Tag: love

The power of choice

I made a big decision yesterday. I decided that I no longer need my opiate antagonist therapy. I had planned to stop on my birthday, which just happens to fall on New Year’s Eve, but I’ve been feeling so happy and settled that I knew I could do it. And so I did. The ‘high’ from not having to take the bitter pills I’ve been placing under my tongue for two years was unexpectedly immense. I felt as though I could scale a mountain. I danced and howled at the fireworks that are barnstorming the sky every night before Christmas.

But then the night’s hands stretched towards midnight, and I toddled off to bed where the inevitable withdrawal symptoms began to kick in. I was hot, then freezing cold. I had restless legs and my arms were flailing uncontrollably, so I clamped them shut between my thighs and dealt with it. Because that’s what you do when you make a choice.

I woke up early this morning feeling like I could swoop into the sky with those long gone fireworks, but now I’m a little tired simply because I’m functioning on very little sleep. I don’t know how long these side effects will last – maybe a few days or longer – but they beat being reliant on any substance EVERY FUCKING TIME. I ate a hearty breakfast, downed a legal addictive stimulant coffee and with my full belly and happy heart, I thought I would sleep, but I’m feeling so free and alert that I had to write.

The last two years I’ve been on Buprenorphine have been some of the most memorable and active, simply because I wasn’t wasting my life getting high and sleeping my life away. I got shit done – lots of it – and last year was an incredible year that presented me with some life changing opportunities. This year has been a little more sedate, but just as fulfilling, if not more.

A couple of weeks ago, I had my last appointment with my addiction specialist and we decided that I would stop taking the ‘bupe’ on my birthday so I could start the New Year clean and fresh as a daisy. I won’t go into the specifics of my final appointment, but it was rich with poignancy. I will miss my doctor’s wisdom and his ability to be transparent with the realities about my state of addiction. He has been such a source of encouragement, and when I last saw him, we hugged and exchanged kind words. He also gave me a beautiful healing stone which I’ve added to my mineral collection (or crystals, if you want to call them that).

After ruminating about the supportive relationship with my addiction specialist, I realised that I had met one of the finest doctors who had ever treated me, and I’ve met hundreds – maybe thousands – of doctors. I’ve met doctors who shouldn’t be doctors, but this man genuinely knows how to care for his patients. He knows that their – our – lives are in his hands. He was one of the very few people I trusted to show my TEDx talk to prior to speaking on the day, and he had nothing but lashings of encouragement and praise. He’s the kind of doctor and human being you want as your doctor. He was in my corner from the start and I couldn’t have done it without him. Behold the healing stone …

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Peace. Joy. Liberation. THAT is how I am feeling today, and how I will continue to feel even through the flailing limbs and mad body temperature fluctuations. I will hold that feeling of pride close to me and that is how I will get through, because there is no other way.

I’m excited about a whole gamut of stuff right now, but I’m mostly excited that I can turn that bloody alarm off my phone that used to remind me to ‘dose’ at four-thirty every afternoon. No more alarms. No more bitter pills. No more lining up at the junkie counter at the chemist to be ‘dosed’.

I get to enjoy Christmas with my loved ones with no attachments, and while last year may be tough to beat (I had my sister back, and my parents, her and I danced the night away), I’m not out to break records. I’m here to live, love, be loved and give. It really is that simple. Yes, there have been deep feelings of shame I can attribute to my drug use (and lining up at the junkie counter), but like the scars on my body that whisper to me that I am a warrior, I’m more than happy to share my stories of how I have seemingly conquered my addiction to narcotics.

Now this may or may not interest you, but I’ve been reading a lot of peer reviewed papers and first hand experiences of how psychedelics are used in addiction therapy and to heighten spirituality with the dying. I’m more invested in how psychedelics are used with the dying, and while I wouldn’t do it myself due to the risks to cognitive function and the potential psychiatric issues, I’d probably give it a go if I was at the end of my life. While the potential for dependency is very low, what a ride it would be. Now have a look at this diagram:

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I don’t do alcohol, nicotine and my intake of coffee these days is practically non-existent in comparison to what I used to consume. Prior to transplant, apart from morphine, I would continuously suck on nitrous oxide (Entonox) when physiotherapy became too painful. It helped, but it can cause bleeding, so I was closely monitored and as such never had physio again due to uncontrollable pain. When I was dying, all that mattered was that I was comfortable from both a physical and spiritual standpoint.

