogging) With a Vengeance!

Still I Rise

 You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise. 

Maya Angelou

I thought these words  inspirational and fitting after such a tough month. Readying for conference and dealing with the suicide of a very close friend and lover…it hasn’t been an easy time. But, blogging has always represented a way of connecting…to others as well as, myself…and so…

I rise.

xxx, c.

Dia de los Muertos: Marigolds 2 Brighten Our Path

Death has arrived
dancing the carisisqui
she has come to take with her
the visitors of Mixquic.

-Tacho, Street Poet

Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos– Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico

As a little girl I adored marigolds. We planted them in our garden in all shades of yellow, orange and rust. Such a sunlike full flower they were hardy enough to withstand the torrential downpours of Seattle. How fitting then that they are such an integral part of Dia de los Muertos

Flowers, symbolizing the brevity of life, are massed and fashioned into garlands, wreaths and crosses to decorate the altar and the grave. The marigold is the most traditional flower of the season. In Aztec times it was called the cempasuchil, the flower of 400 lives.

The fragrance of the cempasuchil leads the spirits home. Sometimes paths of the petals lead out of the cemetery and to the house to guide the spirits. A cross of marigold petals is formed on the floor so that as the spirit approaches the alter, he will step on the cross and expel his guilt.

(I wonder if it works if you are still living…xxx c.)

Girl-on-Girl: Talk of loss…over wine, and with LOVE

I had dinner and (too much) red wine with my girlfriend Jessica last night…and we talked about life. It was a melancholy conversation…discussing loss, desires, and dreams…but it felt good…it felt right…it felt like it was time to delve deeper, to explore the hopes and fears that I think we all tamp down in the beginning of relationships, afraid of being judged. And you know it’s right when afterward you do not feel judged…you feel absolved? No, that’s not quite right…you feel LOVED, unconditionally. Thank you Jessica…this quote below, from you female icon…is JUST FOR YOU! xxx c

“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”
Marilyn Monroe