The Empty Wanderings of a Broken Heart, 2010, Mathilda Oosthuizen

[What follows is 52 of 106 pages of Empty Wanderings of a Broken Heart]

Foreword

Writing about love. A course often taken upon and one that only prescribes the illness of woe.

Writing down feelings, describing, reliving; there is no end, but then the beginning is always unknown: What I could have done.

What I wanted to do, and now?

And now?

Did imagination create this mess or was it here all along?

Introduction

What Julia says: Pens are important. Chocolate can fix most things. What chocolate can’t fix, talking can.

Sometimes you can’t understand the situation you are in. The truth is, things are often more logical than they seem but seeing the logic takes time.

Everyone has a different perspective and understands situations differently, especially the two main characters.

This is only one perspective. This is done not to hurt or for a reaction but to share and perhaps confess. The word confess inspires thoughts of sin or guilt; in this case the only thing to be guilty of is falling in love.

Past A

Black Book

Oh life! How few troubles you see when your eyes have been tainted by love.

Eyes painted red. Why red I wonder?

What’s red got to do with love?

Blue like the sea, the sky and the wind, surely that would make more sense; changeable, temperamental yet stable.

Always there in some shape or form.

You can’t get away from it, you can never fulfill it, you can distance yourself from it, but you can never be separated from love.

I see that my perfume is dying, that thing can’t last forever.

*

1/33

It was a fairly cold day but I wasn’t in the mood to be stuck somewhere, cafe, house, museum. I needed to be out and active. The physical motion of walking creates the illusion that you are getting somewhere, moving on, making progress.

I could write another poem about how much I love you but why would I do that? Because: I can rarely stop thinking about you.

There are times when I think this has to go wrong somewhere.

I don’t know what’s going to happen with us.

I don’t want to be without you.

I like having your stuff around.

You don’t know about Rolos.

I’m scared I wont be with you and in time it will be O.K. This could be another one of those things you learn from.

I don’t want it to be one of those things.

I’m sick of those things.

I hate those things.

They hurt so much.

I know it’s not perfect but there are moments of complete balance and understanding.

Who is to say that you feel those moments too but that is why they are so special, you never know. *

2/33

The sights passing you by, moving through time. It allows you to think, ponder, dwell and forget.

This was not a walk to forget.

Do you fall in love easily?

Knowing is to feel. A feeling could come from anything.

The falling can be done by an individual but the being is done by two.

*

3/33

I kind of knew where I was going, I didn’t want to tell myself but it was in the back of my mind. A thought like a seed that you try to ignore. As I got closer and closer the seed grew a trunk, huge branches and falling leaves.

How it falls with aimless wonder.

The moon spliced in a fearless breeze.

You can create a 12 month history with someone you have never met, in 5 minutes.

You can reenact things that have already happened; explore alternatives and new variations.

You can imagine things that never could, never would be and weren’t.

You could sit down next to someone and then be lying side by side.

*

4/33

I needed to walk by the river, it’s always the river, a sense of comfort from the constant movement, its permanence, permanent fluctuation. Stability in transience.

When I feel you there, you are here.

When you are near, I long for you to be closer.

I feel your touch.

I feel you beside me and I know it will all be fine.

Such a powerful yearning.

My body reacts to you, I have no control.

My eyes well with tears at the strength of feeling I have for you.

It doesn't know what else to do.

*

5/33

I couldn’t walk by the river, past the Houses of Parliament. I was obliged to cross the bridge and walk past Lambeth Palace near the weird church place with its garden museum. I ended up there on one of these previous walking days.

Contemporary Women in Love How is this supposed to work these days? Does it even exist? There is this technology that will ‘make love happen,’ avoid all the awkwardness, all the anxiety and difficulties that bring a ‘new love.’ Well, does it? You tell me.

There seems to be nothing harder than falling in love. Well, the falling is easy but that’s gravity, since when has gravity been a problem? The other stuff though, the meeting the person for starters brings about it’s own impossibilities. That’s where the internet comes in. Men are still men women are still women but not quite as they were once upon a time in fairy film land. The role of the pathetic damsel who can’t live without her man of course still exists but the ‘I will love you no matter what because I am a pathetic lifeless body without you’ no longer does. I don’t think...