Now take a look at where Psilocybin (‘magic mushrooms’), LSD and Mescaline are on the chart. Very low in dependency. It never seemed to hurt Jack Kerouac or Sir Ginsberg and their prolific writing. Until it did. A slew of writers ‘graduated’ to speed, benzodiazepines – and the rest – which inevitably lead to this: ‘Kerouac took so much amphetamine when he first discovered the inhaler high that he lost most of his hair and his legs swelled up with thrombophlebitis.’ Not sexy at all. So while it aided their art for a while, it swallowed them whole and Kerouac was dead at the age of 47. I am eight years away from 47 and do not want to die, so to think I was addicted to narcotics like morphine and pethidine horrifies me, because after heroin, they’re at the top of the list with both dependence and morbidity. Pentobarbital (often marketed as Nembutal) is right up there, too. Nembutal is the choice drug for euthanasia, and cocaine is not far behind.

I’ve spoken at length with friends who have tried all manner of substances over the years: ecstasy, methamphetamine, mescaline and LSD, heroin, morphine, cocaine, marijuana and alcohol. That’s right – alcohol is also on the list with a level of high morbidity too. Is this a cautionary tale about drugs? Perhaps.

So enough of the horror for me. Instead, I am going to try to not be horrified with how close I came to death when I was using, but will tap into the subtleties of that emotion when I need to feel proud. Did I win the fight against drugs? Did I win the fight against CF and cancer? Not quite, and for a couple of reasons. I’ve never particularly liked or understood the militarisation of illness or death, and I don’t plan on using that model for how I got through my addiction. I GOT THROUGH IT. And I got through it with support, love, the right medication, meditation, music, writing and fuck off stubbornness. I can’t say that I single handedly came through the other side without help, but I did most of the work myself because I’m not one to ‘lean in’ – I never have been.

Having an addiction specialist and a supportive family was one thing and while I only told a handful of my closest friends, they knew from day one that the only way I get through the really tough shit is on my own. I attribute that to spending so much time alone in hospital once my Mum had to leave so she could love and look after my sister and my Dad. Being alone gives you a tremendous sense of temerity and independence, as well as an imagination to rival Tolkein (although I was never going to be as crafty as he was – not even close).

I’ve never been codependent on another person, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. More often than not, I’ve reasoned that it’s for the best because I’ve always wagered that I will live the rest of my life alone. Except that I’m not. I want to thank everyone for letting me just be. For still loving me. For asking how I’m going. For always asking and accepting that wherever I am, no matter what may be happening, ‘I’m fine, thank you’, even when I’m not.

Endnote: this is what I strutted – really strutted and danced – around the house to last night. Because I’m feeling good.

Song of the Week #4

I’m trying to birth a poem at the moment, and I need to get away from words. Last week, I had so much going on with my addiction post that I didn’t post Song of the Week number four. So, I’ve made it a goodie – ‘Samson’ by Russian singer Regina Spektor. Seriously, how did she get that song so perfect? How anyone can protest that this is one of the most beautiful songs on her 2002 album ‘Begin to Hope’ is beyond my comprehension.

My youngest nephew is a Sam. Not a Samson, but he may as well be because that’s what I often call him. Either that or ‘Sam-YOU-elle!’ Sammy was born a few weeks early, but that was enough to make him very sick. He had failure to thrive and had my sister not been a carrier of the CF gene, we would have suspected that he had Cystic Fibrosis. I’m sure my mum was transported back to when I was a baby where I struggled to put on weight, had constant chest infections and hospitalisations. When he was eight months old, baby Sam stopped eating and was losing weight quite rapidly. The only choice my sister was given was to feed him via a naso-gastic tube – a horrible thing for any parent to go through. I say parent, because thankfully he doesn’t remember having tubes forced up his nose when he’d rip them out as any baby would do. It’s certainly what I did. With a temerity and mother cub instinct, my sister managed to get through that and while that was really only the beginning of Sam’s health problems, on my sister’s birthday he suddenly began eating – the first thing he munched on being her birthday cake!

