Buttons - Archived Blog Posts

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Where do I begin?
To tell the story of how great a love can be
The sweet love story that is older than the sea
The simple truth about the love he brings to me
Where do I start?

Like a summer rain
That cools the pavement with a patent leather shine
He came into my life and made the living fine
And gave a meaning to this empty world of mine
He fills my heart

He fills my heart with very special things
With angels' songs, with wild imaginings
He fills my soul with so much love
That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely
With him along, who could be lonely
I reach for his hand, it's always there

How long does it last?
Can love be measured by the hours in a day?
I have no answers now, but this much I can say
I'm going to need him till the stars all burn away
And he'll be there

He fills my heart with very special things
With angels' songs, with wild imaginings
He fills my soul with so much love
That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely
With him along, who could be lonely
I reach for his hand, it's always there

How long does it last?
Can love be measured by the hours in a day?
I have no answers now, but this much I can say
I'm going to need him till the stars all burn away
And he'll be there

I know. Sentimental, corny, a clicheé. Even the smiley next to these words has started playing the violin. Boo hoo.
Nobody here cares, in fact nobody here knows me but this is the beginning of my blog and I need to write this. In fact I need to write about the pain I'm still in.
I need to write about him and how he's still in my heart.
I need to write about the last year and a half.
I need to write about how such a simple truth has affected me.
So tell me where do I begin...

 

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It all began one night when I was online and was sent a invitation to chat. Most chat sessions I'm in are short. It's not something I'm good at. Somehow conversation runs dry after about 5 minutes or they happen just before I'm off to bed. At other times I'm just too shy or they're too pushy.
This one was different from the very beginning. The fact that I was even up at that time was just one of the reasons that made it different. Not that I go to bed early but 2 o'clock in the morning when i have to get up at 8 is late, even for me.

About two weeks before someone had sent me a message, just saying hi to which I'd replied and after a few fun and horny messages back and forth with Virgel. I told him I liked to write stories so I started writing him some.

The Adventures of Buttons they are called. A story about a man who is lost and in search of the man in his dreams. So he calls out to him in the hope of being found (don't we all?) And yes, his voice is heard and along the way he encounters many interesting creatures. Some are wild and vicious, some cute and cuddly, some wicked and evil, some under a spell. Buttons doesn't really know who or what precisely it is he's looking for but he sets off anyway, wandering through the forest. Aware that somehow he is in danger. Real danger. On the other side of the world a lord sets out to help buttons. His band of merry men accompany him. All worshippers of the giant Totempole, the Giant Totempole of Utah.

The first chapters got V's *juices* flowing which was my intention at the time. He liked them so much he mentioned BearForest having a section for fiction and said I might like to publish them there.
So I decided to take him up on his advice and see what the fiction section was all about.
In fact I was just reading some hot story when the little message pop-up appeared. At first it was just a hello and where are you from, how did you come by your nickname, what's it like in Holland and Canada and before I knew it I was telling someone from Quebec, someone I didn't know, had never met before all about myself, asking questions about life there, talking politics, sharing jokes and thoroughly enjoying myself. In fact I was just thinking of something I wanted to ask when he asked me why my response was so slow. Was I perhaps typing with only one hand?
This had me in a fit of laughter and giggles for the next 15 minutes. As if! No I wasn't wanking! Just slow at typing that's all. I think he was a bit disappointed but we carried on nevertheless. And before I knew it was 6 in the morning and I really needed to go to bed and get some sleep. After exchanging email addresses and saying our goodbyes I went off to bed but didn't get much sleep. His 'are you typing with one hand joke' still had me in fits of laughter so after about an hours sleep it was off to work, tired and in a really good mood.

Some hours later I decided to send him an email to tell him how much I'd enjoyed myself and that I hoped we could do this again soon. Surprise, surprise when I opened my account. He'd already sent me an email telling me he'd enjoyed it too.
It wasn't a very long email. Just a few words telling me a bit about himself and his family, his work, which he hated, and how shy and clumsy he felt sending an email and not really knowing what to write, ask or say.

So that was how it all began. That's how I met Clément. I never finished the stories for V. We still exchange messages a few time a week. I have him to thank for meeting the love of my life and for that I'm truly grateful. He knows about my sorrow and the pain I'm in. He sends me jokes and banter to cheer me up. Life has'nt been easy for him either, I guess having people to lend you a shoulder to cry on... no that's not a guess... it's experience. Knowing someone out there who knows your story and can share in your joy and pain does help. Even if he is on the other side of the world. Not that I don't have great friends and family. They helped me get through it all. I wouldn't have been able to do so without them either. But somehow it's good to share and to talk about what happened with someone less involved.

Maybe someday I will get back to the Adventures of Buttons. From time to time I still think of the chapter I had in my mind when I met Clément. It was about a bear without hair. A naked little bear who desperately wanted to have hair and be like the other bears in the woods, the real hairy scarey bears.

Funny the way life can twist and turn. I start writing a story about the adventures of buttons sho is looking all over the world for the man in his dreams and I end up meeting a man who didn't have much hair on his body, who actually was so much like the nude hairless bear I had planned to write about. In real life he was a real man, he didn't need a hairy body to prove his masculinity to me. Far from it. Loving me was all he needed to do... and he did.

And then he died.

