"why does it say P.L.O.?"
as a young sprite of the mid 70's, the evening news would incessantly report on the chaos in the middle east. particularly the palestinian liberation organization. every night, the initials would blaze across the screen, and her brow would crinkle and crease.
[no, this blog is not an analysis of arafat and his ten points program (thanks, wikipedia).]
rather, the little red haired girl was confused. P.L.O. was used on the black boards at school to prevent the janitorial staff from erasing the day's lesson.
["please leave on".]
but, her house of chaos had no political anarchists. just parental ones.
cut to: the theatre school student, two-time torontonian subway janitor. say that ten times when you're drunk. oh. right.
[lunch break: strawberry kiwi sparkling drink, apricot fro-yo (so early 90's) and 6 codeine tablets.]
oh, if only this steel-toed boot sporting, summer custodian could power wash what remains on our walls. the walls between a husband and a wife.
it's a delicate juggling act, blogging your guts out, married without children. you sometimes try the emotional slight of hand; river rafting through a stream of consciousness flow or flourishing imagery and metaphors, and the odd f-bomb, out of a hat.
[now, i finally see what i never saw. him.]
the horrible irony of becoming sober is that you ache to repair your wrongs, but the tool box is locked in our garage. longing to pick up a white paintbrush and mend our picket fence, but your job is to first mow the lawn.
if unleashed, i could crash the www. by uploading my remorse. is the constant searing in my chest the endless detox from benzos or is it branding a tattoo of regret...
i miss his laugh.
i miss his skin.
i miss his smell.
i miss his heart.
i miss our life.
we will always see things differently. but, now i see everything through those blue, blue eyes that still make my heart skip a beat.
which makes me want to look inside me.