When he was three, Sam had been in a private hospital for his asthma for just short of a week and we he just wasn’t getting any better. The next thing, he’s literally dying in my sister’s arms. Sam was in acute respiratory arrest – a frightening shade of blue, his little chest sporting a huge cleave and he had to be brought back to life. I cannot imagine how terrifying that would have been for my sister. Not less than ten doctors worked on him for at least an hour and then he was transferred to the city’s best children’s hospital by the hospital’s head intensivist himself. Sam was placed in the Intensive Care Unit and I arrived to find him not intubated, which was a massive relief. For the next couple of days, he was under the watchful eye of ICU doctors and on bi-pap, a machine often used for CF’ers to force oxygen into the lungs. It’s essentially non-invasive intubation.

Sam eventually got better, but he still has terrifying asthmatic episodes. One day he can be running around like a maniac and the next, he’s in the back of an ambulance with sirens blaring, my sister terrified about the outcome. Now, because he’s awfully cute (all of my nephews are – coincidence they’re related to me? I think not), Sam has been don’t a lot of media – billboards in shopping centres, in ads, on radio and TV for the Royal Children’s Hospital Foundation (do you think I can find ANY of it?)

And so, this song always reminds me of Sam. The words ‘You are my sweetest downfall; I loved you first, I loved you first’, are words I’ve always associated with my nephew. We share a bond where both of us have been to the edge of life and back and we share an amazing spiritual connection. That’s all I’ll say.

The delicacy of this song is so exquisite and it’s just occurred to me that I’ve been selecting songs that are delicate, so I promise to mix it up with something with a little more robust next week. Maybe even something daggy, because I’m a bit of a dork. For me, ‘Samson’ has this ethereal quality with its piano trills and Spektor’s voice. This ballad is so striking in its simplicity and its shut up beauty and originality. It is the sweetest song on the album and for me, I think Spektor really found her form with this song.

A few years ago, I was lucky enough to see Regina Spektor live, and when I heard the first refrain from her piano, I cried with joy. Such an affecting song. And so I give you ‘Samson’.

Sammy and I even wardrobe coordinate …

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Sam and I a couple of years ago. We look a lot alike and I’ve been asked if he’s mine progeny, to which I say ‘he’s my nephew and I hold no responsibility as to what he may or may not do in your shop’ 😉

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I am an addict

I posted a rant on my chasing away salt water page earlier today, much of which I’ve included in this piece. It involves the Cystic Fibrosis community – my community, if you will – and my burning question was this: when will people start taking responsibility for their lives? Why are there GoFundMe pages being created to ask for money so that CF’ers can reap the rewards for doing nothing? You are NOT a special fucking snowflake as the late, great Stella Young would say. You can listen to her fuck off amazing TEDx talk here. Her inspiration porn and snowflake theory applies to the entire illness and disability community. No one is exempt #sorrynotsorry.

I see CF’ers who are diabetic with failing kidneys poisoning their bodies by drinking Coke and eating crap for breakfast, lunch and dinner; pumping themselves full of insulin because they’re ‘addicted to sugar’. Trust me – there are worse things to be addicted to and this is where I share my ultimate shame story for the very first time.

MY NAME IS CARLY-JAY AND I AM AN ADDICT.

As some of you may know, I’ve been addicted to opiates over the years due to the pitfalls of CF, transplant and cancer – morphine, pethidine, oxycontin and more. I mentioned my on/off struggle with being addicted to drugs in my TEDx talk, but when I gave that talk, I had been keeping a far deeper secret I’ve not had the courage to write about until now because of the deep shame that feels like burning kindling in my marrow. Seriously – that’s how it feels. 

In fact, the reason I had to use a lectern during my TEDx talk was because my brain hadn’t recovered from the damage done from the previous two years of drug (ab)use and as such, I felt like an abject failure. I could not learn my eighteen minute speech in the three weeks I had been allotted, and for me this was mortifying. But once I walked out on that stage, I was fine; nerves a distant memory. I owe everlasting gratitude to the very empathetic Lisa Watts from TEDx Brisbane after crying my way through a conversation as to why my brain wouldn’t suck my speech up like the sponge it had once been.

I am well aware that I have paid my donor and her family the ultimate disrespect by getting addicted to drugs. And not just any drugs – schedule 8 controlled drugs as they’re called in Australia. I thought that because I was on prescription drugs and I wasn’t drug seeking on the streets that I was safe; that I wasn’t a drug addict. Except I was.

