13 Aug 1985— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
1040 pm
Dear Lise:
Chris lies sleeping and the emptiness of my place
mocks me; that I asked you to go, tonight. I feel sad;
that, somehow, I’ve been rude or insensitive or have
unnecessarily hurt your feelings. If I have, my love,
I am sorry. I know I’ve hurt mine.
I realized tonight, when you told me you would
resent it if Rose had another child by me, how much
more I ask of you than you ask of me. How blessed I am
that you’ve come this far with me, in love. How deeply
you touch me; when you hurt, I ache. I wish I could
take your proud head against my chest and somehow make
it so your love for me would give you nothing but joy.
I used to imagine that someday I would love
someone like I love you. Many years and lovers later
this had faded to a dim idealistic dream and then I met
you.
After a long time with you I now can look back on
the time we’ve spent and see some things. I can see
why my love for you has constantly deepened. It’s
because of your inner qualities of resilience,
self-possession and self-respect. I’ve never loved
anyone with the inner-possession you have. A friend of
mine, years ago, paid me a deep compliment. He said
that, ‘Unlike most people, I owned myself.’. I think I
understand him when I think of what is so special to me
about you. You’re not willing to just exist and not
question.
Ah, Lise…words are so poor for these feelings;
sometimes I just want to lay my head on your breast and
just let my heart pour love into you like a torrent.
I wonder if I’m beginning to feel that ache you
mentioned that you had last Saturday. Its for sure I’m
feeling something here when I think of losing you and
that it will be by my own hand.
God does play with us as it says in one of my 1975
poems. He delights in forcing us directly into those
razor edge decisions that we would most like to avoid.
he lets me long for years for a moment of monetary
freedom and travel … and then he puts, in my path, a
woman I’m going to cherish and want so deeply.
Somehow, I suspect there is no right or wrong in these
confrontations he constantly provides. Only that we
should experience all the shades of love and loss,
longing and fulfillment and disappointment that we can.
He seasons us with reality, raw.
Well, let him play. I love you and I will not
retreat. I love you and I love my dreams. I want them
all. If he wants to cut me for my audacity, he will.
If I am here to be worn by his experiences, then so be
it. I kneel and open my hands. If there is love in
this life like I am beginning to feel, then i would dare
anything. Let it come through the pores of my skin,
like the sound of the surf, or the sun at noon.
Through my eyes that behold yours or my skin that
touches you. Through my heart that my ache and break.
Through what time I have. What fools we are! We live
in the midst of an unchanging panorama of death and
decay and we set gathering our small safeties and
insurances policies and avoiding feelings that are too
strong because they might be bad for our health. Bah!
You make me want to burn like a flare and feel, just
feel, to extinction.
Words. Just words. And life is full of so many
concrete problems; money, time, position, and age….
Well, I’m going to hold on to these words and feelings
and let the rest sort itself out. These passionate
feelings, to me, cut a deeper swath through our purpose
here than all the arranging of the knick-nacks of our
lives ever could.
I can see/feel in your eyes that you feel some of
what I’m saying. If it were not so I could not have
this passion so strong, born of such a deep echo.
Love,
Archive for August, 1985
1985-08-13 13 Aug 1985
Tuesday, August 13th, 19851985-08-15 Balboa 10.30 AM
Thursday, August 15th, 1985 Balboa 10.30 AM
8.15.85
laying on the sand,
in the sun.
My love,
Right this instant, right this minute, I am so
happy. If only I could freeze this moment in time, put
it away and take it out when the dark moods come over
me; when all the problems are weighing so heavily on my
shoulders; when I forget all about my blessings; when I
feel so desperate I just want to give up. If only.
It is so beautiful and peaceful here, this
little place on earth, this Balboa peninsula. It must
be one of the power spots you've talked about. This is
a place where everything smooths out. This is where I
come in the winter, holding hands with Aaron; walking
on the pier; this is where I thank God for all the
beauty, for my children, for my health, my
intelligence, my independent spirit, for all the people
who have left their mark on me, for all the people I
love; this is where I know, somehow, somewhere there is
a rainbow waiting for me.
This is where I'll come next winter to think of
you, to ease the pain, which is eating at me already.
Oh, Babe; I love you so. And it feels so good
I want be swept away by that feeling. No questions; no
pain; no projection in the future, just love you, now.
I want to look at you until my eyes can't see anymore;
hold you until I don't know which skin is mine; love
you until I can't feel anymore; I want to touch you
until I know every line, every muscle so that I could
recognize you by touch anywhere. How sweet it is to
kiss you; those sweet little kisses on your eyelids,
the corners of you mouth, your forehead and temple, and
then your mouth again, so fast you don't have time to
kiss me back; holding you in my arms like a child; my
child; my lover, my friend.
It isn't easy loving you, but somehow I am
grateful for this love; for it is making me feel so
full of life again.
Sweetie, how silly to write you this morning
when I'll see you tonight but I just can't get enough
of you.
So there.
Love,
Me
--
--
- letter from Lise.
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
1985-08-24
Saturday, August 24th, 1985Like clouds of smoke that drift across me— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
these days … and those to come.
Love and feelings like warm rain
saving me from the empty summer’s heat.
Lise is here … with me in the mist
my hand in hers, our feelings one.
Time and our mortality, smoke and dust
we stand silently amid the moving fog.
We look, we wait, patient and fragile
against our future
and what will become of ‘us’.
gallagher
24 August 1985