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1:13 p.m. - November 02, 2003
Back up and look for happier reading elsewhere; it is neither my forte nor interest to make you laugh or have you return
Spec wants to meet me in Montreal and I knew not to get quiet, start thinking about last September when he came with me to Florida. How quick I was to forgive when he said I'm getting help because I want to be snatched up too when I say I'm getting help but sometimes help means different things to different people and one must accept, adapt to, or reject that space between understandings. And so I was quiet and he became quiet, and I wondered if he was thinking about the same things, whether he felt or feels guilt or remorse, how sad it makes me to love and be afraid of a guy, how nothing is now as it was intended to be, and how have I come to this point? Quoting BashŰ about unintended journeys taking the same path as the intended isnít comforting me right now.

I told him no and he asked why not and I told him, said Iím afraid of him. I didnít realize until then how much Iíve changed for him, how I watch what I say, my tone of voice, careful to couch my discourse in non-threatening, non-accusatory statements, please him, make him feel good, so that he wonít mind if I become excited and talk a lot, or when weíre out and Iím walking slow and he becomes impatient when I look at the trees. Indulgence. That is the word; he indulges me and quickly he changes, faults me, becomes angry. Accuses me of becoming even more of a faggot, or coming home while he talks about coming out, admonishes me for hesitating, as if he stands between me and that flamboyant gayhood in the sky. I lost control and he sighed, asked what is it now? and I became angry, said I donít ever want to stand up in front of a group of people with bruises and a black eye again like last September and when he protested I said this is exactly the point: I donít trust you not to and he shut up. And I feel like shit for crying then and now, feel like shit for making him cry, because I donít know what I donít do right and what the fuck, itís not me, itís him. Jesus, did I buy into the victim mentality just now or what? I donít understand what goes on inside me most of the time because last night when we talked I wanted him to come to Montreal, impressed he mentioned my birthday as a reason to make the effort. He is angry, I am angry. He says I am the most immature person he knows. I think he is right; it is true. I shield myself from people because I donít want them to see how I am on the inside, how dirty and confused and substanceless. Do I feel bad because he knows my secrets and weaknesses, or because I have them in the first place?

A step back from all of this is in my better interest. Truce? Capitulation? Defeat?

Canít even think of a quote from T.S. Eliot

I write because I donít talk to anyone.

I feel like a child who missed the toilet and has to go back to using the Wee-Potty.

 

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