In fact, I remember my first hit of Omnopon in 1994 after I’d had surgery for endometriosis. It just so happens that the first love of my life was the one who injected me (in a hospital setting, of course), and that’s when the first flush of addiction bloomed. I unknowingly had sent myself to sea in a sinking ship. Marcello said I’d feel a little giddy, but the accompanying rush of ecstasy that washed over me as I sunk into my bed, yet rising into the air at the same time in one beautiful, sweeping motion is something I’ve never forgotten. In 1996, I became addicted to IV pethidine after complications with surgery, needing more and more every day until my doctors brought down my dose enough for me to get home. Funnily enough, I didn’t miss it and got on with life.

It was following my transplant when the seeds of addiction really came alive. My bones were honeycombed from osteoporosis and as such would not heal. My sternum refused to knit back together, and every time I rolled over in bed my chest bones would concertina and I would hear and feel them pop. Up until I had my cancer surgery in 2007, I had never experienced such pain as when my epidural was removed on day five post-transplant. It was as though someone had poured fuel all over my chest and set it alight. When I was discharged, I’d drink my morphine straight out of the bottle like an alcoholic would with whiskey.

After six months, my transplant doctor Scott Bell and my surgeon, Robert Tam sat me down and told me I was addicted to morphine. The first thing I felt was relief, and my first thought was, ‘no shit, Sherlock’. After agreeing to their suggested two week inpatient detox, I went home, poured my morphine down the sink and went cold turkey. I pissed the bed (and the rest), vomited, sweated like a beast in Hades, and felt like I’d been thrown from my skin. When you’re coming down, you get to a point where you feel like you’re climbing out of your own skin and so you actually try. And then, when you’re back in the world of the living, you emerge like a calf being born. Replete with an inevitably messy start, you find your feet, feeling fragile and a little lost. But as the days go on, you get stronger and a little more fearless. On day four, I began to feel human, and for now at least, the ride was over. I had my life back.

My addiction was most out of control when I wasn’t living with my parents. When you have nobody to be accountable to, you can just shoot up and flake out. The second you see that flash of blood in the syringe, you know you’re about to enter heaven, yet you go nowhere. It is like taking the deepest of breaths. That flash of red, so ironically the same colour as the flower it comes from. You feel totally dissociated and disconnected from everything and everyone, but when you’re high you’re hyper-sensitive to other people’s emotions. You laugh and you cry with people and then suddenly, the high has gone and you’re not sure where to go or what to do apart from wanting another hit, although for a few years I went without pain killers altogether. Why? Because I can.

But then 2003 came reeling into me, and sometimes restless rivers run deep. By 2004 I was back in the throes of addiction and I did ridiculous things like inject pethidine and morphine directly into my port-a-cath. That shit was going straight to my heart. Colour me surprised, but I’m lucky that I didn’t stop breathing. Because I’d built up such a tolerance to these kinds of drugs over the years, I reason that that is the only way I’ve survived such reckless behaviour. I have punished myself enough now knowing that I risked my life every day.

2004 came and went and I stayed clean until I was diagnosed with my pre-cancer on my vulva. Yes, my vulva. In order to get the pre-cancer under control, I had to use a drug called Efudix – a topical chemotherapy ointment which is supposed to burn the cancer away. I was on a potent mix of narcotics, but for good reason. My gynaecological oncologist (broken cunt doctor) couldn’t quite believe the doses I could tolerate, but when you have strips of skin hanging off and peeling away from your vulva, you need ALL THE DRUGS.

When Efudix was off the menu as a treatment, I underwent a radical vulvectomy which very nearly killed me. For pain relief, I had an epidural and was on ketamine and morphine, yet the pain team still could not get my pain under control. As I speak about in my TEDx talk, my Dad arrived at the hospital one morning to find me drooling like a vegetable and essentially non-responsive. Not long after I began have tonic clonic (grand mal) seizures and was rushed to ICU. If it were not for my father calling my lung transplant consultant Peter Hopkins, I’d be dead.

Pete told the doctors to rip me off all of the pain medication, which they did. As a result, I went into acute narcotic withdrawal where my body would thrash around the bed – and despite being in a coma – my system was fighting that sudden absence of opiates. To cut a long story short, I survived, had to learn to walk, talk, feed myself and had to deal with a poo bag. I was drug free and wasn’t even taking paracetamol, despite having a few ‘oxies’ left over from before my surgery which I made quick work of in 2008 when I was in the relationship from hell. The ex in question also happened to have a penchant for drugs and ran me dry, which was fine. I didn’t want to be on anything and was happily clean.