 

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So far I feel good about the first two blog entries but I have been wondering why I started writing them. By that I mean why now instead of during my life with Clément.
Well for one JUB didn't have a blog at the time, at least I don't think so. I'd only starting posting replies when we met and after that life went from a nice steady pace to there not being enough hours in the day to do everything.

After our first tentative emails we became friends and we each looked forward to the next email. We used to flirt, joke, tease and laugh and talk in those emails like we were sitting next to each other. The fact that there was this great big ocean separating us didn't mean a thing. In fact I think that is the one truly great thing about the internet. Distance and in a sense time zones are irrelevant when you meet people and get to know them.
As for us, we marveled at the coincidence of actually meeting at all if anything. BearForest wasn't a site I go to a lot. If an american hadn't messaged me I'd never have met a quebecois (?) quebeccer (?). If I hadn't been online at that time and if he hadn't logged on at that time but had his dinner first we probably would never have met. If we had just followed our normal routines...
I don't believe in the hand of god or the whole 'meant to be' but the whole wonderful coincidence of it all sometimes makes me wonder. Are things pre-ordained? Does life have a plan for us all? Is there such a thing as a god and am I part of some master plan he has concocted?

Maybe questions I can write about another time. Then again maybe not. Back to the story I started.
I fell in love!
After about a month it hit me. Completely, utterly, head over heals. I'd been falling in love and I hadn't even been aware of it till his computer broke down and there were no emails to brighten up my day. I still get goosebumps when I think of then. What the realization did to me and how it made me feel. I was sick and sad that I'd fallen for someone who was so far away. That great big ocean stood in my way. How I hated it. In fact I still do to a degree.
What was I thinking? Why did it have to happen to me. How could it have happened and why did I let it happen? Why did I have to fall in love with a man who was unattainable, so far from me physically and yet so near. So I went to bed and cried my eyes out. Wouldn't you?
I cried and cried, got angry with myself, told myself over and over I just couldn't do it, not to me, not to him. The fact that he might have felt differently didn't even occur to me I'm ashamed to admit. Loving him? It was impossible I kept repeating over and over to myself. How could I let myself lose control over my life, myself?
And then suddenly my feet started tingling and that tingling sensation crept up my legs, into my groin, along my spine to my neck and head. It made every hair on my body stand on end and settled in my stomach, my heart started pounding and I couldn't stop shaking. Wave after wave hit me. It was like my body had become orgasmic. I'd never felt anything like it before. I could'nt control it.
In Holland there's an expression for when you've fallen in love called * vlinders in de buik * which means butterflies in your tummy. I had the worst case of butterflies in my life. It wasn't a nice little flutter like the times I'd fallen in love before no these butterflies were stampeding through me. It lasted an hour.

I know why I fell for him. Over the past weeks I'd been pouring my heart out telling him all about me, telling him about my life, my hopes, my dreams, my worries, my friends and family. Telling him everything there was to know about me, well maybe not everything but a lot anyway. He listened and asked questions and wrote back and told me some about himself, not a lot which intrigued me at times, irritated me at other times, but I got to know him like he got to know me and found out we were similar in so many ways. We shared the same experiences in life and thought alike in so many ways. Even liked doing things the same way some of the time. Soulmates I think is what it's called. I liked reading his words and how he expressed himself and what he had to say made me like and respect him more and more and enjoy life. He made me feel good about myself and the world. He made me feel like I was worthwhile.
How could I have not fallen in love? There were still doubts and my mind was telling me I should stop before it went too far but I couldn't. I was addicted to him and to how he made me feel.

It was near my birthday and we decided to meet in real time. Well I say meet but in fact we used msn messenger, we both had webcams. I knew what he looked like and I'd sent him a pic of me so there were no surprises there and we logged on. My webcam didn't work, his computer kept crashing everytime he used his but we had a ball nevertheless. It was fun to actually speak to him. It was like on the first night, we chatted for hours and hours and made a date for the next weekend. I was excited and couldn't wait till the next week and worried and nervous as well. Would I have enough courage to tell him how I felt?

 

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I was thinking about the previous entry in this blog and and realized I got the bit about what happened when wrong. FUCK! I suppose I could just go back to it and do a quick re-edit but I don't want to and don't ask me why.
I suppose it has to do with being honest with myself and maybe this will help me remember better and more in some way. In reality all of the previous is true.

How it all really happened was that I knew for sure I was in love the week before my birthday when I received a letter from Canada. Inside the postcard Clément had written a little letter wishing me a happy day and a poem. The moment I saw and read the poem was the moment I knew I was in love with him. Nobody had ever written me poetry before. That was when my body went into full body orgasm mode, that was when I lost control. That was the moment I knew for sure I had met the love of my life.
And to be honest I had mixed feelings about it all. I won't go in to that now and what happened the next time we were online I'll leave till my next entry.

His computer did crash and it always made me realize how much in love I was, how much I missed him when we couldn't be online together. How miserable I felt then. It happened quite a few times and lasted a week or more sometimes before he could get his computer fixed. At other times there was a power failure or a heavy thunderstorm that kept us apart.

I missed his thoughts, the jokes we shared, the teasing each other. Those were the times I missed him making love to me, making love to my mind most of all. Nobody has ever made love to me the way he could and did.

I needed a moment there. I still can't get over him not being here. I hate the emptiness in my house, my bed, my life, in a sense in me...

