There are some really sorry lame-ass people out there. This kind of behavior is usually seen as rudimentary, childish, really. But I can’t help it. It shocks me, still, that there are people out there who devote their time and energy into hating me. A sport, really. How unhappy must you be with yourself? The only person I’ve ever bashed is Tony Danza. I beg you to defend, yet I still regret it. He’s sweet enough, I know. But it’s so much easier to knock someone down than it is to create your own success. It’s the easy way out. So really, I’m rarely negative, about anyone except for myself, or my suitor. Anyone in any type of relations knows there will be faults thrown at "the other," even those we love. Isn’t that the point? We hate in others what we hate in ourselves. This isn’t news.
I’ve just come from the Da Vinci Code, questioning. "Why on earth was that movie ever produced?" Well, it would make money, I thought. People bought into the book. It’s creative, I continued. "Recreating history is all well and good, but to what extent? I mean, what was the message?"
"I’ll speak with you about it tomorrow. You’re being annoying," The Suitor said as he navigated 2222 (Bull Creek Road), in the dark of night. I gripped the side of the door. It’s a windy road I avoid at night. He was avoiding me. I would have gone down on him, would have given him anything before those words escaped. Then, after brunting his terse reply, I folded into myself. He went to hold my hand, and I recoiled with my body, pulling my hand toward me, but my voice offered more: "What are all those cars doing parked by the side of that cliff?" I asked. It was the official change of subject that just went by. And in it, he’d forgotten my withdrawal, because in my voice, I was asking for more of him. It’s what we are capable of. Turning things. When we’re ready. The story we want to tell. So this Mary Magdalene was the ticket, the important code we should keep? When we look to what the man has to say, we’re looking too hard? Women matter more?
I’m sitting beside our bed, still in my going out clothes. He’s in bed, a white undershirt and pink striped boxers, shorts I’d given him for a holiday. He’s folded into our bed, with a remote and my dog, who is now our dog, but really, loyal to me, more. He thinks he holds everything in that button, on the remote, thinks it’s in his hands, that fate. But it’s me. I matter just as much. And I have a memory that folds beyond him, to all that threatens and weakens him, to a life of hims that came before. It amazes me how powerful each of us think we are, when really there’s so little we decide. We’re animals, surviving, in the pupils and nerves of what we cannot fake.