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6:00 p.m. - September 06, 2003
The snake or the apple, your interpretation
It's when we are in my secret spot listening to the drip of the summer-creek that I recognize I will take what is known and its ups and downs and privilege that over the uncertainties and murkiness of what is not known. I will have Spec despite it all not because I am a lovesick guppy but because there is a deepening security in having fielded the worst between the highs and lows and the rate of surprises diminishes exponentially and this safety, as it were, is that to which I cling with tenacity and disfavor, all the while lukewarm to his affections and grandiose plans.

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.

 

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