In 2013, I’d been back on narcotics for maybe two years. I was going nowhere fast and like any addict, I was always needing more. I would take drugs when I was happy, I would take them when I was sad and I would take them when I was indifferent. I doctor shopped, lied, and had no one else to blame except myself.

There were times when I was using where I had taken far too much because I hadn’t hit that high fast enough. My breathing would become laboured and just to get some perspective, after my cancer surgery I recall having such massive quantities of ketamine, morphine and other drugs that I would often get down to four to six breaths a minute. I remember waking up with a group of doctors and nurses surrounding my bed saying that I’d had ‘a little trouble with my breathing’. They had in fact pulled me back from the brink with a drug called Narcan which is what you see paramedics using on television with people who have needles stuck in their arms (or in Pulp Fiction. That big breath that Uma takes once she’s stabbed through the chest? Bullshit. Sorry to ruin the illusion).

In 2013, I was shaking the hand of death far too often, yet I still persevered with taking as many drugs as I could. I was in Barcaldine when I realised I was in trouble. I was in the middle of nowhere and only had a minute supply of drugs left for the duration of my stay, so I did what any self-serving addict would do and began rationing them out in the hope that my restless legs, vomiting and night sweats would settle down long enough for me to get back to Brisbane to replenish my supply . One of my closest friends and her husband spent some time at my friend’s cattle station with me and while I knew that Nic knew, I said nothing because I wasn’t ready to get clean and as is typical, I refused to ask for help. Nic said later she knew I was in the throes of addiction, but there was nothing she could do until I was ready. I had to be ready, but I needed help like it was yesterday.

A few weeks after I returned to Brisbane, I was having a very casual conversation with my Mum and for some reason I broke down. She asked what was wrong and while she was in the spices section of Coles, I told her that I was addicted again. She lovingly said that she would get me help and that we would get through it. Why we? Because my family and I are a formidable team – my Mum, my Dad, and my sister always offer me a soft place to land.

This confessional does not make me brave. I am not inspiring. I am not that snowflake that so many people wish to be or use as as excuse to be an asshole. I am human and humans are not infallible. I had to earn back the trust and respect of my family which is what hurt the most. My Dad could not believe that I had gambled so thoughtlessly with my life. He said he was disappointed – possibly the most most biting thing anyone has ever said to me. He wasn’t upset, he was disappointed. I cried, said I was sorry, but that wasn’t enough. I am still so, so sorry and am in tears as I write this. You should never have to earn back the trust of your family, but that was something I was so resolute about doing. My sister was incredibly supportive as were the literal handful of friends I told. They let me get on with my recovery, but were there to back me and I can’t thank them enough.

I’ve been clean for two years and while I’ve always maintained I’ve been compliant with my treatment (taking medication, regular check ups, eating well, exercise) I did the unthinkable – I gambled with my life that I’ve nearly lost so many times through no fault of my own, yet here I was throwing it away with every pill I swallowed and every (clean, single use) needle I was shoving into my skin. I only ever took drugs when I was alone.

In regards to the illness and disability community, I see people who are non-compliant with treatment and medication after transplant and other life preserving procedures. Over the years, I’ve seen transplant recipients start smoking again after their lives have been saved and hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent to keep them alive. Just like my drug addiction, how disrespectful is that to your donor, their family and your medical team? The thing is, I got help because I asked for it. I went to an addiction specialist who put me on opiate antagonist treatment and I’m happy to say that I’m going to be off it for good before Christmas. I saw a great therapist, but after about three sessions my psychologist said I was too well adjusted to keep seeing him. We both believed that I was in a safe space and would not use again. And I haven’t. The only narcotics I’ve had have been when I’ve needed a central line placed in my jugular for IV antibiotics (they can sting and bruise a little like a motherfucker).

So what brought on this confession? This morning as I wrote about Cystic Fibrosis and suffering in general not being a competition, and about the ‘hierarchy of illness’ that has been created over the years, I sensed that I needed to own my shit because I was telling other people to do just that. You have a choice. It’s called being pro-active instead of being a victim. Whether you’ve had a hard life or not, there are many who have had it far tougher than you, but again – it’s not a competition of who is sicker than who, who is suffering more, or who is the most hard done by. If you can get out of your own head and ego, you’ll see that we are surrounded by suffering and we (you) have it relatively easy when it comes to illness. We live in a first world country, have world class medical services and welfare. For fuck’s sake, our transplants are FREE. In the United States, you have to basically crowd fund and hope for the best if your health takes a turn for the worse.

