Pulled from the L files

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There are at least 1541 million lesbian stories in the Sacred Lesbian files stored in the hundreds of thousands of cabinets in safe houses all over the Goddess’ lesbian world. For lesbian love stories, we know with great certainty that the majority of them can abstracted into five broad plot lines, which are coded and cross referenced thusly:

1. Girl meets girl/woman meets woman. They fall in love, they live together, making it work, forever.
2. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman, one falls in love, the other one doesn’t.
3. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman. They fall in love, life intervenes and they are forced apart but through great courage and perseverance find their way back to each til the end of their days.
4. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman but can’t stop her damaged and/or self-destructive ways and drives good woman away forever.
5. Girl meets girl/Woman meets the woman she’s longed for but chooses duty over love. Lives with an ache in her heart.
6. Girl meets girl/woman meets woman. One is sociopath. Rough ride for someone.
7. Woman is married to a man. Meets woman. Whole new life chapter.

Looking through a few cabinets, (access granted by the Goddess to all the pre-2000 stories) I took a file, read it through and mashed it into a single story.

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She’s superstitious. On Mondays she has to wear a piece of clothing that’s white next to her skin: socks, underwear, shirt. Tuesdays she has to wear red, but it doesn’t have to be close to her skin. Wednesdays are relatively easy: any shade of blue and it can be anywhere, but she doesn’t much like blue except the magic shade of blue that happens with jeans that have lived an adventure and have been washed a thousand times. Thursdays are hard because that day’s colour is purple: back to underwear, or bra, or a T-shirt, or winter scarf. Friday is the colour green. Found in shirts and sweaters and watchbands. Saturday is the colour black. Sunday is, of course, yellow. She is so superstitious that she doesn’t realize she does it automatically, without thinking, without remembering why she does it.

She’d been doing this since college, since the time she spent four months with Fil and some of Fil’s friends who were older and made a comfortable living as professional psychics. She was doing it to indulge an interest in things considered occult, psychic and unexplained; dug into strange ideas and beliefs, including the power of colours. They spent every weekend together from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. deep diving aboriginal medicine wheels, Tibetan mandalas, Theosophy, energy medicine, Atlantis, Indigo kids. Cosmic consciousness. The karmic benefits of being vegan.

It was fascinating for a while, and she kept a healthy dose of scepticism. But then it got all weird. The professional psychics who talked so much about peace and raised vibrational frequencies for enlightened beings started bickering and being cranky and petty.

One of the women started to wonder out loud every time she was near about sleeping with a woman because it had to be better than sleeping with a man. Didn’t it?

Fil, short for the Portuguese name Filomena, was a friend from school and it seemed that over the course of those weekends, Fil somehow developed feelings for her and could not keep them to herself, oh no; couldn’t let those feelings run their course. Fil couldn’t see that the only thing they had in common, other than this weekend thing and going to the same college was that they both happened to be interested in women: Fil of the sports puppy tribe and she of the don’t you dare categorize or label me as anything but a woman tribe.

It wasn’t like Fil to be subtle, either. Told their mutual friends at school who turned around and said, “you know, Fil’s in love with you.”

She laughed it off. Fil was a friend. End of story.

One afternoon she and Fil met for lunch in the cafeteria, a Tuesday when their calendars aligned, after a weekend with the professional psychics, after weekend nights of dates. They stood side by side in the line for food.

Uh oh. She sensed, knew then that Fil’s feelings were bubbling up and she felt trapped.

They sat across from one another and talked about their different classes in their different programs as they ate their fries and coleslaw. Fil asked questions and listened to abridged stories of date nights and grew quiet, speaking again only when the subject changed to the weekend’s session with the professional psychics.

As they got up to put their trays away Fil said, “I need to tell you something.”

Inside her brain, red lights and sirens went off. A cold feeling of dread descended from the top of her head down to her toes as she looked at Fil, ignoring an impulse to run away.

“Okay,” she said.

“Not now. After class,” said Fil.

This time it was a flash that went off in her brain, like an old-fashioned camera bulb: blinding, but giving off the necessary light for a perfect picture. It gave her immediate clarity. She didn’t want to see or hear Fil after class or ever again. She didn’t want to see or hear Fil or the professional psychics or the past lives or the spirit guides or the Ouija board or tarot cards or runes or chakras, or crystals or auras or lightworkers or shamans or medicine woman or diviners or astrologers ever again. But she didn’t say that to Fil. Instead she said, “okay.”

They met after class and headed to the pub where they found a booth, sat down, and ordered their drinks. Fil’s shoulders were pulled up around her ears.

She said nothing. Waited for Fil to say something, hoping that the sudden clarity she felt earlier was wrong and that this wasn’t heading in the direction it seemed to be going and that it would turn out to all be okay.