 

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I'd intended to write more the last couple of weeks but they were tough. April 22nd was supposed to be a big day. That's the date Clément came to Holland to spend the rest of our lives together. An anniversary I spent at home in bed all day crying my eyes out.

Last year was so different. I can still remember the weeks before that. How excited and nervous I was cause a date had been finally set. How the excitement, anxiety and nerves just kept getting stronger and stronger. The days before he came I didn't sleep much trying to clean an create space for his belongings and not knowing for sure what or how much he'd bring.
He had been busy as well and we weren't online together much and when we were they were short sessions. We spoke on the phone a lot though. GOD I loved hearing his voice. From the first day I heard it. It made me go weak at the knees. Everytime.
Sometimes I can hear his voice in my mind calling my name. Gérard! Great English with a French sounding accent. Sexy and warm, teasing me, tantalizing me with the little sighs he uttered when we were on the phone.

The first time I heard that voice was at work. My friend Susan had given him the number (she and he had been emailing for a while. I'd given her his email address so she could introduce herself and get to know him.) I was so thrilled I couldn't say anything. I was in shock!

Anyway. Before he came to live with me he was busy selling his condo in Quebec, selling his belongings or giving them to friends and relatives.
Leaving work was hard, he'd started training for a new job a few months before Christmas and after the training he was offered a position as an accountant for the Quebec Tax Collectors or whatever it's called in Quebec. It was too complicated for me to work out but the short of it is that Quebec is allowed to tax it's citizens which is a different tax from the one the Canadian government gets.
He really enjoyed it as well after years of working at some shitty job, underpaid and not appreciated. I was so happy for him that he was doing the work he liked. Work where he was appreciated. He'd quickly made friends in his new position and he even came out at work, something he felt he couldn't do in his previous position. I'd sent him two porcelain figures in Delft's Blue of two little Dutch boys kissing which he kept on his desk and a picture of me for his wallet (which he showed to everyone he made friends with). Everyone there was happy for him, happy he'd found true love. They even told him of places in Holland he should go visit. Like the Keukenhof (imagine my surprise when he mentioned it, I'd been dying to go for years but couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me.)

The last two weeks were spent trying to say he's goodbyes to as many people as possible and spending as much time as possible with his family. That he found really difficult and he told me his mom wasn't at all pleased. She couldn't forbid him leaving but she tried as best as she could to dissuade him. In the end he had to sit her down and have a long heart-to-heart talk with her. I now know how worried she was and how much she loved him and how she hated the idea of losing him. She was the only one in the family who knew the real reason.
She knew he was gay and that he was leaving to go live with me, his boyfriend. No one else in the family was told. Having said that, everyone in the family had already put two and two together and knew the score. I found that out last November when I had to take his ashes back to Canada. His being gay just wasn't talked about. It was something not mentioned like a shameful secret that had to be hidden. What would the neighbours and church think? His mom had a hard time getting over him being gay and what others might think. She and his dad are strict and devout Catholics who believe in what the teachings of their church.
I have to say I can't find fault in that. I just wish it was otherwise. They were set in there ways and lived in a village where everyone knows everyone else. They're a different generation than we are I guess.

Besides she didn't know me. I can well imagine her worries. I rang him once and got his mom on the phone. She couldn't speak English and my French is so bad it was difficult enough to ask her if I could speak to him. He wasn't home then so I asked her to say I'd called. I wish we could have spoken once in a while maybe it would have helped her to get over her worries. I wish my French was better but it isn't. I can understand it but speaking it is a totally different matter altogether. Besides I doubt very much me telling her in whatever language would stop her worrying. It wouldn't have. It couldn't have. My mom's the same.

The night before he came I didn't sleep. I counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Well not the seconds, something Clément could do (the accountant in him I'm sure ) I'd log into FlightView, a website every hour on the hour where I could follow the...what's the word? Trajectory (?) of his flight just to see if the plane was still in the air and that nothing had happened. Hour after hour flight TS218, the most important flight of them all moved slowly across the Atlantic. Moved closer and closer towards Brussels, closer and closer to home.

 

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I've copied this from the thread I was reading and responded to. What started it was something tryout151 wrote. What he said was so true and before I knew it I was pouring my heart out. His words have such simple and honest beauty they touched my deeply...


Quote:
Originally Posted by tryout151
True happiness... loving someone for all their faults, and insecurities and them loving you for all your faults and insecurites. Someone that knows you to your core...... and you know them to their core... you cannot beat that.... It's love.....
nothing else matters......


I've also copied my response

True...so true
Seeing the smile on his face as you walk in the hall when come home late from work. And the big sloppy kiss that follows.
Standing in the kitchen door watching him make you a club sandwich with the smell of a fresh pot of coffee in the air. He thought you might like a little snack.
Going to the market on saturday to buy fresh fruit and veg (hoping that if you go near closing time you might be able to get another 10 kilo of grapes for 2 euro's which you don't really know what to do with and panicking when you get home cause you don't have any recipes that require 10 kilo's of grapes - in the end we made tarts and jam).
Meeting friends at market that say that you look like a married couple.
Arguing over who carries the heavy bags back home.
Seeing the look on his face when you come home with 300 purple tulips, his favourite colour.
Him pulling his feet up in bed so you can climb over him to take a shower and go to work.
The surprise of hearing him say his first sentence in Dutch: Ga je mee koffie drinken? (do you want to go for a coffee?) Where did he learn that? You didn't teach him.
Feeling the goose bumps on his back rise whenever you caress his back after making love.
Not being able to control your body because you are so sensitive to his touch on your skin when you make love.
Feeling his arms around you when you need him and knowing he felt your need.
Making up after an argument and being forgiven for being such a shit. Not in words, just him taking your hand and giving it a squeeze or a playful slap on the ass.
Finding a little note saying I Love You on the table on your side of the bed.
Finding grocery lists all written in dutch.
Looking at his smiling face in the picture you took and knowing that he hated getting his picture taken but he did it to please you.
Him saying he doesn't snore, actually can't snore because that thing in the back of his throat was damaged in an operation he had as a kid, but not being able to sleep cause while he doesn't exactly snore, that wheezing sound is so loud it keeps you awake half the night.
Him making love to my mind, my soul and my body and doing the same to him.