Men on the other hand, now what has happened there? As a result of women loosing their helplessness it appears that men have gained some. They no longer act or rather there is a new breed of man, one that has inherited female traits. No longer is it his ‘job’ to do the talking, asking, testing the water, crossing the line; and in most cases, the evolution of the independent woman has not acquired the skills to do so. Therefore, in some cases it leaves them static. The only hope is drink. Get drunk and you can be sure something will come out! It’s a tried a tested theory.

Where does that leave romance, the venerable, frantic, heart felt declarations of love? Gone. Romance? Gone. Gone? I have forgotten something, silly me, crazy to suggest it has gone! It’s everywhere, we are constantly connected to one and other! There are a zillion ways we can declare our love! Text! It has never been easier to tell someone you love them. There is no greater vehicle for love than words; poetry has been adorned with descriptions of adorations and desperate gushings of love. ‘I rly like u. Du wanna go 4 a drk sumtime?;)’ Nothing has changed.

6/33

These are strange days, neither here nor there days, incomprehensible. A displacement inspires them I think. A craving for another place or person without knowing what, when, who is being craved.

You make me feel better.

The things that you do.

You amaze me.

The way you do things your way.

The way you talk, the way you snore, the way you laugh, the way you have that sideways smile, that little giggle thing you do.

Your dancing.

There are so many, and I love them all.

I always look forward to your texts and still get flustered when you call.

I always feel sad when I have to leave you.

When I’m away from you for two days it feels like years.

I will always be pleased to see you.

You are you.

*

7/33

Today was slightly different. I knew what I wanted all right. That was the problem. If I didn’t want it, there would be no problem. No reason for aimless walking, with only my subconscious knowing the direction.

The lock. Holding the big pad lock in the palm of my hand. The temperature attacks, strangling out the warmth. Sun flying from the heat of the cold ice lock.

Untying the lock with the key. Quietly does it. No one wants to be left out in the cold. The dark swallows up fact, the cold left you, your hands are doing the work.

*

8/33

I knew I shouldn’t go to the other side of the river. I tried to reason with myself, make sure I knew what I was doing. But it didn’t make any difference.

INTERLUDE

There’s no place I particularly want to be because the place I really want, no longer exists.

*

Past B

Blue Book

9/33

I think that’s the problem with this kind of situation, you are in constant danger of doing things you know you shouldn’t but have no control over. You feel you have no responsibility for your own actions. You turn into a three year old again.

I don’t know what is wrong with me, I really don’t.

I don’t know whether my mind is making all these feelings up out of desperation or whether they have any sincerity in them.

I know I feel them, I know I feel lost and I don’t know what to do with myself but isn’t that just how it goes?

We had fun together, it was fast and confusing.

It was confusing?

Are you confused?

I don’t know what to say to you.

I don’t want to force you into anything.

I do want to be with you, not in the same way as before but with you nonetheless.

I don’t think we can make sense of any of this stuff, maybe in time, but for now I like you, you like me, let’s be together. Isn’t that enough?

Isn’t that why anyone does anything?

Because they follow their desires?

I think we are good together.

I think our personalities work together.

Nothing is more than what it is.

So let’s not make this anything more.

When people feel attracted to each other and enjoy spending time together then they are together.

Isn’t that it?

Doesn't that make sense?

You should always do what you feel.

In your case, you enjoy spending time with me and like me and have feelings for me but don’t want to be with me...

I delude myself much to easily.

You don’t love me. That’s it.

I should just accept that and move on.

But I can’t.

Do I place all belief in the strength of feeling I have for you and run with it?

I may be crushed but at least I would know for certain that there is no hope.

*

10/33

This side, Lambeth, I would be an observer, close but at the same time not too close. The other side, Westminster, very dangerous, it would be the right side for going down that road. I knew I shouldn’t.

[Previously published in Ladies of the Press] A Guide to Failed Romances The existence of a locked in romantic is one of complete frustration and pain. They can imagine and dream but in reality cannot execute their true romantic impulses. They can see that that old man there is struggling with his bags, want to help, but nothing comes out: waiting at a bus stop, a bus draws in, seeing someone running in the near distance but not delaying the bus for them. Everyone has lustful impulses, this is human nature. But a true romantic sees beyond these to the intimate moments of nothingness; what could be more romantic! A true romantic would recognise these moments and act upon them. However, there are those that become paralysed; they notice the scenario but are physically incapable of consummating their romantic ideologies.

Love’s Relationship with Imagination It is possible to feel something that in the present reality does not exist- it has not evolved or become a form but still exists inside. The imagination takes this impression from within and transfers it into images.