“We should be girlfriends,” said Fil, looking her straight in the eye.

Any other day, she’d be flip and sarcastic and answer in a way that would deflect the statement or question or interest. It seemed wrong to do that now. Fil kept her eyes locked on her. Watching. So she didn’t say anything. She didn’t say that she didn’t feel the same way. She didn’t say anything because her heart was sinking to irretrievable depths of something that later in life she would label sadness, and she was having a hard time catching her breath. Fil continued.

“We get along and we’re interested in the same things and we have a lot of fun together with all this psychic shit and … I’m in love with you. I think we can be girlfriends.”

She sat, listening, wondering if there was anything that Fil was going to add, hoping there wasn’t because what Fil had said was bad enough. Fil stopped talking and looked down at the table. A minute passed.

“Say something,” said Fil.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m surprised. I’m flattered. I’m worried…

“About what?”

She took a breath. “I’m worried about saying that I’m fine with where things are with us, you and me being and staying friends.”

Fil picked at the label of her beer bottle and tore off a little strip of it.

“I guess I realized that I’m not fine just being friends with you.”

“What does that mean?”

She listened to all that Fil had to say. Listened, but did not take it in, because that would mean making space for something she just couldn’t make space for: the loss of a friend.

Wasn’t this a table turned around from where she was just a few years earlier?

There were tears in Fil’s eyes. “I kinda knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, me saying what I feel for you, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

She covered Fil’s hands with her own. “Fil, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m sorry that I am.”

“Don’t be. But I think … I think I can’t see you. I need to stay away  for a while”

“Oh. Oh, of course. I understand.”

“Do you?”

“No. Not really. I want to but I don’t know how this happened. I thought,well, I guess I thought we were friends. I thought you knew where I stood about getting involved with friends.”

“I know what you said. I thought maybe since we’d gotten close over the past while that you were having feelings for me, and that you would think about it differently now. I thought you’d figure out that I was falling for you.”

In some faraway place in her mind she heard that old song… what was it? “then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin’ stupid like I love you…“

She lowered her eyes. Fil didn’t know her at all.

“I would never have thought that, Fil.”

They both sat there, saying nothing. Feeling sad for different reasons.

She stood up to leave. Disassociated. Compartmentalized. Some unknown version of herself talking.

“Will you tell them that I’m going to take a break from the weekend workshops and I’ll call if I want to join in any more?

Fil didn’t look up.

“I will,” said Fil. Then, still not looking up, added: “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too, Fil.”

She left the pub. Never called to go back to the group.

Fil stayed away forever.

~~

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Maybe it’s letters or maybe it’s love

There are letters and then there are letters. This is a story of both types of letters, with a bit of love thrown into the mix of imagination, memory and music.

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Sometimes, we don’t have much time. She’s away more than usual — busy life, busier work — and I get busy too. When that happens, I keep a part of my brain focused on us, to imagine my imaginings, to hold us close when time and space insists that we be apart.

In my imaginings, I write her words and sentences and paragraphs and pages, with lots and lots of doodles in the white space of the margins, making visible and known those invisible, silent mundane goings-on which catch my fancy and if done just right, can serve to ferry thoughts and feelings from me to her.

In my imaginings, I imagine that I’d create a letter to her every few hours. I imagine the words and images and how they might sound and feel to her and how she’d read them and what would pass through her eyes as she took what was on the paper into her mind and heart.

Sometimes she travels and I don’t see her for longer stretches of time. My imaginings change: instead of little letters every few hours I imagine writing one long, wide, tall letter each day, full of colour doodles that snake gently around key words. I imagine that when each one is finished, I’d roll it up like a scroll, tie it with a ribbon, place it in a burlap bag with all the other ones and give the bag full of scrolls to her upon her return to open, unroll and read at her leisure.

I imagine these things, but don’t do them.

One day when she was away, I imagined that I distilled all the word and image imaginings of that day into a single letter of the alphabet, like a glaze reduction: intense, dark, layered, rich. To be tasted and savoured. I liked the idea of that so I explored it more. I imagined the letter written out and the images in the margins and then closed my eyes to see what it became, what mystical alchemy would transform it all into one letter that contained everything; a single, solitary letter seemed more poetic or enigmatic, or Zen-like: a letter of the alphabet that held the sights and smells and feelings and longings of that day, a letter that would spark more words and wonderings to share.

I imagined creating these reductions but don’t do these either.

Thoughts of letters — the one that involves writing and images on paper and the one that involves the alphabet — were still with me when I took the dogs out and we walked about the streets one day not too long ago, enjoying the time and the sunshine and the sniffs in the air, heading for the dog park. Once inside the park I let the dogs off of their leash and ran with them, playing and teasing.

