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Saturday, May. 11, 2002 / 9:12 p.m. ~I Dabble in Profundity~ To the West there was still light in the sky. I'd told him that he could learn at least one thing in this life, over and through the years, that people come and they go. You'll find that, I'd said. And he'd turned and told one of them how profound I am, and proceeded to go on and on about how cute I am, how great he thinks I am, how he doesn't know where our new friendship is headed, but he is looking forward to finding out. When is it more important to put the experience in words than to actually experience it? When is there such a desire to write it all out, to stop right where one is, grab a pen, rush to a computer, an intense desire to chronicle it, even as it is happening? I met someone. I met someone. I need to say it more than once. I may need to say it again. Several times. I don't even know where to begin, I keep seeing it all again and again, from the first moment and me pulling my car into that insane parking space, if that's what it was, me not knowing it was his place, it's his workspace/living space, those are his saws, his tools, his furniture he builds, it's his, this place. And it took every righting mechanism I have built within me to not go back there, to not just drive right back and park again, better this time, and say, "You're so beautiful, I have to tell you, I have to tell you what I felt when we were talking and you looked right into me so I had to turn away." I righted myself, upright, as erect as I can be, sense, nothing but sense inside of my head. Common or otherwise. I cannot drop off Skipper at his house, leave him when he wanted me the way he did, rushing away to escape the pity I was beginning to feel, leave him and put myself on the line. Out on some limb, telling someone I don't even know that I am now consumed, and we all know how easily I am consumed. I have consumption. He thought I was foreign, said he heard something in my voice, saw something in my appearance that put me South of the Border, but no. He's from Mississippi and has an accent. He has close set eyes, green/gray, I don't know their color, maybe like lake water, not blue, green, and this face with stories in it, lines when he smiled, skin taut and stretched over his bones. Angular, strong, small, and hands dirty from work, from art, from creating, beautiful hands, beautiful, beautiful hair, his hand always running back through it, pushing it one way or another, long hair, longish. Ultimately this is horrible. I've hurt Skipper with my flirting, and I am consumed, the part of me which gets consumed is now under, the consuming has occurred, there is little turning back, it's something I cannot control. Really. Why didn't he think that putting me there, with all those men, all those interesting young men, knowing them, getting to, meeting them all, why didn't he think it would be what it was? He is the one who cajoled, who tried to entice me, told me maybe I'd meet "Mr. Wright", and I'd jokingly asked if that was a friend of his. But he'd said he'd never met "Mr. Wright", nor "Ms. Wright", and he'd told me how wonderful this group is, how "like us", liberal, ecclectic, fun, and he was right. You're right, Skipper. The one is a journalist at CNN, the one had scrapes and cuts all over from a roller blading mishap, the other had gone to his house to take photos of the injjuries, at the other's request. The one is married to the founder of the group, the name of which I won't write here. Skipper likes him very much, used to date his wife. He loves them both. After several beers he began to love everyone, and suddenly I was with a drunk, who wanted to leave. I couldn't leave until I'd found him, HIM, said goodbye, apologized again for the oil spot I'd leave in his driveway/parking lot, told him it was to remember me by, hoping, hoping he'd want to remember. Hoping he'd find me mysterious, that he'd be dying to know more, to know me, make an effort to find me, email, phone, whatever, have to see me again, remember the way my eyes looked back at his eyes, remember me asking him to taste the water because it did taste funny, didn't it? It's the cups, it's his detergent, it's however he washes them, plastic, the water was from a mountain spring in Canada. Couldn't be the water. And I liked his work, saw his mini-portfolio, the cards with photos, descriptions, prices, high end, modern, exotic woods and metals, beds, shelves, hutches, cubes, boxy, spare, simple. It's because I'm ovulating. I felt the pain in my lower left quadrant the past two days, finally realized what it was, yes, that's what it is, I'm ovulating, I'm horny when I ovulate, it's biological, it's lust I feel, and should I care? Should that make a difference? I don't normally feel anything for anyone. I talk about Moby, or Anthony Bourdain, I say they turn me on, celebs, very unattainable, harmless crushes, but this was a real man, this was a man who had something, I could say something I want and be crude, or I could say it was something so unexplainable I defy you to explain it. I'm sick with it. Perhaps like a child who dropped her ice cream off the cone. Gone. It