I wish I could go on and on. But I can't.
I had all that once. He died suddenly and sometimes I feel so lost without him. It hasn't been very long since he died, 9/11 last year to be precise. And even though he's gone I can still remember the moments we shared and find happiness in them.

As for the picture itself doesn't do anything for me. It's a pose, aesthetically pleasing yes, but in a sense fake. And yet... It's like a picture of a beautiful sunset or having a candle lit dinner. In themself those aren't romantic either, to me they're a cliche of what romance is supposed to be. It's the sharing of the sunset and the candle lit dinner with someone you love or like that is romantic. And the memory thereof.

 

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It's late again.
I'm hungry and haven't eaten all day.
I go into the kitchen.
I make myself a club sandwich.
I was about to take a bite when I start crying.

This is the first time I've had a club sandwich since Clément died. He used to make them for me. If it was up to me we would have eaten them 5 times a week. I just loved his club sandwiches. Not really a snack and not really a complete meal, something in between and perfect on a hot sunny day.
Perfect, crispy bacon, sometimes chicken, sometimes ham. Always with fresh iceberg lettuce or at least the freshest he could find. And always with Hellmann's mayonaise, no other brand would do.

I loved coming home knowing we would have them for dinner, usually with a side dish of fries or crisps.
I loved the way he arranged them on a plate. Sometimes cut diagonally, each section with it's own little skewer.
Sometimes on a long skewer like a kebab, crusts touching the plate.
I loved never really knowing where each segment began when he made them like that, enjoying having a hard time eating them.
I loved hearing his comment when I kissed him and thanked him. Such a simple thing, like me, he would say.

I loved standing with him in the kitchen watching him make them.
I loved taking a little nap after work knowing he'd wake me with a kiss, a big mug of hot strong coffee and a club...as he called them.
I love the concentration and attention he put into them. The love that he put into them.

To me club sandwiches are one of the many things that remind me of him, one of the many things that say:
I love him.

 

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Today I picked up the photo's I've had developed of last weekends day out with Carmen. A day out to the Gardens at Appeltern. I had been dying to go since I'd heard of the place and was glad Carmen wanted to go with me. My excuse to get her to come along was that she might find inspiration on how to decorate her rooftop terrace and even if she didn't like the exhibit gardens they have there, well...then at least she'd know what not to do.
As it turned out we both enjoyed the gardens immensely and had a great day.

I took a pic of one of the gardens that resembled the sea. The beds filled with plants were shaped like the waves of an ocean. In it's center it had a raised deck in the shape of a boat. This deck had a pond in it and just below the water in the pond was a plaque with some poetry on it, reflecting the light of the golden sun.
The pic is in my gallery called Gardens at Appeltern. I'm afraid I still have to figure out how to images directly in a blog.

I've translated the poem.

Wealth

Wealth is the golden smile, the shell I cherish, the image I took.
Wealth is the relaxation I feel, the warmth of the sun, the heat I cool.

Wealth is dolphins in the water, being in love with each other, the memory of later.
Wealth is planet and stars in their orbits, the tides of the sea and the life we are living.

Wealth is the phases of the moon, the change of the seasons till the moment we leave.
Wealth is wisdom in my soul, feelings I share and the good earth onto which I fell.

Wealth is the air that I breath when I cycle with the freedoms I have. This all costs me nothing

Gilbert de Jong

 

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I've been wrestling with this since yesterday and I still feel muddled and very emotional. This will probably not be the kind of blog entry that will write itself. I might have to explain my family and maybe even my concept of what my family is. We'll see, so bear with me. [I just hope that by the time I get to the end of this my confusion will have resolved itself]

Today is my dad's birthday, well actually it would have been if he were still alive. He died suddenly last year of a heart attack on February 21st.
He was only 74 years old. I use the word only because till then I had no idea parents could die. NO, not true. I knew parents could die but I never knew parents can die.
People die, by now I'm well aware of that and I know/knew it could happen to my mom or dad. But the idea that one or both my parents could actually leave this world (is there an afterlife?) and that I'd be (semi?)orphaned had never really occurred to me. It seemed so far away.

If he was alive today he'd be 76 leading an active and busy life. Doing his thing. Like he always did. The fact he's not with us anymore to do his thing is what has me confused.
I feel the need to celebrate but... I feel I'm the only one.

Am I? Not really. I spent the afternoon at home and my sister and niece were there. My stepsister and husband were there that afternoon and my stepbrother joined us for coffee after dinner. So I'm not the only one.

