the truth is in my smile
i can find strength
but i can't make you believe in me

follow me
enter my world
you're not who i see when i close my eyes

dream about me
tell me, does it hurt when you can no longer remember?
tear me apart with your mind
I can still hear your thoughts, they've followed me
it echos through my being

Let me be
Indulge me
but please, continue to care for me

Desire: A dangerous flame

There's a line in 'Two Hands' - (a movie I loved even before Heath Ledger hit it big and then fell from grace)

'If your going through some shit in your life chances are somebody else has gone through the same thing before ya. And they've written about it. Some poet or philosopher has been through the same type of crap, and they've written about it. And when you find that poem or piece of writing. You think bloody hell this bastard has just summed it all up. It's kinda comforting. Know what I mean?'

This is how I feel about this article - I could never write so articulately and poetically - Jeanette Winterson's grip on words is amazing (read the Power Book).

Desire: A Dangerous Flame

Why is the measure of love loss? In between those two words – love, loss, and standing on either side of them, is how all this happened in the first place. Another word: desire.

While I can't have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I'd take a taxi across town to see you for 10 minutes. I'd wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the morning. If you call me and say "Will you..." my answer is "Yes", before your sentence is out. I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.

Desire is always a kind of invention. By which I mean that the two of us are re-invented by this powerful emotion. Well, sometimes it is the two of us, sometimes it might just be me, and then I am your stalker, your psychopath, the one whose fantasy is out of control.

Desiring someone who has no desire for you is a clue to the nature of this all-consuming feeling; it has much more to do with me than it has to do with you. You are the object of my desire. I am the subject. I am the I.

When we are the object of each other's desire it is easy to see nothing negative in this glorious state. We become icons of romance, we fulfil all the slush-fantasies. This is how it is meant to be. You walked into the room... Our eyes met... From the first moment... and so on.

It is safe to say that overwhelming desire for another person involves a good deal of projection. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in desire at first sight. Sometimes it is as simple as sexual desire, and perhaps men are more straightforward there, but usually desire is complex; a constellation of wants and needs, hopes and dreams, a whole universe of uninhabited stars looking for life.

And nothing feels more like life than desire. Everyone knows it; the surge in the blood, cocaine-highs without the white powder. Desire is shamanistic, trance-like, ecstatic. When people say, as they often do, "I'd love to fall in love again – that first month, six months, year...", they are not talking about love at all – it's desire they mean.

And who can blame us? Desiring you allows me to feel intensely, makes my body alert as a fox. Desire for you allows me to live outside normal time, conjures me into a conversation with my soul when I never thought I had one, tricks me into behaving better than I ever did, like someone else, someone good.

Desire for you fills my mind and thus becomes a space-clearing exercise. In this jumbled, packed, bloated, noisy world, you become my point of meditation. I think of you and little else, and so I realise how absurd and wasteful are most of the things that I do. Body, mind, effort, are concentrated in your image. The fragmented state of ordinary life at last becomes coherent. No longer scattered through time and space, I am collected in one place, and that place is you.

Simple. Perfect.

Until it goes wrong.

The truth is that unless desire is transformed into love, desire fails us; it fails to do what it once did; the highs, the thrills. Our transports of delight disappear. We stop walking on air. We find ourselves back on the commuter train and on our own two feet. Language gives it away; we talk about coming back down to earth.

For many people, this is a huge disappointment. When desire is gone, so is love, and so is the relationship. I doubt, though, that love is so easy to shift. Loving shies away from leaving, and can cope with the slow understanding that the beloved is not Superman or Miss World.

We live in an "upgrade" culture. I think this has infected relationships. Why keep last year's model when the new one will be sleeker and more fun? People, like stuff, are throwaways in our society; we don't do job security and we don't offer security in relationships. We mouth platitudes about time to move on, as though we were doing something new-age and wise, when all we really want is to get rid of the girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife.

I don't want a return to the 1950s, when couples stayed together whatever the hell, but whoever said that relationships are easy?

Advertising always promises that the new model will be easier to use. And of course when you "upgrade" to the next relationship, it is also easier – for a while.

If you are pretty or personable, handsome or rich, serial relationships offer all the desire and none of the commitment. As sexual desire calms, and as the early fantasies dissolve, we begin to see the other person in real life, and not as our goddess or rescuer. We turn critical. We have doubts.