Memory captivates these images which further evolves the feeling, which, as of yet, has no form in reality.

This results in scenes of comfort, closeness and tenderness which rarely exist in reality. The dillusion of love.

Why must love only exist in the mind? The expectations and dreams of love are only ever fulfilled by the reckless and true romantics. Many people would call themselves romantics but it can only ever be applied to those who live in romance and carry out romantic acts daily. Those who carry out, who turn the romantic ideologies and dreams into a reality, into actions. Love is surely a state of mind and not a state of existence.

In the imagination love exists eternally. There are moments in time when they take hold, creating a reaction in the present such as a secret smile: a crossover between what is real and imagined. This is a one way process, a one sided process. If the resipricant of this love knew he/she had been kissed before even speaking their name, they may have something to say. Or, worse still, not utter a word.

Removing oneself and another to a place where anything can happen and neither can do the wrong thing. A present day utopia? Or the imagination? Utopia occurs regularly in every day life but is rarely acknowledged. Perhaps love is born from these pools of utopia. The hope of fulfillment, the wanting, seeking of something more. This can be seen in different types of love and makes sense of adultery. This everyday utopia, the idea that there is a better life is of course an illusion. There is no solidarity but human nature. We cannot help it as we cannot help but fall in love.

*

11/33

But I did. I crossed Lambeth Bridge, hating myself but not having any control over my limbs. Now near Millbank, probably where I should have stayed.

I can’t think.

My mind is clouded, fog filled.

The past events have happened so fast.

Condensed, intwined and confused.

I wish I was able to get my head around everything that has happened.

*

12/33

It may have even been Vauxhall Bridge, I think so; there is that path you can go down there. A river path. It’s secret. I mean it’s not secret of course but it does feel like it. There were hardly any people there, no, there was no one else.

DreamsBeing in a club, part of the Japanese karaoke place. His friends were behind him, around him, he was in the front. A few of my friends were standing at the edge of their group. All were cheering and leery. He said to me, ‘Do you trust me?’

‘Of Course.’ I said. ‘Totally, one hundred percent completely.’

‘Lean back and I’ll catch you.’

‘O.K.’ So I did. I had no doubts. I did it, I leaned back. It seemed like at one moment he might catch me, all in slow motion, but I kept getting lower and lower. I hit the floor. They stood there, in front of me, laughing. He was there, laughing. One of my friends helped me up. Or was it him? I walked up to him. I looked into his eyes. I could not understand why. It didn’t make any sense. I looked at him, bewillded. He smiled at me like nothing was wrong. ~ Inside a huge room, the sides of which could not be seen. At the end of the room was a double bed.

The bed was lit from above in a strange light, it was covered in a dark salmon coloured fleece-like throw. Sat on the edge of the made bed was my Grandma. Staring straight ahead, with headphones in her ears. She was thin and moving her head in time to the Hip Hop music. I rubbed my finger along her jutting color bone. ~ I remember when I told you this one, we were walking to that station to get to some random place or other where something was going down. You had just bought us some beers for the journey, we were crossing the street.

‘I had this dream, I can’t remember now where we were, possible at yours but you came to me, that is, in the dream I saw a close-up of your face, you had cuts in your eyebrow, a black eye and a bloody nose. I was startled and shocked and started to clean you up. The power of this was so strong, of you in distress and pain, that the dream woke me and I wept.’

*

13/33

No one to witness this crime I was committing against myself. The path is quite low down, houses on my right, angular in shape, quite striking. There was a big wall dividing me from the river, a huge thick concrete thing, not too high thankfully.

ImaginingsI keep imagining things that aren't ever going to happen between us and it’s slowly but surely killing me.

I can’t keep thinking your going to come back, take me in your arms and that will be that.

You will realise you made a mistake, that in fact you can’t live without me.

You’ll knock on my door looking all distraught and you’ll say ‘Hi’ and I’ll say ‘Hi’ we will walk towards each other, and you’ll say, ‘I can’t do this any more’ and then we will embrace.

End of story.

But The story has already ended. I need to stop thinking otherwise. There is nothing anymore. Even as I write this I don’t altogether believe it.

*

14/33

I’m not sure I have been there before. It’s funny how when you do something often, even if it’s getting lost or going to new places, although they look different, in the mind they act the same, they invoke the same reaction. There is no difference.

My Greatest Fantasies Coming home, turning on the bedroom light late at night and finding you in my bed fast asleep.

