Solitude (Originally written in July 2001)

We wrote this letter from within with unveiled honesty. Now I don’t remember it. The words were sent off to someone who didn’t treasure them enough to hold on to them.

We’d often sit on the beach here in Canada and watch the lake rush in, make love to the beach, then rush out again. That’s what we’d like. A lover who rushes in, makes love to us, body and mind, then rushes away again.

beach with birds2

Odessa says, no I would not. She was talking to her, not us, definitely not me. Charles said, he thought her something or other. Neither of them understands. Now in retrospect I realize that I held back when I sent that letter to Charles, because I was the captain of those words. She was the crew. Charles thought she was keeping herself in an unnecessary prison. Living with our daughter and not allowing our selves the freedom to love. In truth, even if we lived alone and was undisturbed the majority of the time, I think we’d never be lonely.

Margene understands. She just told us this about herself the other day. I think Pinky feels this way too. This is truth. We don’t want to be bothered by a man, not even one who rushes in like the lake. For now, in this little capsule of time, we want the solitude. I doubt we’d ever tire of it. We may get bored. May reflect in sadness, but for the few times we did live alone in our life, there were never regrets. The only regrets are that we allowed a man to intrude.

Does this make us selfish, shallow? I don’t think so. It means we like, even love ourselves. For how could I stand to be alone  with us, if I do not love us? If we, do not love us?

So I won’t allow anyone to cause us doubt about this but will, instead, seek it out. The proof is in our writing.

The letter I sent to Charles that flowed beautiful and positive was written in a little block of her time. In touch with our thoughts time. She gave me control that day.

The stories she’s written here in Canada, finished here, have been during her alone with me time.

A month or two with this kind of solitude and we could finish “Torry” and “Stealing Time.” I guess that’s why she set them aside. She knew, that I had the solitude to realize that our alone times would be in small blocks. That’s why short stories and articles are flowing like a river, into an ocean up here.

This inspires me to strive for freedom on a larger scale. She has to book a room for a weekend, where we’re completely alone. To eventually save for a real vacation. A writing retreat. Someplace with pen, paper, music, ideas and lots and lots of  beach water water.

Then we’ll write. we’ll only write.