was so good, I wanted to enjoy it, was so looking forward to knowing it, to tasting it, to savoring it, to getting everything out of it I could, but now it's gone. He's gone. He's there, probably cleaning up, putting things away, or sitting to get stoned some more. More marijuana. It was the marijuana, that's all, I was high, and the Red Stripe, and Skipper and I did have fun at the store picking out the snacks and the beer. I couldn't stay with him. I'd just met someone who blew me away, I was flying high, I was dying of desire, and he wanted to be with me, not the right one, the wrong one, as is always the case. He was clinging, hanging on, not letting go, so I offered no explanation, said I'd planned on leaving after the party anyway, I'm sorry, no, I'm not, I'm going. "So go". I left him sitting at his piano, where he'd just very drunkenly played a portion of "My Man", as I'd requested, sitting, while the cat rolled about on the sofa, still purring from my patting. I'm sorry, I'm thinking, I'm so sorry, I can't give you what you want from me, I can't start something with you, don't you see, I've just met the person I want to be with? After all this time alone I just met someone I'd want to be with? For the first time in how long? How long? Don't you see that this is what's profound? The one who wants to dive head first, always, jumping in, if it feels good, do it, don't think too much, too hard, go for it, it's right there, take it, tell him what you feel, this is me, don't let something like this go, don't let something that feels quite like this slip away. Are you crazy? But what if it's just me? He wasn't interested, he was just being friendly. Skipper said he was into me, he saw it, and I'd said, "I'm very attracted to him, I can't deny that, I'm very attracted". I'd apologized for flirting, "This was your idea, to bring me here, you told me how great these people are, you wanted me to come, you wanted me to meet them", and what could he say? I wasn't rude. I was honest. I talked to the guy spinning records, we talked about house and techno and world beats, he told me about his records, it's just a hobby, I looked through his cases. I talked to the journalist and we compared what we liked about the cityscape across the street. I liked the light blue VW wagon sitting in the lot, the vines growing on the brick wall, the big tree at the edge, the overgrown lot, the sun behind the view, the skyscraper beyond that, and as the sun was setting in the hazy sky, a cool breeze blowing over us, I'd said that it was only going to get better. But I couldn't stop thinking of him, of HIM, of wanting to be able to touch him. The toilet was against the wall, a drape hung around it, and when I went to use it the one guy closed the drape, the other drape, separating the rooms. Gentlemanly. Men. So many men, so many eyes to look into, searching all of them, every pair, and did anyone, anyone at all think I was "with" Skipper? Didn't they know we're just friends? What did they think? What do I think? It's all swirling around inside me, it's spilling out here, through my fingers on the keyboard and when I stop? When I stop writing, then what? What do I do? How do I handle this outpouring? There's a flood inside me, I'm beginning to overflow, to spill over again. Spilling all of this, and I guess I should just let it out, shouldn't I? So I'd told him that the most important thing really, I think it's the most important thing, is that people will come and they will go. I will walk away, with a handshake, with a mention to remember me, to not forget, use the oil as a sign that I was there, don't you remember?, and you will sit on that piano bench, wanting me there, with you, a movie?, dinner?, but I left you too. I had to be alone, I had to let it out. I may not be in your life, maybe I just came and went too. (Addendum: What do you mean about shaking off the purple? Is my entry box horribly annoying? Can writing be purple? I'm so confused, it's horrible. Everything is horrible, I'm fighting the urge to curl up and cry. I don't want to open up something that's been closed for so long. What is the appropriate analogy? Is there one? I know I don't like to give Jonathan Cainer much credit, but this horoscope for my week upcoming is uncanny - so do I heed it? Do I create my own destiny using the stars as a guide? Do men want to be told when they're desired? Is it always a bad thing? Is there ever reciprocation? Do I need to feel all this, won't it hurt?) Read: You are a sensitive soul. Usually though, you do your best to disguise this. You come across as confidant, strong, self-assured. If something within you is wobbling, you fence off the area and produce a clever, counter-wobble so that nobody else can see. None of this though, detracts from the intensity of your emotional experience - or the validity of it. Right now, you simply cannot hide what you feel - nor should you. You are having a reaction to something or someone. You are all fired up and you cannot extinguish the flame that is starting to burn so brightly in your heart. Feed it, let it be bright, it is right. Cost of the War in Iraq
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