Having an illness or a disability doesn’t entitle you to have a Facebook or GoFundMe page where you’re essentially begging for money, ‘stuff’ and ‘experiences’ like hot laps and swimming with dolphins being given to you for just existing (and shame on you for going to Seaworld. Animals in captivity is cruel. Go and watch Blackfish).

So you – yeah you. Do you actually believe that the world owes you? Because it doesn’t. Life owes you nothing. But you owe life EVERYTHING, so stop being a self-entitled twat. Get a job, get your shit together, get an education or better your skills, get help if you need it like I did (all you have to do is ask), stop the victim blaming, lose the ego and get real. Be accountable and set a good example.

Drugs are a scourge and I know that I will never use again. But how can I be certain? The proof is in the pudding. I’ve achieved so much since being clean. I’ve found my purpose and I am bloody good at what I do. I’ve worked for the first time in years, spoken at TEDx and other events, my writing has been published widely, I’ve been churning out my memoir, poetry and I’m close to having a first draft of a novel I am thrilled with. I’ve made new and lasting friendships with my involvement in palliative care, my death midwifery and the death cafes I host, I started a Masters degree in Spiritual Care and have done my first unit of Clinical Pastoral Education so I could become a secular hospital chaplain. Maybe we’re all wounded healers to some degree.

So many opportunities have presented themselves and I’ve been in the right head space to take full advantage of that. Most importantly, I’ve had no cravings for drugs over the last two years because life is enough. I am enough. To be able to write and say that to people is something I’m proud of. Again, it is not so much that I am brave or inspiring. I’m just a human who wants to be a good person – to love and be there for my family and friends, to write like a motherfucker, to care for the sick and dying and to love and be loved. Life really can be that beautifully simple.


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Happy Birthday, M

For M.E.B


We became another death

(the fulfilment of my internship).

Like a false syncope,

my grief would not let me claim you.



You came to me with bleeding gums and a dent in your jaw,

your broken gait like a barber cutting through

walls of plasticine with blunt scissors.

Bruised pride; your face a field of stubble I so loved jiving on my skin.

But first …



you were an uncertain algorithm of desire –

because you were never going to want me the way I wanted you.

Except, on a summer’s day, under umlauts of clouds, close to the border,

we pushed a kiss right through our chests like a bullet.

I was yours and you were mine and before we came up for air,

the earth had spun off its axis.



Purling into webs of light –

the softness of your cupped hands under my sunburned chin as we

tasted each other for the first time.

As salt danced across our skin, I ploughed my fingers through your hair

as clouds climbed behind us, then sunk with the sun like sabbath.



We cut our teeth on summer.

Sticky and wet like puppets of nature.

A curtain of devotion and great folly –

I grew attached to your shadow.

I’d fall off our bed of sin as you made me come to Bach,

and you would tell me stories of how you skulked up and down Cavill mall,

devout in your pilgrimage to find me on that first night at Schoolies.

You told me you would cry as you watched me sleep;

my childishly freckled cheek hemmed in by swathes of blonde hair.

You would wash your hands with such care in the darkness

(I liked to watch your panoptic palms somersault under tendrils of water)



You would drive along the rivers reach looking for me.

Once, I saw you.

I ran as fast as my body could with bleeding lungs,

but you never saw me.

I was jealous of the wind with its fingers in your hair.



Climbing lovingly into winter bones,

we knitted our bodies into an impenetrable pod where no one could touch us.

We shunned the world with aching hips and salty flesh

stuffing our mouths full, speaking a language only we knew –

believing ‘there is nothing else worth living for other than this’. You.



But I heard church bells pealing from promises that would bleed;

fistulas of memory fractured a fall and I began barking time;

howling spoonfuls of dirt into your mouth

your perfect fucking mouth

always open for mine;

a receptacle of love and all that was good in our world.

You tried.

You were unmoving in arresting us in that space as I jettisoned the indifference,

but we rolled away from each other as old mountains do,

and I began to not love us.



I garrotted you,

throwing you from your skin;

bones akimbo to the wind,

leaving a frayed man like a barometer of truth.

Fall in, fall out.

With the biting sick that bored into my body,

you were gone.



You never got to hear my new voice

or sweep the pads of your fingers over my new scars.

