Love…when it doubt groom
Well that’s what my cats do anyway. They are in doubt of something, so they pause briefly then commence grooming. I watch my cats for clues to their rituals. I marvel at their beauty. And then I start thinking about beauty and love and the other and lovers and having love and deserving love and what this all means. After having a conversation with a beautiful friend of mine, she touched upon the subject of unrequited love, and I immediately identified. Oh David Johansen, (no not from New York Dolls—but that would have been more realistic maybe) but my major crush on this person in primary school. A ridiculous crush, because to be honest, I wouldn’t know what to do with him if I had the chance. And despite setting up my or helping my girlfriends get together with him (Dear Hecate, I think I was even acting as a Priest(ess) in some strange marriage rituals in grade 5, I lusted like a priest after the groom. How I pined, how I dreamt those dreams of young girls caught in a fix of an image, in a school uniform, in the heat of the day, practicing hand ball, looking and hoping for his gaze.
I wanted his gaze to fall on me long enough that he would see my shiver in ecstasy. I wanted him to notice me and realise that I wasnt Karla Aston, I wasn’t Helen Price, or Tabatha Tate in all their sporting horse leg caucasian beauty, but something other and maybe he would see the other and realise I was this essentially different creature that could be loved and seen as beautiful.
And this one goes out to all women who don’t feel good enough for their partners, or future partners, lesbian, straight, transgender, transsexual, liminal. I can’t help but tell you how beautiful you are. Don’t you see it? In your scars, those small lines of healed over flesh, that puckering translucency, in your wrinkles and bumps like road maps of adventures that mannequin fantasy blow job porn dolls don’t get to have. Oh they have fantasies, but they are never from within them–they sold out their dreams and desires to the void. You move with your own style, it is yours, with it’s hiccups and false starts and flights of fancy, you move with your own grace, it is yours that you inhabit not like a thought inside a body of skin and bones, but a feeling living through the blood and the skin and the hairs of your being. And your clothes are perfectly suited to you, the way you wear what you wear with comfort and ease.
Your beauty is in the work that you do when you don’t think it’s work, in the stomping feet on a dance floor, in the fixing of your bicycle, in the tuning of your guitar, in the sewing of your dress that keeps coming undone, in the songs you sing in the shower when no-one is listening, and guess what, you do sound fucking great. I want this wind outside to sweep away one fear from your brow for just a moment and in that moment you are doing everything you love or being in love with yourself in the way a flower opens, in the way a building stands tall against the sky, in the way the strings of your guitar bite into your fingers. I want this wind that whips through trees I can only imagine outside like old crones, or Beardsley etchings, to wipe the grief from your finger tips and that place between the bottom of your throat and the middle of your chest….that ache that catches you when you are half asleep or washing dishes without your glasses on so everything looks like it’s melting in the water and nothing gets clean. I want the velvet breeze of the night to smooth the tired muscles in your back and in your hips that have held you together in contortions over unrequited love, so that you can move with grace to do the things you love to do, to ride your bike and sing and write and watch the lights sway above you.
You are not a value, you are not a sum, you are not parts, or the sum of your parts. You are not a wrench, not a wretch, nor are you hammer or a tin of spam.You are not a product, you are not an appendage or a half, you are not what you suspect you are in your saddest thoughts. Look to the apple core, look to the flower, look to the swaying grass and the bending buildings, look to the glistening bicycle in the rain that casts a shadow of your silhouette on the city footpaths. Look to the boots covered in mud, the tangle of hair in your brush, the tea-stained pages of a beloved book, the scribbles of genius poetry you have made that no-one else will ever read.
If anything these are the moments of work, of movement that run with your beauty far further than all the street lights down the street and all the strange faces at art gallery openings, and all the lost moments in elevators.