Coming home, walking towards my house and there you are, as if by magic, sent from up above, standing at the gate or waiting in a car.

Looking out that window and seeing your figure standing outside my gate.

Walking down the street, a car stops, pulls over near me, you get out and ask if I want a lift or you get out the car and continue to walk with me.

Bumping into you in the middle of a busy street during the day.

Getting that text saying you’re just around the corner. It was a mistake I know.

*

15/33

Every now and then the path stopped going along the river and, like popping your head outside of a tube station, I saw where I was, where I was near, where I was going. I didn’t know what to do.

Jo Melvin lecture, Doubt in painting Life is full of paradoxes and contradictions.

Life is just one big try.

You try at everything and keep trying at everything.

You try because you never know what might happen.

I wish I could stop being so self-centered, so completely and utterly self involved.

I don’t want to think about my own pain and hurt anymore but it’s too overwhelming to ignore.

Keep trying right?

No covering things up and hiding them, instead, bash your head against a concrete wall over and over again until it no longer hurts.

I feel like having a huge hug wrapped around me at all times.

Just to keep me together.

When should doubt be acknowledged?

When should/or what other factors should/ could be more important?

Lectures are really bad places to be sad in. Especially when Should love override a feeling of doubt? Or should that doubt destroy the love or the future of love?

Surely nothing should destroy something that has a future. Everything has a future.

The agony of a creative.

Creativity is hope.

It can give hope to everything.

Such a terrible thing when the logical part of the brain is telling you there is no hope but the overriding factor is creativity: the giver of hope.

How hopeless!

What a hopeless situation.

So when you look at what overrides what, creativity over logic and doubt over love, it makes no sense for doubt to override love.

But what if the love has been destroyed by doubt?

Too late?

It’s always there; it might be harder to find.

I wish what I was writing here was good for something, anything at all.

I can’t believe how close I was to you.

Whenever I think of your face it makes me feel O.K again.

So I try not to think of it, try not to remind myself of what I no longer have.

Why does time go so slowly?

I didn’t know time could go this slow.

*

16/33

To turn back would probably have been the right thing to do, the normal thing to do. But did I? Of course not, I was being led my subconscious. Who has control over that? Is that possible? I don’t know but I think I need to try.

Everything mingled, transfused together to form a tangle.

A tangle needs to be straightened, A tangle is the most creative and positive thing that could happen and to have.

Thoughts and time pull the thread, pass threads through, over and round to reveal a creation of a tangle.

Problems create new beginnings.

Endings create new starting points.

Imperfection is perfection What is negative is positive.

*

17/33

The first time I popped my head out I think was when I was near the petrol station. I actually had no connection to or with it but it reminded me of another one. How lost can you get; when you start to create random connections with places?

Trying to write a thesis with a Broken Heart.

Not the easiest thing.

It keeps you going I guess. I don’t even really want to be writing about this.

I don’t want to cry.

I pray I wont cry.

You know what you have to do, what you have to think and yet your mind never listens. It wonders into other places, territories that your head knows you should leave behind but you can’t get away from; it can’t be released from the grips of the heart. I want to forget you.

I d o n ’t w a n t t o forget you. I don’t want to be without you but I know I must try. So with tears in my eyes I write, I write of Derrida, of theories that on a clear day seem just about comprehensible, and when the mind is foggy? When the mind is filled with sorrow? When the feeling of being completely lost to the world and in the world is so strong nothing satisfies it, except escape? Into the thesis I go, leaving

behind all the worry and woe. And yet y o u s t i l l l i n g e r, never too far away, you stay holding on with the tips of your fingers, because my heart permits you to stay.

I don't know where you are or what you are doing but my heart sings for you.

Its melodies speak of things I should have said to unmask actions and make sense of my reasons.

It chants of past moments, touches and times of joy that we shared. Of despair, the deepest kind, the sort whales would join in harmony with. Tears so full and salty no one knows quite what to say. And yet the world goes around, you are gone you are still somewhere but to my heart you must appear to have fled.

For what use is there to keep tight a lifeless carcass? I wander around with tears in my eyes and a heavy heart for you my dear, one lost to the depths of my mind. I must go and you must remain behind. How sad sometimes life can be.

The sun shall shine yet upon these tears and melt them free.

My true hope to my true love is happiness will come to thee.

The empty Wanderings of a broken Heart. *

Past C

18/33

It felt like I had been walking forever by this point. I can’t remember my exact route, perhaps I had.

