Something unusual has happened. I'm getting sweet emails from a man I only knew briefly as a boy. I was the aggressor in my brief pursuit of this boy. He was sweet and obliging. Tender and willing. But I was too young and too damaged to know what a treasure he might have been had I the wisdom of age. And then the experience that might have matched my very youthful rebellious ardor. But he has found me. And I am, in this strange almost imagined relationship, like a character from a TS Elliott poem, ...when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon the table...
I have laid bare my life with all it's challenges and deficits for anyone to see. I have not been shy or hiding here. I do tell all. And then there is a novel. There are short stories, and poems. They say much about who I am. Are these stories real or fiction? Some combination of the two I suspect. Like most writers, I write about the things I know and tell my version of the truth.
However, it may not be true to you if you find yourself the character in someone else's fiction. So caution is in order. Because I don't know enough about you.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
It's not a good idea to borrow a man to fix a pipe. But sometimes it's a necessity. Fortunately she doesn't need him today, and he's willing. I fixed a late breakfast and he gave me the running commentary on how each step worked, explaining as he worked, never realizing that I was really listening to the train ride from Pennsylvania to Washington DC. It's the beginning of a new era, and I'm not about to stop paying attention to it to learn a little about teh plumbing. Truth is I never will learn anything about teh plumbing. I am willfully ignorant about so many things. I do not need to know it all. My knowledege is speciallized too. I do not expect him to either follow what I'm doing or have any interest in having it explained to him in great detail. I know, he isn't asking for my help, but if he were--and I could write something for him, I'd do it. I did fix lunch. I fed him. I fixed him coffee. I looked for rags and tools, I pretended to understand. It's the best I can do. It's also the least I can do.
So the kitchen sink faucet no longer drips. And now you can turn off the water at the back of the area beneath the sink, instead of at the street in front of the main house.
And tomorrow we will tackle the same problem under the bathroom sink. And from there who knows?
My girlfriend, his paramour, called twice while he was here--she did not talk to me. I always worry about the insecurities and needs that go into relationships and make them mine-fields. I try to stay out of the lives of the men who populate the lives of women I love. It's just too tricky. But David offered, and my need was great, and he fixed the leak, and I'm glad.