"She dreams in colour, she dreams in red, can't find a better man..." - Pearl Jam

I dreamt in shades of Pantone. Bright solid colours. A fracture of images devoid of any narrative. A scrapbook of fragments inspired by an afternoon of Turkish music at the recital hall. We had meandered past city shops, past bridal couples posing in sandstone doorways and sojourned at the evening Noodle Markets.

I dreamt of blistering reds, Pantone 032 burning into 485, strung across the twilight sky as Chinese Lanterns. I dreamt of buttery yellows, a table full of yellow flowers. Sunlight bright. Sunflower warm. Bridesmaids wearing saffron satin gowns, their bouquets of eggy yellow and coconut cream. I dreamt randomly of skinny stretch jeans in 325... clear and clean and as cool as the shallows of a tropical beach. I dreamt of a black and white striped skirt cut diagonally on the bias, twirling like the tenure of a whirling dervish. It twirled around and around in slow motion until the stripes slowed and embraced slender legs, the stripes folding over themselves like an unfurled umbrella.

And finally I dreamt of Gabe, sitting on a street corner on a blue milk crate. Pantone 300. Indigo jeans and white shoes. He was wearing a black T-shirt. He was talking to someone, leaning forward over his long legs. Earnestly engaged. His blonde hair was a little longer than usual. I didn’t see who was talking to. I cast no one of consequence in that role. And while the lights of the Noodle Market bokeh-ed behind him, I tried to remember him owning that black shirt. The only one I could recall was from a time when he was much younger. I watched him for a few dream minutes, my eyes unwavering. He didn’t see me and I didn’t give him any lines to speak.

And there the dream ended on the street corner at dusk.

I search for him each time I sleep.

I wake with such yearning.

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The Five (No wait! Seven) Stages of Grief.

“So where are you up to?” He asked me earnestly. And for a second, I naively, wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. “I mean, the five stages of grief.” He clarified.

I think its actually seven, I thought to myself, my shoulders slumping. But I couldn’t remember and he was still waiting for an answer.

“Its not like that.” I replied. “There aren’t five stages that you go through in a neat chronological order, its not linear. It jumps around. I can experience all the stages in the course of a day, or an hour... or none of them. Its different for everyone and it doesn’t conform to the textbook.”

But he wasn’t following me, he had an expectant look on his face, like he was still waiting for me to answer the original question. Fine, I thought. I take a deep breath. I pick one.

“Denial.” I said, firmly. “Denial, because I don’t want to believe its true. Denial. Because I can’t believe I will never see him again.” In the back of my mind I had a vague idea that denial was still the “first phase”.

He sunk his head into his hands, not able to process the pain of my reply. I felt like I’d failed the questionnaire. Like I picked the wrong answer on the multiple choice. No, wait, I wanted to say... I’ll pick another one, to make you feel better, Acceptance? No. Bargaining? No. Hope? Is that even one of them? Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Wroth, Sloth? Does it matter? And why are they always listed conveniently in fives or sevens? No, wait... I am up to... Depression. Tick. What’s next? The “stages of grief” all blend into one. Except for guilt and anger. I don’t experience either. I’m not an angry person and I’ve always had the courage of my convictions, there is no guilt. There is no anger. They are two “stages” that I wont entertain. I don’t even contemplate explaining “Complicated Grief” to him or that I have PTSD.

There is unrelenting sadness. Sadness doesn’t even make Kübler-Ross model. And sadness is different from depression. I can distinguish between the two quite readily.

I waited for the longest time until he lifted his head.

“Oh Al.” was all he could muster. He shakes his head in despair and wipes a leaky tear from one eye and sinks his head into his hands dramatically once more.

I waited for him to compose himself. Its strange watching people not dealing with my grief. I drift back off into the land of disassociation for a few more seconds. As if I’m not really here, sipping wine. I wonder why the other people around me don’t say anything. I look at the carpet. I look back at him. I look at the fine bubbles of condensation forming on the wall of my wine glass. I look at the curtains and the swirly patterns in the carpet. I think its my turn to speak. He can’t cope with my answer. I try not to be ungracious.

There are times when I find myself comforting the people who don’t know how to react around me. I leave Disassocia I return to Pretendland.

“I have a long way to go” I hear myself saying. “Its OK.”  I say, trying to make things sound normal and OK.

But in reality, there is not really anything “OK” about it.

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In my dreams

He was in my dream last night... A rare cameo appearance. Usually I am searching for him. Searching and searching.