We begin to see ourselves, too, and as most of us spend our entire lives hiding from any confrontation with the self, this sudden sighting is unpleasant, and we blame the other person for our panicky wish to bolt. It is less painful to change your partner than it is to confront yourself, but one of the many strange things about love is that it asks that we do confront ourselves, while giving us the strength of character to make that difficult task possible. If desire is a magic potion, with instant effect (see Tristan and Isolde), then love is a miracle whose effects become apparent only in time. Love is the long-haul. Desire is now.

An upgrade culture, a now culture, and a celebrity culture, where the endless partner-swapping of the rich and famous is staple fare, doesn't give much heft to the long-haul. We are the new Don Giovannis, whose seductions need to be faster and more frequent, and we hide these crimes of the heart under the sexy headline of "desire".

Don Giovanni – with his celebrated 1,003 women, is of course dragged off to Hell for his sins. Desire has never been a favourite of religion. Buddhism teaches non-attachment, Christianity sees desire as the road to the sins of the flesh and as a distraction from God. Islam has its women cover themselves in public lest any man should be inflamed, and jeopardise his soul. In Jewish tradition, desire ruins King David and Samson, just as surely as modern-day Delilah's are still shearing their men into submission. Yet it would be misleading to forget the love poem in the Bible that is the "Song of Solomon"; a poem as romantic as any written since, that gives desire a legitimate place in the palace of love.

And quite right too. Desire is wonderful. Magic potions are sometimes exactly what is needed. You can love me and leave me if you like, and anybody under 30 should do quite a lot of loving and leaving. I don't mean that desire belongs to youth – certainly it does not – but there are good reasons to fall in love often when you are growing up, even if only to discover that it wasn't love at all.

The problems start when desire is no longer about discovery, but just a cheap way of avoiding love.

It is a mistake to see desire as an end in itself. Lust is an end in itself, and if that is all you want, then fine. Desire is trickier, because I suspect that its real role is towards love, not an excuse in the other direction.

There is a science-based argument that understands desire as a move towards love, but a love that is necessary for a stable society. Love is a way of making people stay together, desire is a way of making people love each other, goes the argument. This theory reads our highest emotional value as species protection. Unsurprisingly, I detest this reading, and much prefer what poets have to say. When Dante talks about the love that moves the sun and the lesser stars, I believe him. He didn't know as much as we do about the arrangement of the heavens, but he knew about the complexity of the heart.

My feeling is that love led by desire, desire deepening into love, is much more than selfish gene-led social stability and survival of the species. Loving someone is the closest we can get to knowing what it is like to be another person. Love blasts through our habitual sclerotic selfishness, the narrow "me first" that gradually closes us down, the dead-end of the loveless life.

There are different kinds of love, and not all of them are prefaced by desire, yet desire keeps its potent place in our affections. Its releasing force has no regard for conventions of any kind, and it crosses genders, age, social classes, religion, common sense and good manners with seemingly equal ease.

This is bracing and necessary. It is addictive. Like all powerful substances, desire needs careful handling, which by its nature is almost impossible to do.

Almost, but not quite. Jung, drawing on alchemy, talked about desire as the white bird, which should always be followed when it appears, but not always brought down to earth. Simply, we cannot always act on our desire, nor should we, but repressing it tells us nothing. Following the white bird is a courageous way of acknowledging that something explosive is happening. Perhaps that will blow up our entire world, or perhaps it will detonate a secret chamber in the heart. For certain, things will change.

I don't suppose that the white bird of desire is nearly as attractive to most of us as the white powder substitute with natural highs. Desire as a drug is racier than desire as a messenger. Yet most things in life have a prosaic meaning and a poetic meaning, and there are times when only poetry will answer.

For me, when I have trusted my desire, whether or not I have acted on it, life has become much more difficult, but strangely more illuminated. When I have not trusted my desire, out of cowardice or common sense, slowly I have gone into shadow. I cannot explain this, but I find it to be true.

Desire deserves respect. It is worth the chaos. But it is not love, and only love is worth everything.