Either way I was starving and thirsty. I went inside, passed all the addison cars and got a Tropicana orange juice, smooth.

Sinking is what I would say you are. Sunk.

A little lower than before.

Not so far up in the sky.

There should be a wall built between us.

There’s a lot of ugliness underneath it all.

Time will reveal all. Push everything to the surface?

Or make it fade away? Or both?

A lot of cloud makes it harder to see what’s really there.

*

19/33

I prefer bits, they had bits there but I chose smooth. I knew my reasons behind that. No less ridiculous than any of my previous decisions. I went inside the small garden and walked along the edge to the river.

Idealistic places A flowing dress, light, flora or red. Big wind. Swiping at my hair and his. Hair spills, a hand to the face covers the direction of the wind. Hair thrown behind and softly caresses the face. Eyes blink. The slope down to the beach, green. Rabbit short. Run down, not holding hands but together flashes of the others face. He is in front, she is watching, alone. Running. Running. Run to a mound going out to sea; a bird sat on top of a red pole standing on the end of the mound. He stood, leaning one foot on the pole facing towards her, running. She reaches him he swings from the pole, griping the pole, clutching her with other hand. The sea.

Crashing but not wildly, in a sea way. Not cross just the sea. Coldness. They climb down from the mound to the beach below, leaving behind the red pole with the bird on top. They sit on the beach, their feet in the sand turned towards each other and stare into each other for a long time. Sea behind. Close ups of faces. Hair tormenting the wind: ‘You can’t catch me you can’t catch me!’ Slow hand movements across sand. Don’t move from that position. Different angels.

The Sea What more can I say? There are already so many preconceptions and connotations of the sea. Everyone will have different memories and associations with the seaside. It is a magical place nonetheless. In the mind it exists as such. In reality it still carries natural powers and irreverence. It takes you somewhere else.

Paris I used to remember a balcony, French windows, spring time. Wind. Third story I think. Sun in lines from cast iron fences. A different place. Lightness of everything. Dresses, elegance. Cobbled streets and mopeds. Small cars. Cafes with old men and young ladies having ice cream.

You have a taste of it, an idea inside but not the reality. The two never match up but the ignorant eye sees differently than the knowing. The imagination takes control of the image in the mind; a mixture of memories and impressions with a sprinkle of romanticism.

The Home Where the heart is? Where the space to think is, to be true is. The thought of making the journey home could be seen as a tiresome trek but also a crusade or pilgrimage. When the destination greets you as does a revelation, a meeting of the living self and the actual self; probably a result of the childhood self and the present one meeting. Like in sci-fi where the present and past cannot meet because the parallel universe will collapse in on itself. In reality when the two meet it is an opening up and a comforting sense of completeness and vulnerability. It is, perhaps, only on reflection that this can be seen. In the moment the fact that you are back home again could seem like a disappointment and maybe a step back. When leaving however, a feeling of wholeness and a regaining of strength returns.

The act of going home does suggest a need for comfort or consolidation. Of a reenforcing of who you are and what you are doing.

The bed The mere thought can make you smile. Contains some of the best and most natural things humans are capable of.

Sleep. The innumerably times the thought as you climb out of bed, ‘I can’t wait ‘till I can feel the light softness of those pillows; I can’t wait ‘till I can lie down, close my eyes and sleep once more.’ The feeling of leaving the busy world of physical demands to a place for lying down and doing nothing. The way you wrap the duvet round your legs intwining your body. Bliss! Sharing this space, the intimacy of having the one you love so close beside you in your vulnerable state. Turning over, touching the hand, knowing they are there with you. Sharing.

Sex. A space to share the body. To enjoy the human form. To indulge in the pleasures that were given to us at birth. The touch, the caress, holding, the kiss, a celebration of humanness. The epitome of what it is to be human. Rolling, playing, loving.

Dreaming. The eyes closed and with them reality dissipates into nothingness. A new world is open to you.

The imagination takes things from the everyday, sprinkles them with surrealism and escapism with a dollop of romanticism (optional).

The Train A thing of endless journeys taking your mind to other places. The train let’s your thoughts travel. A place to think.

The romance of flying through frost touched fields lit up by the morning sun or of rain throwing itself past the rectangular windows. The tears of the train gliding down its glass cheek.

The train in the dark, not knowing where you are. The only thing you can see is your own reflection in the view outside the window.

*