He was wearing blue jeans and standing in the kitchen. Leaning back in the corner against the cupboards between the sink and the stove. Resting on one leg with the other crossed over at the ankle. He was eating breakfast from a large white soup bowl. Weet-bix, milk and banana. He had almost finished it. He always did just leave a little bit in the bottom, infuriatingly. Just one mouthful left at the bottom of the bowl. His spoon resting, not in the bowl or in the sink, but on top of fresh tea towel he'd just used as a serviette to wipe his mouth, scrunched up and left discarded on the bench.

"...what if you aren't really here?." I was saying to him. Because even in my dreams I know he is gone. I touched the right hand side of his face with my left hand to feel the stubble along his jaw line.

"What if..." I continued. "It feels like you are here, that you are real, but really you're not. You are not here at all. You don't exist anymore."

In my dream he didn't understand. Because in my dream he knew he was alive and I knew he was not.

He didn't answer because in my dreams I hardly ever give him any lines to speak. I find it hard to remember the pitch of his voice, it's timbre.

"I'll never forget the sound of his voice." Stan said to me one day.

"Really."  I responded. "I can hardly recall it at all. Except for 'Hi mum' or 'thanks mum', or 'love you mum' ...which is the last thing I remember him saying... Or was it 'night mum'?"

The last time I saw him alive I kissed him on his right cheek and felt his five-o-clock shadow against my face.

So in my dream he just looked at me. He didn't look at me like I was nuts and he didn't look at me like he was confused, he just looked at me the way he would if we were both in the kitchen together and he was eating breakfast.

And then, because the dream had no where to go, it blended into something else. And I left him behind in the kitchen.

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The Brick is Back

I woke up with the brick in my chest again... And a wave of nausea washed over me. I've been "brick-free" for a while now, but this morning it was back.

It has been raining for over a week on the Island of Grief. The sky has tilted permanently to 60º slanting itself wetly across my vision. Sheets of rain falling in  grey stripes headlong into dark waters.

My dreams weighed heavily and waking, even heavier. But I let the dreams go. They melted gently into the early morning light. And I let them. I remind myself of the good things ahead, it doesn't come naturally... I have to relearn it every morning to make it true.

I stand on the windswept beach of Griefland and see the rays of light on the Isle of Distraction. I will spend most of the day there buried in my work, pushing pixels around my computer screen. A 32 page catalogue will occupy my day. A calmness will prevail. I'll make the pieces fit, the copy will balance, the colours will harmonise. I will resize and colour correct and justify and compose and kern and adjust leading. Unlike the world of reality, I can always "undo" an unsatisfactory outcome.

I stand on the windswept beach of Griefland and look towards Pretendland. It never rains there. I can find safe harbour. I was there only last night, drinking cocktails at a bar, watching the last of the afternoon's golden light fade westward. Sunlight making diamonds sparkle shinily on the waters of Darling Harbour. We settled comfortably, warmly, into well-worn brown leather couches and I played idly with the drink rings on the wooden table in front of me. I chose my cocktail purely for its colour and although we had dinner planned we still ordered thick-cut potato chips, piled up in golden salty planks. And a couple of chicken tenders decorated with a zigzag line of lime aioli. We made plans, we projected ourselves into the future, we talked and we laughed and I watched the shadows forming patterns across the room. There was techno babble music playing, not too loudly and it took me back to happier, timeless, carefree, times.

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The reason I write

I started a Grief blog because I needed a place where the thoughts and stories can exists on their own. They are often bleak and dark and I know that those of you who know and love me will be moved by them. And some of you will fear for me because of them.

I write them for me. I write them because it is an outlet and a release to the intensity of the feelings I experience. I write them because it helps to purge, to share, to vent and to formulate.

I lost my son in February 2013. It is a difficult sentence to write. He was 26 years old. I lost him suddenly and tragically. He was in his prime. He was beautiful.

He was healthy and happy and well loved. Our lives will never be the same.

Grief is so many things. Far more complex than I could possible have conceived. It is debilitating and exhausting, it is overwhelming. It is relentless. It is the worst kind of lonely and it is all of the sads. It is more that words can express and at times, it is more than I can bear.

I don't write these words for them to be read. That is a by-product. And if it gives you insight, then that is good. If it helps, then that is good. Because there is nothing good in what has happened to me, to him... (to all of us). And although I like my grief to be acknowledged, I do not seek comment. For me it is important that I write it, not that you read it.

The postings will be random and varied. A thought, an anecdote, fact, fiction. A musing. Not in any chronology. But just so.

The inspiration for this blog came from our shared experiences of Pretendland... That place we find ourselves, where momentarily we can forget. Where we can be lost in the moment.

Katie Kins wrote about it most eloquently here...

http://napkinpoet.wordpress.com/2014/07/18/the-grief-islands/

You should read this first to understand the backdrop to the way we play out our lives, such as they are now.

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