It's just that when I spoke to my mom yesterday she said she wasn't celebrating it. We couldn't because he was no longer with us.
I know how much she misses him but what she said is what has me confused.

So what is it I feel I need to do? Celebrate his life? The fact he was such a big part of my life? Yes.

He might not have been my father but he sure was my dad, and I miss him. I miss talking to him. I miss arguing or getting into debates with him. I miss seeing his art or the latest painting he was working on. I miss that he's not there to show me what he is working on. I miss the little trip up into the attic where he had his studio. I miss him asking my opinion when he showed me his work and him telling me all about it. I miss his attention to fine details.
I miss all the questions he used to ask about me, my life, my friends, my jobs. I miss his deafness, the firm handshake he gave. The way he made me feel welcome. The warmth of his voice.
I miss the dreams he had, always slightly larger than life. I miss the truly wonderful man he was.

I miss the man who slowly, gently, in his own personal way showed me what it was like to have a father. A real father, a dad.

So dad. If you're out there. I just want you to know I miss you.

 

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Do you believe in angels? Or guardian spirits? Or have you ever wondered what happens to loved ones who die?

I had a dream last night that makes me wonder. Can the spirit of someone you love come back? Or is it just wishful thinking? Is it just me?

Normally I can't remember the dreams I've had. In fact there are only three I can remember at all. These made such an impression on me that I have never been able to forget them. And I'd hate it if I forgot the one I had last night. Already it is starting to fade. Before it is gone I need to record what is left somehow.

I dreamt that my mother was in trouble. She was in deep emotional distress and I couldn't comfort her. She was standing in the kitchen of our old house, bent over the kitchen table, crying and crying and I couldn't help her. All I could do was hold on to her and hope that somehow this would stop the tears and take away the pain. But it just got worse. I felt so helpless.

All I could think of to do was call out and hope somebody would hear me. Someone did. Dad heard me and he had come back to help.
It's kind of hard to describe what he looked like but the best way to describe him would be to say that he looked like a negative image of how he looked like when he was alive. The kind you get when you collect a roll of film that you've had developed.
His skin, hair and clothes were hues of different greens, blues and purple and he was surrounded by a blackness as if he had forced his way from this darkness back into the world of colour and light.
I knew he couldn't stay for long and all I did was push mom towards him and think "Dad, you have to look after mom! You have to take care of her."
And then I was gone.

I don't really remember waking up, in fact I slept through the alarm and was late for work.

I've had this feeling of impending doom off and on all day. Mom is fine but I'm so worried something will happen to her. She is going back home to Ireland in two weeks time.

It has been more than a year since dad died. And it has been nearly a year since we brought his ashes home to Ireland. Home to Ballyclough. We spread his ashes in the river that flows next to the house my gran lived in. The house where my mother grew up and where my sister and I spent a much happier childhood that the one we had before. The house my aunt, uncle and cousins still live in. The house my dad came to love. The house we all call home.

 

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It will be my birthday soon. Another year added, making it a grand total of 43.
I have to admit that I welcome the process of growing older. Not that I believe I will age gracefully or become distinguished looking or in fact any wiser. But I like what age adds to me.

I like my steadily greying hair. I've had grey hairs since I was 25 and over the years the copper and brown and blond has been replaced more and more by grey. I wonder what it will look like in another 10 years or 20. Will it turn as white as my uncle Harry's hair?

Over the past years I've accepted my body more and more. I've slowly but steadily grown into it, becoming accustomed to it's shape, size and all the bits that make it mine.

I'm amazed how sensitive to touch it has become. It seems I have developed more erogenous zones than I previously thought I had.
A lustful, playful touch anywhere on my body will set me on fire where it wouldn't have years ago. Or was it the touch of Clément that did that to me? I think so, as I have never loved anyone the way I love(d) him. Even now, all those months after his death my body still remembers. Did he do this to (for) me?

I've noticed all the little grunts and groans I make when I stand up and have come to accept them. Somehow the inhabitant of this mortal coil has made himself known over the years, he has found his voice and let's himself be heard once in a while. I welcome and accept him.

The nose hairs have been growing more and more with the years. I have to keep on top of them otherwise they grow out of control, like the hairs on my head and my beard. I should spend more time on me, but somehow days fly by and I'm left to play catch up. What a difference nearly two decades have made.
At age 25 all I had was a peachy down. In fact it was all I could grow.
Who could have guessed I could actually grow a moustache and goatee?
Who could have guessed I would actually grow one!
Not me.

This last year - or is that two?....dementia setting in?
Not really, I've always had a bad memory for dates and numbers and conversations I have to add. But I can tell you what you were wearing when I first met you. My memory and training is orientated towards the visual. A degree in fashion design and couture rely on being able to interpret sensory input, mostly visual, but the other senses have helped me as well...

...As I was saying the last year or so I have noticed strange hairs growing between the other ones in my eyebrows. They weren't there a few years ago. At least I can't remember them being there.
These are thicker and stronger than the others. A lot harder to remove as well. When I do have time to spend an hour in front of the mirror to do a body and general appearance check I sometimes comb them to see how many and how long they are. Kind of weird to see and it makes me wonder if mine will develop into those my boss has. He has a greyish blond extremely bushy bristly unibrow. Actually quite attractive. On him that is.

