Musings of a Butterfly

The rains have started here in Portugal . It's funny, when I first moved here two years ago, all I kept reading about was how good the weather was and how much the sun shines here. Once the rains start it just gets damp, humid and grey and it rains for days at a time. Most apartments don't have central heating or very good insulation, so it is always cold. Last year my clothes got mouldy in the closet from the damp humidity. I am dreading the upcoming winter and I have a strong urge to run away to somewhere warm, where my bones don't feel cold.

 Ungrounded, unfounded. Tumbling, falling sensation.  Dizziness, as the body sways I feel like I am on a boat. On a path of self destruction. Just need some earth Upon which to stomp my feet To shout out to the Universe That I have arrived. And I am staying. Not going anywhere, but here at this moment. So stop with your torment. Leave me alone. Sweet escape is sometimes the spiral, Taking you downward Spinning, spinning, a vortex out of control. Round and around, arms flailing, crying out Pull me out, pull me out, I'm drowning It's easy to blame someone else Until you realize you're the only one with the power To pull yourself out of your own deep, dark, internal hell.

I am not feeling grounded. I don't know what I need to do in order to feel ok. I twisted my knee one week after arriving in Lisbon and it was quite painful and debilitating, stopping me from exploring the city as I wanted to, because the hills are so steep and so I had to rest, but didn't. Drinking excessively seemed like a good idea as I managed the pain that way. And drinks are so cheap here in Lisbon it always seems to be a good option. I spent loads of time at Le Marais, a wine bar owned by a French gay man a stones throw from my new apartment and got to know many people. Trouble was, the place was on my way home from work so I would stop in with the intention of having one glass of wine, which inevitably turned into not leaving to go home to an empty apartment until I was completely inebriated. There was a loneliness gripping my soul. I would go home and look out my window at the beautiful red rooftops and miss my kids, and miss San Francisco and the community of friends...

“ Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.” Charles Bukowski said that. Let's see. I haven't written in a while. I have completely changed my life in the past few months. A mother, a daughter, a sister, a real estate agent. I had all these labels pinned to me that I didn't want. I felt apathy. I felt disconnection. I didn't want any of it. I don't really know how the course of your life changes completely...if it's just destiny or if it's something that, deep down inside you know that you have control over, just by putting out into the Universe...

Afternoon Mimosas. Deep ambient rhythm on the Bose Ran out of cigarettes Want to smoke But want to quit What to do? Don't feel like walking down the hill And then up the hill And then up the stairs Puffing and panting, wishing That I had quit already.

Connecting, like magnets on that first night She hesitates; the last Bart train leaving the platform, Not wanting to leave his side First kiss, on the platform; holding on “Don’t leave me,” she thinks, “I don’t want to,” he thinks. They end up at the Holiday Inn The night, full of their desire Beautiful, endless, beautiful, Holding on. Holding on. In the bathtub, he holds her, caresses her, kisses her, Washes her, pushes her hair out of her eyes. Wet silence in the night, broken by little droplets of water when they move. Making love, endlessly, passionately. All throughout the night. In the morning they dress. She smokes a cigarette on the balcony As they watch the morning begin on the noisy city street below They go for coffee, The passion and desire of the night still fresh When her eyes lock with his, she has to look away His eyes bore into her soul, she thinks he can see her from the inside out Several rendezvous ensue. A...

You see her, walking down the street. Mumbling to herself, pushing the shopping cart Wild, dirty hair; yellow fingernails, missing teeth You don't want to look at her because you are afraid Of the truth and the sadness behind her eyes You don't want to take the time to ask Because you are afraid that her truth might be yours Years and years from now. Broken promises and regrets. False truths you believed in. Caved in; torn to pieces; Pieces of you, pieces of her. You don't know which is which.