Hunting the Hound-dog

My lovelies,

Apologies for my inactive blogging of late. I have had some wonderful life changes. I am now in a new job working with the most wonderful, diverse range of women imaginable and I am back studying in faded leggings and grandma jumpers, where happiness comes with sun shining through the study window, the sound of the postman driving up the road and the smell and sight of a pot of chai steaming up my computer screen.

I do have some news for you and yes it is juicy. In fact it is dirty and juicy and it involves a potential scoundrel. You will love it my darlings.

Last week I went on my first official internet date. I had been on one before but I do not classify it is as authentic (and it certainly was not blog-worthy). With the first internet date, I attended out of guilt. He had contacted me and paid for it. My heart stretched out when I saw how persistently he emailed, how he wore his cargo trousers too tightly around the crotch  and when I accidentally bumped into him on Brunswick Street and thought avoiding his eye would equate to snobbery. I felt like I needed to meet him, to show him that he was still worthy of an OJ and a sunny afternoon. I showed up all snotly and stinking of the garlic and lemon drinks which I had soaked myself in. It lasted half n hour. He almost ran from the place. I think the garlic did it. Perhaps a vampire lurked underneath the cargos.

The second internet date – the latest- was real. I thought sparks might fly, that we may have an edge. His photo had no head. That is how the chat started. I asked him where his head was and if he had one at all. It seems he did but he was not keen to expose it. Interesting. We chatted and the conversation flowed. Well as much as a little chat box with pinging rings can flow. There were common interests (wine and well, wine) and common friends of friends of friends. We took it a step further. Emails begun and I even exposed my real name. This was going somewhere. He called me when he said he would. We spoke for an hour about the world and how we were going to shake it up. He was a go-getter, a world-saver, a laugher, a runner and a wine-drinker and I damn well liked it.

We met for a soy chai latte. We had two. It was awkward. He asked a lot of questions, I felt like I was in an interrogation unit but still there were moments I felt like this could lead down a sun-shiney path. He won me over when he told me about his eccentric family – the lesbian aunts who created a café called ‘sticky tarts’, the wild uncle who lives in the bush, growing mountains of weed. I was intrigued.

Now, my dears, this is not going where you may expect. This morning I felt like our beautiful little connection was chug chug chugging down the trainline and that it may indeed lead somewhere. Tonight is a different story. I found him on Facebook. A closed account, nothing unusual there. Then I noticed a girl on the left-hand side of the screen – one of his 332 friends – who had her hand enjoyable planted on the back of his ass. Interesting. I clicked. Her photo albums were open. Click. Photos of the two of them peering back at me, at family functions, camping, travelling, picknicking and most importantly, hugging. Her status: in a relationship. Hm. Hm. Hm. And when was the latest photo taken? March 2011. And what had he told me? I broke up with my girlfriend  four months ago. Four months ago, March 2011, in a relationship. Fuck. Now the train is flying off the rails.

Now, I am not jumping the gun my dears but I may have actually hunted down a hound-dog. I may have scooped a scoundrel. Im thinking up tactics and am leaving room for an explanation but right now the hound-dog seems like he is gonna get hung. He better hurry up and explain for the hanging shall not wait. I might just do it tomorrow - on a Sunday, when a hanging can occur in conjunction with a hallelujah.

Love

Sierra x

Invisible glances and a sea of silent words

I saw him through a nook in a door frame. I could not miss the hair. It could be no other. The hair, well, it almost sizzles, it is that much on fire. I refer to both texture and colour. Hairdressers beware. There is work to be done.

We had been intimate once and, before that, we had been friends. It had ended in the short, sharp, blunt abruption of an sms. An unanswered sms that was sent out to sea in a bottle, never returned and ended up in the abyss of an electronic black hole.  

Once he had looked so fiercely at me with his striking sky-blue eyes. Once we had debated religion, medicine and musical passions. Now we would only exchange invisible glances and a sea of silent words.