Jeanette Winterson

You smiled at me

I'm a people watcher.
I'll often stare at people and not notice that I have just created their history and visualised their future.
I can be judgmental - in fact the characters I create are based purely on what expression is on their face, what kind of fashion they are wearing, the way they have styled their hair, how often they check their mobile and if they are in their own private ipod heaven.

I am so involved with this process that I am always surprised when someone meets my eyes and exposes my superficial intrusion into their life.

That's why I remember you.
You smiled at me.

The bus was full and you came in and out of my line of vision.
My pupils darted around trying to keep a tab on you.
Quite simply you were beautiful.

I didn't think you could see me.
The bus darted through the peak hour Mexican streets (I was always amazed at how bus drivers in Mexico seemed to be under the delusion that they were driving a sports car and not an ancient, rusting and clearly exhausted motor).

You had curly hair.
My mind raced. You had a labour job, liked extranjeros (but not ones from America), I had the feeling you had been in love many times. You liked driving in the rain, bohemia was your beer of choice, you had no problems falling asleep (you were well-rested), you had a favourite horchata stand where you flirted with the 58 year-old woman to make her feel youthful, in the shower you always washed your underarms first and you had a bad habit of forgetting your keys so your madre had to leave the family tienda to let you in.

I was lost in your story when you exited the bus. You turned around, looked directly into my eyes and smiled.
Not shyly but knowingly and cheekily.
Shocked, I looked around to see if anybody else was smiling back. No one was.
So I did.
In that moment I felt completely exposed. Like you didn't need to create my life because you already knew it.

I was amazed at the connection I felt and looked for you after that day, hoping you would take the same bus.
You never did.
Maybe it was just a smile.
But I haven't forgotten you anyway.

A series of moments

I'm intoxicated by my surrounds. I am also literally intoxicated.
Suddenly I remember what it's like to feel free. I dance until I am no longer me but a composition of cells so in tune with the music. The beats are thumping through my head and flowing from my finger tips.
I wonder why it has been so long since I last felt like this.

All of I sudden I feel so chic, so 'on my game'. I'm no longer shy or 'boring'.
I meet James.
We hit it off. Our conversation flows, the chemistry is obvious.
Then he mentions his girlfriend.
I have a mixture of reactions. Why did I assume there was chemistry? Do I dismiss him all of a sudden? Was the connection real?
I am so eager for someone to be attracted to me again.

But we continue to talk. I enjoy his company.
We drink more, get higher.
Suddenly James is appearing interested. He tenderly kisses my forehead and puts his arm around my shoulders.
I question him. What's the deal with the girlfriend? He mumbles something about troubles.
I feel lost - i am concerned about the ramifications, but i am also trapped in his warmth. He whispers lovely things in my ear. How did he know it was exactly what i needed to hear?

He is careful to set boundaries, though buckles a handful of times with a lingering kiss on the lips. He continues to remind himself that we are friends. I nod, I don't make any moves, but I am happy to have his arm around my waist, I feel comfortable in his arms. He gets jealous when I flirt with someone else. Why does that give me a thrill? He has no ownership of me, he has minus ownership of me.

We separate and mingle - yet keep finding each other. I feel joy and relief each time this happens.

The evening becomes morning. The over-indulgence has its price and I am sick. He waits but eventually leaves. I do not get to tell him what he did for me. That he gave me back the confidence I no longer had. That he made me feel valued and special. That if he is unhappy then he deserves better - not because i have delusions of us being together, but because he deserves happiness.
Just as I do.

To whom it may concern

I've set a goal for myself -
Find your creativity again. Find your spirit again. Find those things that make you tingle with happiness.

I haven't thought much further past that.

Afterall i'm pretty sure that creativity is something you 'have' not something you can find in the pockets of a pair of jeans you haven't worn for a few years.

But when I was in Grade four, my teacher told the class I had written a fantastic story. She said it was so good she was going to read the story to the class. To my memory she didn't do this for anyone else in the class - although I may have conveniently lost any memory of this.

I can barely remember the story - I think it was about a family who had shrunk in their backyard (sounds awfully familiar to a blockbuster movie at the time). But from that day, at the ripe age of 9, I thought of my self as a person with a keen imagination. I thought I was so lucky to be creative and I would write so many stories.

And yet here I am - trying desperately to get in touch with that 9 year old, who was confident in her abilities.

I think if I was once a creative soul... I can probably be one again?