Another thing I've noticed and this does have me puzzled is the fact that you can see my belly in pictures of me. I was looking at the photo's of me in Ireland last year and I noticed my belly has become more pronounced lately. And there I was in every pic trying to hold it in and all to no avail!
I think the correct term is beer belly or beer gut (note to self: find that out!). I haven't put on any extra weight and I do weigh myself regularly. The other thing is that I don't drink that much beer. At the most 10 bottles a year. In fact I don't really drink at all, alcohol that is. Lots of coffee and tea and water, occasionally a glass of red wine when I'm with company. But that's it.
Now I did read recently that drinking beer has nothing to do with beer bellies. In fact it's to do with the hardening of the lining in your stomach that makes some bellies protrude more as they grow older. Anyway, I don't really mind. I love men's bellies and am not really interested in flat stomachs and six-pack. Give me a nice barrel shape any day, something soft to rest my head on.
So from now on I'll have to stop deluding myself and so I shall.

I wish I had better tits. By that I mean smaller ones but then again that has always been a "problem area." The men in my family somehow all seem to have developed them even my cousins back in Ireland. Actually what I mean to say is I wish they were more muscular, but to a very large degree it's my own fault. I never trained them. I am also quite happy to delude myself by thinking my genes are as much if not more to blame and will continue to do from now on so thank you very much.
I also console myself with the fact that my bum is still as perky as ever, at least that hasn't shown much evidence of giving up all hope and travelling down south. Not that I have evidence to compare it with say my bum at age 25. Thank goodness for that!

Getting to know my body better has meant I've started to dress better as well. Mind you that's only my opinion. I still have my 'screw you-I look fab and funky today' days and I still love mixing patterns and prints. But on the whole I buy less clothes and tend to go for a better quality that lasts longer as well. And when I make my own I've noticed it's a lot easier. I know what suits my figure way better than when I started making them.
I don't necessarily go for the classic look but if so at least it's with my own little twist. Classic and twist go very well together.
Could also be the sign of the times or my being more attuned with them. Maybe more attuned with me.

And now for the crux of what brought this lengthy monologue along. For those who prefer not to read about my penis. This is your chance to make a clean getaway while you still can. Don't say you haven't been warned...

A few months ago I noticed that my foreskin has been getting longer. I'd completely forgotten until a few days ago. Not that I'm worried or anything but I did wonder. Does this go with the territory? Is this a natural part of growing older? Will it get longer and longer. Will I have to tie it into a bow but the time I'm 65?
....uhm...help?

So if there's anybody out there that can shed some light on this strange development, leave a comment please. I'd really like to know.
Thanks,
Gerard

 

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I booked a flight to Canada for September on Saturday. Actually I should say we as I've asked my friend Carmen if she'd like to go with me and she's agreed.
So on September 1st we will land in Halifax, Nova Scotia and make our way up along the coast through New Brunswick and the Gaspé before we going to Quebec.
I àm looking forward to going but I feel nervous as well. By the time we get there, September 11th, it will have been a year since Clément died and I need to go visit his grave and meet up again with this wonderful family that has taken me into their hearts as I have taken them into mine.

I so wish that we had met under different circumstances. I hated having to be the one to bear them such bad news. In fact it took me about 5 hours before I finally found the courage to do so.

That Sunday was without doubt the worst in my life. I left home in the best of moods. Little did I know what was going to happen.
Clément and I'd had a great weekend going to a birthday party on Friday evening and going out with friends on the Saturday. All was fine. Great in fact, we'd made love on both evenings and during the day as well. I never felt better.
So I left home to go work in the best of spirits, already looking forward to coming back home as soon as I'd closed the door and I set off to my friends studio to help them out with their latest collection. Around nine, for no apparent reason, we all got a bit restless and I left for home. I got home as fast as I could already in anticipation of the big kiss I knew was waiting for me and the big kiss I wanted to give.

There was never going to be a kiss, there would never ever be a kiss for me again. He wasn't there to greet me. I'd said my last goodbye that afternoon.

As I called out there was no response. I thought that was odd at the time but as I walked past the bedroom I could see him lying on the bed. Ah he's asleep was all I could think and I walked into the living room to put my coat and bag away. He must have been sleeping for some time 'cause there were no lights in the house burning. I switched them on and made my way back to the bedroom.
The minute I walked in I knew there was something wrong.

I'd seen that look before, earlier that year. It was the same look my dad had on his face when he was found dead. The only thing different was that Clément hadn't fallen and bumped his head and he was lying in bed as if he was asleep instead of lying just behind a closed door.
Both are looks I'll never forget for as long as I live. They have been etched onto my soul.

I knew when I touched him and felt his cool flesh he was gone and all I could think of was "Don't leave me."
I knew when I wiped his brow and felt the cold sweat on his forehead he wasn't coming back and all I could think was "Don't, please don't leave me."
I knew when the paramedics came and lifted his body onto the floor to try and reanimate him he wasn't coming back and all I could do was think "Noooo. Please don't leave me."
When my friend Jacques arrived he helped me sort out all the details with the funeral parlour and while we waited for them to arrive I spent as much time as I could with my baby, holding him, touching him, kissing him. Wishing over and over again that this wasn't true. But it was.

He left me. I am alone again...