I can’t sing anymore, but my hair is long just as it was that first night you saw me

shuffling across blue linoleum in dimmed hospital corridors.

(I go out walking, after midnight, in the moonlight, just like we used to do.

I’m always walking after midnight, searching for you) 



Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to bed so many years ago,

I would give you my grace (or cleave the moon in two)

but you will not let me.

So I press my fingers into the rivulets of my palms

knowing we will meet when the streets glow in their silence.

Throbbing asphalt still hot from the burning day –

just like our first days of warm hands and cold feet.



Like a splintered shard of shrapnel that will always itch under my skin,

I will always be that woman who loves you.


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‘think of me when you sleep,

warm heart, cold feet.

In your dreams we will meet, 

together soft and deep.

Wish I could be there with you now,

all my love and desire. 

I think of you in despair

oh, when will I meet you there?

Not long, one more sleep,

think of me – warm heart, cold feet.’

– M.E.B 1995

This.

 

Song of the Week #2

Nightswimming. It’s something I love to do and do often. Of a summers evening, I walk down to the pool to carry out my pre-bedtime routine of floating and dodgy aquatic tai chi to slow my mind and body. I’m not in for long – maybe ten or fifteen minutes – and then I run upstairs, get under a hot shower and plonk myself into bed.

As a song it fills my cup, and while I’ll spare you an exegesis on why I think this song is unparalleled in its sound and meaning (and one of the best songs of the 90s), I will say this – the lambency that comes from the circular rhythm of the piano, the uncluttered strings and Michael Stipe’s reeling voice has an immense power. Like last weeks song ‘Nightswimming’ has a sparsity about it and I’ve always found that when singing ballads, Stipe sounds as though he is almost mortally wounded which is strangely comforting.

Released in 1993, R.E.M was always going to be a pearler of a song thanks to a string arrangement by Led Zeppelin’s bassist John Paul Jones. Having JPJ at the helm is a no brainer for music gold and ‘Nightswimming‘ is proof of that.

There’s a sauntering innocence and simplicity about the words, yet there’s a great richness where every strike of a piano key and every draw of a bow across a cello lends itself to the power of the song. While there’s a myriad of theories surrounding what the song is about, for me it is representative of memory; of remembering an age of where innocence has been usurped by having to grow up too fast – a theme that certainly resonates with me. Its gentle restraint is an ideal song to reflect on life – past, present and future – and it’s a song that makes me stop what I’m doing and be present.

‘September’s coming soon, I’m pining for the moon.’

Ah, yes – always pining for the moon.

‘Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.’

Yes. Yes, it does.

Song of the Week #1

I listen to a lot of music. A LOT. Considering I spend so much of my time at my computer slaving writing, I’m often on the hunt for music that’s affecting and makes me break out in blankets of gooseflesh. I remember when I was about nineteen, my mum said that I listened to far too much melancholic music than was normal for a girl my age. Perhaps.

The Wilderness of Manitoba have a sound that’s reminiscent of Fleet Foxes, so I was always going to fall hard for them. Their song ‘Hermit‘ is off their first album ‘When you left the fire.’ I love the title because these words are sung so delicately during ‘Hermit’, and that’s the best way I can describe their sound – delicate. All the best art makes you feel something, and TWOM certainly make me feel all the things.

Today marks my inaugural ‘Song of the Week’ post. Each week, I’m going post a song, but here’s the thing – this might get daggy. Like really daggy. There might be some Daryl Braithwaite, John Denver or Player, so prepare yourselves. I’m going to share songs that mean something to me; where there’s a memory or sensory experience attached (or it could be that I just really fucking love a particular song). I’m also going answer a very simple criteria: Why does this song move me?

For this week’s song, it’s a combination of the lyrics, the harmonica, the cello (which appeals to my own bow brandishing days), and the harmonies. This song has a beautiful and unimpeded tenderness about it, and I’m all for a little tenderness. Or a lot. The sound is quite pared back – a little sparse, if you will – and it makes my bones ache in a ‘I want you close to me so I can wrap my legs around you and pash you all day’ kind of way. It’s that kind of song. It’s romantic and dreamy. Oh, and CELLO which is one of my favourite instruments. I played cello and piano for about seven years from primary and into high school and after my transplant I started taking lessons again with my old teacher. The feeling of bow to string is a hard one to slip from your memory; the mellow, sonorous sound travels through your body like a mood. Enjoy.