6:00 p.m. - September 06, 2003
This is the atlas exploring the various means by which people become ensnared and trapped, an endless network of roads taken and bypassed or avoided altogether, a cosmic game of Chutes and Ladders where that elusive end zone peeks from beyond the horizon. He calls me his Pillsbury Dough Boy and it hurts and I hold my ground, think quickly to apply Dr. Indyís strategies, and he comes up to me and holds me tight and says he loves me, donít I get it?. And I wonít shower with him and he pouts, says I used to enjoy bathing together, and I compromise, lights off, candles on. And throughout he touches my body and I cringe more and he just holds me close and I give in, feel more comfortable. It isnít that I play runandpursueme games, itís about distrusting someoneís motivations, suspect because I cannot divine their intentions; when intentions are clear I feel safer and Spec doesnít give up easily. I trust that, I trust him, because he canít surprise me.
Sometimes Iím frustrated when I count the parallels between myself and women who return to husbands who hit them. Iím frustrated by youíre-being-stupid pundits who speak their truth because I canít explain why either. I feel closer to normal, more human, more open, when Iím with him, more alive. I donít have to worry because he knows all my secret places and is still undeterred.