 

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Pride just ain't pink enough

I was doing a bit of gardening this weekend and while I was uprooting the tulip and daffodil bulbs I remembered I'd thought of creating a new look for my balconies. I have two, one in the shade that only gets sun from 7.30 hrs until around 10.30, the other has sun from then on into early evening.
The one that has shade most of the day isn't doing too bad. The past few weeks I've been adding to things that have been growing there for some years now and slowly but surely it's getting there. Winter and early spring gave me a few tulips and hellebores to look at and after pruning the clematises back hard to about 30 centimeters around March I've managed to keep the amount of pests down to a reasonable number. In fact aphids only started appearing there a week ago. I guess that's the weather for you. Hot and humid until yesterday. Glad it's cooled off a bit though.

Over the past weeks there has been a few other flowers to enjoy as well. Some aquilegium and the lysimaggia arkwrightii (?) has started flowering as well. The wolfsbane and liatris have been steady performers and all the rest has started growing like mad. Only one flower on the clematis so far but they usually bloom on last year's growth so next year should give a riot of cream, bright pink and greenish white flowers (I have three growing in big white waste paper baskets.)
The seeds of the pokeweed I found on a compost heap last year have come up nicely this year even though it's in a pot that's way too small for it. All in all I'm quite pleased.

It's the other balcony I'm not too happy with. The one that has full sun all day.
The tulips were a mixed success. Some did well, others started off healthily but died on me later on. Too hot for them earlier on in the year?
Most of the daffodils did the same. Maybe they were growing in containers that were too small. Most don't like that so I've taken them out of their pots anyway to let the bulbs dry so I can plant them again next year.

My biggest disappointment were the daffodils called Pink Pride. I bought these at the flower market after the gay parade in Amsterdam last year. The packet showed bright, almost fluorescent coloured pink edged flowers and I was looking forward to them. In fact I'd been thinking of having pink as the main the colour scheme this year.
But no, even though they all came up they were never as pink as advertised on the packaging. Peachy pink maybe with soft yellow centers in a certain light or orangy pink if seen in another light.
No way were these the white and pink I hoped they'd be. Not the pink I hoped would do me proud. Not the 'We're here, we're queer, get used to us' kinda pink I was really hoping for and looking forward to.

That just goes to show you that packaging isn't everything or maybe mother nature's trying to tell me something?

So far the balcony at the back of my flat isn't as pink as I'd like. It looks like I'll have to go shopping for geraniums/pellargoniums or petunia's and try my hand at hanging baskets if I want to get the desired result.
Good news is that when we move into a new office at work sometime next month I'll be able to try my hand again at a real garden. Who know's what it will look like when it's finished? I've discussed my ideas with the contractor who does garden maintenance and he seemed fine with my ideas.
I'm thinking of a rainbow theme, having flower and foliage colours move from one end of the spectrum to the other, with green, white and black flowering plants as an accent or to blend the blues, purples, pinks, reds, oranges and yellows with.

In the meantime the agapanthus and hemerocallis, sedums, lilies, rose and most of the alliums at home are doing fine. The hibiscus and salvia look a bit tatty but I have hope they'll look better after a good feed in a few weeks time.

Life's not all bad eh?

 

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En un moment…

Dans les méandres de la vie
Je recherchais l’amour, l’amitié
J’écoutant que mes envies
Des messages, j’ai envoyé
Comme des bouteilles à la mer
A la recherche d’une main ouverte
En attendant decu et amer
Qu’ une vie d’amour me poit offerte

Tout a changé en un moment
Par l’humour, la franchise, l’honnêteté
Tout cela l’espace d’un instant
Et ma vie en fut bouleversée
J’ai découvert un homme, un vrai
Sa beauté intérieure, son amour
Sa bonté, tout de lui me plait,
Et il ne se passe pas un jour
Sans que je ne pense a lui
Imaginant notre vie, nos nuits
Batissant notre amour, notre avenir
Et reflètant nos joies, nos souvenirs

Tout mon amour

 

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It's my mom's birthday today. I'll give her a ring this evening to hear how she's doing. She's on holiday in Ireland visiting family and friends. Next week she's planned to go hiking with friends and neighbours from her street here in Holland.
I hope she has a great time

 

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Hi babe it's me... a year has passed and this weekend would have been your birthday. This weekend was so different from your birthday weekend last year and how I wish you could have been part of it.
To begin with the sun was shining instead of the cold downpour we had last year. In fact the sun has been shining like mad for the past 3 weeks.
We could have had the surprise picnic I so wanted to give and had planned for you.

It wouldn't have been here though. It would have been somewhere in Belgium near the border with France. In a little village called Watou. In a field surrounded by corn. We could have sung our little corn song. We could have listened to and read the poetry and seen the exhibits at the Poetry and Arts Festival the village puts on every year. I would have loved to have sat near the window poem in the grass with Carmen and Mick overlooking the fields of corn, so similar to the many fields we saw all over Quebec, and had a bite to eat and a sip to drink.

We could have marveled at the exhibit of the lady covered in sequins and feathers on the shiny black table or laughed at the styrofoam giant and pirates in the shed. Or lit a candle in the village church. One for my dad and one for your family and one for us. And we could have had goose bumps all over when we looked at the inside of the church, the treasures dedicated to the greater glory of god and the saints, like the devout catholics neither of us were. Enjoying the shared admiration for religious buildings.

Never mind though. I did you proud though and took 130 or so pictures in Watou and .

We could have gone out to eat in Kortrijk and enjoyed the beauty of it's churches and town square before going back to the hostel for a sweaty nights sleep.

