Rest in Peace, Erato. With Love.

I tried to leave the country. The school. My life. 
Split the family, maybe, probably. Look for a new school.
In a new country.

Because you can't teach my children. Ever. That's all I've asked of you.
This fact has caused deeply troubling stress, upset, anxiety.
For everyone.
But it is just a simple fact. A clear consequence of past actions. You can never teach my children.
Not so unbelievable, unreasonable or difficult to understand.

But it causes such stress and upset.
Enough for me to decide it's best to leave.
And I tried. But no one would have me.
So here I am.

My choice of words, regrettable. I'm sorry for that.
But not a literal threat. Just a consequence, reality. A dramatic reflection of the turmoil and tensions and torment that THIS has brought upon our families.
I don't remember saying those exact words, so harsh and obviously over the top, but I do remember saying, "She is so angry." And that the consequences of you teaching my children, and even deeper, me being in this place with you, are not going away, and could get worse.

So, in my mind, having that conversation, which always upsets so much, is in fact trying to protect you, us, from those consequences. My children KNOW. And if they were to be assigned to your class, they would refuse, and either you, or them, would have to change. And then when asked why, they would tell the truth. So more people would know. Everyone would know. And if our leadership said, That is a personal matter, not our responsiblity, not our problem, deal with it in your own home...or words to that effect, it would continue to escalate, higher up the corporate ladder. You can never teach my children. That is the consequence, and not an unreasonable one. So, thank you for whatever you had to do to make that happen this year. My conversations with you, so upsetting, about this, are only to prevent a bad situation from getting worse. I tried leaving the school to prevent that. Think about that sentence, I TRIED TO GET A NEW JOB IN THE U.S.A., TO LEAVE THE truly deeply crazy that sentence is....I applied and interviewed for jobs in another school, in another country, with the intention of uprooting my life and the lives of my children.... to prevent more serious consequences.

So, I'm not sorry, but I am sad that you take this so badly, because I am suffering, too, believe me. Of all that has passed between and around us, it is this that seems to upset you most. Or my choice of words, the threatening nature of the conversations...I'm sorry for that. It is how the situation is conveyed to me, you see. No matter the status of my marriage, it's not about that, really. My children KNOW WHY the status of my marriage, our family, is as fucked up as it is. Yes, I am responsible for getting my family into this, and I will be responsible for getting them out. Preventing further damage. Trying to protect everyone from more pain and suffering. Which is why I tried to leave the school, and why I say, You can't teach my children. Ever.

And why I say Rest in Peace, Erato.

Rest in peace
With love
My smile
My lightning bolt
My butterfly
My muse

Go with the knowledge
Of your power
My devotion to you
My poems for you
My songs for you
My every thought of you

I'm not sorry
I'm sad
Broken hearts
Broken families
Broken faces
Broken bittersweet dreams

Pathetic dramatic words
Painful looks in averted eyes
Once so soft and close
Now so deeply hurt
And far away
Afraid and changed

I couldn't find a book. Do you know that feeling when you can't find a book that you know you left somewhere, but it's not there when you look? I think you know that feeling. Like losing a friend. I found the book under the seat of my car, where I spent most of the part of my summer when I wasn't being rejected, trying to repair and prepare for consequences. This is the book:
The Waste Land is celebrating its 100 year anniversary. It is a very difficult poem, but with time and patience I have come to appreciate its meaning. and significance. It is a monumental work in the world of poetry, and turning 100 has brought it back into the cultural conversation:

So, I was looking for this book, and couldn’t find it. But then I found you, and I told you about the lost book, and then we had that very sad, upsetting, unpleasant conversation. All the endless thoughts and dreams of talking to you, and then when we do, it’s about what a shit I am and how you want me to leave you alone. Consequences. And then I went to my car and later that night found the book….and when I opened it, I found this:

This was at the end of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which I had posted here at the end of August, and the next page is the beginning of Portrait of a Lady. Amazing poems. Amazing coincidence to find this post-it note bookmark with your scripted word there on that page, at that moment, after that conversation, Tuesday. In a book that had been lost. I take these amazing coincidences as signs from the gods trying to tell us something. You think I'm crazy.

But there it was. And so my thoughts went to you, my muse. And how sadly, dramatically, some might say romantcally, this has all come to an unfinished end. Unfinished. But the end.

This is not for you, you who can't teach my children. It is for the ghost who haunts my every thought and hope and dream of the better me you inspired me to be. The you and me, with you, I wanted to be. The art and love and lyrical romantic soul I shared only with you. In all my life, in all my world, only you. All those poems, all these songs and devotions and emotions...for a ghost. That you of the alternative reality where I'm not ugly and you're smiling at me. We sleep together under a lemon tree. We dance and hold hands and share thoughts on books and poems and songs and we share our selves in every way, from head to toe and everything inside and in between. And then drink tea. That is who I am writing to. That you that will never be. But could have been. My muse.

It's in the past, of course. But that doesn't change its impact, or the fact that I had never, and will never, ever, do these things I have done, with or for anyone ever again. And if, in your past, present or future, you find a soul to compose, for YOU, hundreds of poems, and live consumed in the infinity of dreams and alternative realities that could never be, consider it a gift and not a curse. You were my muse. I wrote all this for, to and through you. From the very first dance and holding hands. Those first dreams of you, waking me up with my heart racing. That first song by Donovan. From that beautiful first story about our first kiss, Fifteen Minutes to Forever, to this sentence you are reading right now...take a moment to consider what went into all those words and why...the amount of thought and heart and emotion. The deepest oceans and endless horizons of thoughts and wishes and words. It was not for nothing. It was for you. It was for love. And I hope you never forget it, my muse.

Which brings me back to T.S. Eliot. With The Wasteland in the news, I read a review of a new book about a topic I wrote about once on a different blog, again, inspired by thoughts of my muse. Here is that book:
It's the story of the thousands of letters and so much more, he shared with Emily. I wrote about this once, a long time ago. It is a beautiful and bittersweet story. A preview:     
A story about flowers and butterflies...turned to wasteland.

I never dreamed that I'd love or be loved by somebody like you. I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you. I never thought my thoughts would be so consumed by any one, but it's you. These words, of hope, loss, longing, fear, love and deep, drowning desire and so much more, knowledge all the emotions...all for you, to you, because of you. It is incredible, scary and crazy to think about. But it is true. Oceans of emotions, infinite horizons of desires, spinning in subconcious memory and parallel universality. We have been through heaven and hell, we have walked with gods and angels and demons. We have laughed and cried. We tried. With the gods on our side. And we let it go.

For better or for worse, it is true. It is not a threat, it is the truth. "I just want peace....and so do you." I hear you, and need you to know I feel the same way, too. It is why I do, and have done, the things I do. Go, now. Rest in peace, my muse. With love.

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