Why. Why do lovers go from the closest bond known to man where skin touches skin and sweat seeps into sweat, to the distance of absolute strangers separated by a space where our tragic past floats above us, slicing the peace of the room in two. Worst still, why does it happen in the wink of an eye, where I barely get time to hold my breath. All that is left is the jenga, perfectly preserved in its glory box since the 1980s, a loan which I offered to return but where the library officer failed to return my calls.

With him sat a striking blonde. A jealous demon within me grinded its teeth while my contemplative side of meditative zen thought that perhaps our encounter had inspired him to care for another and treat her right. I reassured myself that my rejection may be a part of a greater good. After all, this is the man who told me he never gives compliments, he does not know how. Perhaps with this girl he can tell her exactly how wonderful she truly is, a wonder I could see even from across the echoing room – that her hair is like threads of gold, that when she smiles, laughs, and gestures wildly I can sense her kindness, and that she holds a cigarette with the same elegance as Audrey Hepburn.

As I shared my thoughts with my supportive table of comrades, a wise companion of mine brought me back down to earth. Oh so matter of factly he stated – at the end of the day it is always best not to have a lover whose shirt sleeves are shorter than your own. I nodded. An important insight. One to add to the mandroughtvictim book of tips.

Departing, I would have loved to approach him and smile and say hello. Be pleasant, make small talk, let things go. As a victim of the Melbourne man drought, there would have been nothing better than to tell you all that I was the more dignified of the two. Yet, I too could not allow my glance to be visible or my words to be spoken. I left with the past still floating, an awkward memory forever freezing us in an adult game of hide and seek.

Forever hiding, 

Sierra x

The case of the last baklava

The ex visited last weekend. It has been a decade since we were an item but our friendship is as strong as ever. Calling it a friendship is almost deceiving what it is really is. It is a connection of words, thoughts and passion. It is a history that we cherish. It is the bond that only soul mates have.

I can be myself with him. Hair tied in a grandma bun, makeup-free skin - freckled and raw, legs lost within oversized tracksuit pants. I can sit with my legs outstretched upon his on the sofa as we watch the squawking politicians debate the world’s affairs while we throw in commentary, challenging them and challenging each other. Next to him, I sleep like a rock. A repetition of old times. It is as though we have never been apart.

I sit back and think that this is the man who changed me, who completely altered my perception of the world and nurtured me into who I am. Actually... let me correct that ... this is the man who continues to change me, challenge me, cultivate me. He reminds me why I have chosen the path I have and why it is the best choice I ever made.

We went to a beautiful restaurant, a place with a name and a ’reputation’. I dressed up. I can’t remember the last night I wore a silk dress, freshly shaved my legs and slipped into ‘date shoes’ (ie shoes that would be hazardous if worn whilst riding my recycled bike). Fancy restaurants involve a voyeurism which I shy away from and often ethically despise. Yet, I had forgotten how nice it was to feel spoilt, to drink wine that evoked the flavours of strawberries, to taste fetta marinated to the point of creamy heaven.

Our connection was so clear as we debated the case of the last baklava. The couple next to us (who were clearly much more adept at fine dining) had left their last piece of baklava on the plate, untouched. My ex eyed in, I spied it. We watched it hopefully. Afterwards, we discussed it. The last baklava was not just a desert we craved but a topic of political interest. He argued for why the wasted sweet negatively impacted upon the economy - I came from the social justice perspective, examining the issue through the lens of the wealth divide and environmental impacts of waste. In that moment, walking in the misty Melbourne night, past the old pub where the poppas play cards, breathing in the delicious scents of bread baking, I remembered why I will always love him.

                                                            …

It has taken a few days for me to find my balance again, to allow the anchor to release and for my single ship to set sail once more.

There is so much privilege to be had in a connection like ours. I am often asked and even encouraged to rekindle the relationship and to make it work but it is hard to explain. I love him utterly but it is unlikely that our friendship will ever transpire into anything more. Our time for that was long ago but what is left is something that I treasure, it is such a vital part of my life.

I hope that when I am old, grey, wrinkled and wizened that I will still meet with him. Over broken mugs holding cups of tea in shaky, arthritic hands, I hope that we will challenge the politicians, challenge each other and debate the case of the last baklava. I also hope that when this time comes the last baklava will be mine.

Sierra x