The next morning could have gone to Ghent and fallen in love with the beauty of it's heritage. I have never seen a city center so filled with such beautiful gothic, renaissance and baroque churches, spires, the cathedral, the belfry tower, the castle, the medieval buildings, the town hall, the beautiful streets and the vistas they revealed, the typical shapes of the roofs so often thought to be particular to the Dutch.

You would have laughed your head of seeing the plaque on the wall of the house that was said to be the place the devil lived in. We both know that would have been proof enough for you to call me a devil, you always did so anyway. But the the plaque did say "Geeraard de Duivel". That's the medieval way to spell my name as you very well know.

We could have climbed the tower of the St. Bavo Cathedral and enjoyed the view of the city centre and especiall the Belfry tower. We would have been dizzy and sweating like pigs and wishing the tower had an elevator like the Eusebius at home. But the view we would have had...

I know you would have enjoyed all that and taken pictures of everything to send back home to Quebec. You would have bought the book I got for Laurie and sent it to her and you would have loved every minute of this wonderful weekend. I just wish you were here to enjoy it with me and we could be sorting out which pictures to keep and which ones to bin.

Somehow though I feel you were there, enjoying every minute...Happy Birthday Love

 

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For some strange reason my blog entry duplicated itself. I'll leave this one open for the time being till I do an update of this week which has been quite eventful with the news that the jersey collection was canceled, moving office, getting prepared for next week, making a costume for that project, cooking for my friend Susan who has had another treatment for her MS and the fact that I still have to finish my notes on the summer 2007 collection meeting.

 

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While I was away in Belgium in a way celebrating Cléments birthday, his family had their own ceremony for him. They spent the day at his grave and sent me two pictures of his headstone.
I love them for this. Since his death I have been taken into their hearts and have taken them into mine. The bonds of love go further than me or him and they include us all. Bound not only by grief but by the love, admiration and respect we have for him.
He loved the colour purple...

 

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I have been planning to update my blog for a while but just never got round to actually doing it. Life has been very up and down recently and I have travelled to Canada to visit Cléments grave. And pay my respects to his family and have a holiday while I was over there.

I've been meeting new people and suddenly, out of the blue, there was someone I really felt (and feel) a click with.
He reminded me of Clément in that regard. The first few times we chatted were magical. After a while I felt alive again and I could feel my heart opening up to him. Dare I say I was falling in love? Thrilled and excited and so very scared at the same time as well.
As great and exciting as it all was, there were things that were nagging me. I suppose the most important two were that I felt I was betraying the man of my life by falling for another. So soon after he died as well. It wasn't even a year after!
I know life goes on and that Clément would have said to follow my heart and see where it would lead me, in fact we had discussed it once and both agreed that if anything should happen to the other, by all means get on with life. But when I said those words I had no idea that he would die on me, leave me here in such pain and loss, leave me here to go on with life without him.
Knowing life goes on and knowing life goes on just isn't the same thing. Especially when you have no idea what life has in store for you. It's a mess of contradictory emotions and while it is all very exciting it does wear you down. It wore me down. I was on edge and reacted badly.

The other thing that has been bothering me about falling in love is that he said to me once he didn't think he'd be long in this world. Now, that scared me enormously to say the least. I don't know if I can bear to lose another lover. It's scares me so much to think I might be investing my emotions with someone who's time might be limited because of his health. I don't know if I can go through it all again.

I still find it hard to believe and it still bothers me a lot that Clément died. I keep asking that question, that impossible question. Why?
Would he have still been alive if he hadn't come over to share my life and make one together? Would he have lived if we had taken the opportunity to visit his family? Or if he had made the move later on?
Questions like these can't be answered, not by him, not by me, not by his family, or even doctors. Autopsies and knowing his family history doesn't help me one iota, not with big questions like these. I hate that!
Doesn't stop them from bugging me though...Even now while I'm typing all this I can hear the voice asking the questions, on and on and on...

I also know that to do nothing and let this one slip by would be a huge mistake. I believe that by reaching out and loving someone I do become a better person, in fact a friend of mine said she liked and loved me more since I had fallen in love with Clément. She also knows how confused I feel at falling in love again, she also knows that just before she and I went to Canada I had a row with him. And she knows I need more time to sort myself out. I still do.
So does he, we made up. It was a silly mistake but it helped us (me at least) put things in perspective. I told him how I felt. We made up and decided to take it as it comes. I have my life here and he has his in England. If he had been here or I there things would be different, that much I know. We would be dating heavily. Wouldn't stop me being scared but the distance between us gives us both time to reflect on things, again at least for me.

He knows how I feel, he knows how scared I am of my emotions and what's happening. He knows I feel like I'm betraying my love.
What he doesn't know is how much I really worry about his health and that that scares me, the idea of him leaving me as well. He probably will when he reads this. Sorry babe! I should have told you but it took me a while to figure it out. Forgive me? It hit me like a ton of bricks in Digby when Carmen and I were talking about love. And seeing you tonight on the webcam has compelled me to write this, writing helps me think. It helps me figure out where I am in life, what I'm feeling. And how to respond to it.

I can tell you that I am willing to see what happens between us. If it is love and for real we'll see. That much you already know.
If it's not I want to tell you I do need you in my life somehow, you've become too important to me to lose you. Seeing you tonight on the webcam typing your responses made me aware of just how special you are to me. How much I want to be with you somehow, some way.

If that's all we can have, then at least let me have that...