We reached the far side of the park, in an area nearest the high school’s football field and running track. There’s an ancient tree there and its roots are exposed, gnarled and textured and gorgeous, growing over the edge of a steep hill. Lots of earth and leaves and spaces for things to get lost. Walking toward the roots I saw something out-of-place: a small square of paper, bright white in marked contrast to the muted winter colours of the ground and the roots and dried leaves. An unnatural white for this place. I stopped. Picked it up to look at it. It was blank on one side, so I turned it over to see a single letter: e, lowercase, sans-serif typeface, possibly Helvetica or Arial. The dogs wanted to see what stopped me, so I showed it to them. They sniffed and sniffed again and showed their lack of interest by turning around to continue running up and down the hills.

I looked at the little piece of paper and imagined writing a letter full of words starting or ending with the letter e and then, oh then, didn’t a memory kick in:

In my ears, in the part of my brain that stores musical memories, next to the part that remembers letters of the alphabet emerged a warm alto voice, half singing my name and adding in singsong, “with an e, with an e, with an e?” and the memory is so full of feeling and sound that it makes me laugh out loud which makes the dogs stop and turn around to look to make sure that I’m okay.

“S’ok!” I call out to them. “Go: run!” And they do.

How did “with an e, with an e, with an e“ start, anyway?

A bunch of papers were on the counter, some of them waiting for me to give my signature, my full name. She read out my name and pointed out the different letters that are repeated in each of them. We talked about cadence, chance and coincidence. And then she stood beside me, saying my name as if it was such a secret that even the dogs ought not to hear it and then added in that alto singsong, “with an e, with an e, with an e.“

I laughed. Letter games? Oh dear goddess, yes.

I looked around the roots of the big tree to see if there were other little white squares of bright white paper. There weren’t any. It was time to head back home. I slipped the little square carefully into my coat pocket and called the dogs to continue walking. As we made our way through the hills and the leaves of the park, I started thinking of the words that started with the letter e because I found a real, live letter and it’s sitting in my pocket, waiting to be woven into words, into something good. Like a love letter.

Thoughts of love, pieces of a love story

found at tumblr.com

It’s raining outside. Inside, thoughts of love float in the air, following me around. I let them. They whisper snippets of love stories to me. They are always welcome here. Later, I’ll sit with them. For now it’s time to walk the dogs. In the rain, through puddles in big ‘ole rainboots and smell the earth and see the muted colours and feel the damp and hear the sloshy sounds of cars and trucks rushing by and get cold enough to enjoy going back home and warming up with a cup of something hot.

It’s a weekday. You left for work hours ago, after the alarm, after espresso, after we sat reading side-by-side on the couch, the fingers of my left hand fitting into the spaces between the fingers of your right hand, before you had to shower, dress, gather up your stuff, share a brief kiss and go out into your day.

As you headed for the door, I headed upstairs. You stopped and the last thing you said to me was, “Did we kiss goodbye yet?”

I was nearly at the top step, and stopped to turn around to see you standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. You looked as if I had neglected something important. You looked serious.

Odd that you would forget our brief kiss just moments ago, but I answered you anyway.

“You don’t remember? A minute ago, under the archway in front of the bird-cage as you were about to put your coat on? Remember?”

You looked dubious so I came back downstairs, rested my elbows on your shoulders, touched your nose lightly with mine just before we shared a kiss, a breath, a bubble of time. And then I smiled. Duped again. You smiled.

“Gotcha,” you said as you made a mark in the air. “That’s 10 for me and zip, zero, niente, rien, nada, nul for you.”

I sniffed. “That’s because I am gullible in all languages,” I said. ”And I can’t do what you do. I can’t keep a straight face with people I know…”

I frowned at you and came to the rescue of my gullible self. “You know, I am soon going to get to the point where I don’t believe anything you say.”

You just laughed, enjoying this game.

“I doubt that. I’ve figured it out. All I have to say to you is this: ‘did you know researchers found’ … and I will have your undivided attention not to mention your faith.”

My reaction was minimalist: a raised eyebrow and a smile. But it was clear that you have thought about my patterns of behaviour, my reactions; you have thought about me. Or at least, you have spent time putting together in your mind things about me to make such a predictive statement which, unfortunately for me, happens to be a true statement. I needed a strategy.

Nothing like a good offence.

“Isn’t it time for you to leave? And just for the record, I am now, as of this moment,  officially, not ever going to believe a word you say about anything, ever again.”

You smiled that smile, the smile that pulled me in, that captured my attention the moment I saw it. You stepped close and whispered, “I love you.”

I grr’d at you half-heartedly. “So you say. Go. You’ll be late.”

“Okay, okay. Call me later?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled. Dark eyes sparkling. The freckles on your nose moved. You turned and headed out. I closed the door behind you.

Floating in the air, waiting, were all those thoughts of love and love stories.

found on tumblr.com

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“And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

- Khalil Gibran