peepshow

his words dance deliriously through my head. i like the way he writes, the way he thinks, even when i'm disagreeing with the basic premise. i wish i could have heard him speak.
his chapter about lust made me cringe. how true is it that humans are not made for monogamy, that all or nearly all pairings will eventually fail, that it's farcical to pretend that one person for life is ever going to be enough? he didn't seem to think that was the case when i discussed it with him, and i'm inclined to believe that the 'humans are not naturally monogamous animals' argument tends to be a copout for people who want to put out with people other than their spouses. there was something in his discussion of the newfound level of honesty, however, that made me think that his argument was more substantial than the rationalization she offered me two years ago. and i began to think that maybe he was right about some of the advantages he suggested. but, listening to his take on the chapter, i realize that it's a continuum. i know i could never share my spouse. i'm far too envious. but maybe i could handle more honesty than i like to pretend i can. seeing her polaroided face pasted to the faded blue, green, pink posterboard in pearson provided waves of overwhelming relief. i was not nearly so bothered as he'd imagined i would be.
hopefully not as he thought i should be. i'm sure if she and i were to cross paths, she would not be someone i would like. i'm sure she would get on my nerves and the intimidation factor would drop off exponentially. i wish i knew her, though, so that i could develop a more complete character composite to attach to her long face. instead, i fill the gaping holes with ideas of my own, the character i would create if i were to write her into a book. i have her whole world charted out in my mind and wouldn't that surprise him. he'd never guess the extent of it. not that it bothers me, just that i want to trace her bark. lacking the tools, i fabricate the rifts and ridges on my own.
architecture is for her. she's much more mathematically inclined than i will ever be. it delights me to watch her light up with excitement as she discovers a new concept and employs it uniquely, appropriately.
writing to him today reminded me of wanting to bloody my hands between her open legs, of wanting to be the one to catch that tiny, cream-crusted, gently afroed head, of wanting to be the first to touch his body, of wanting to announce his penile possesion. writing to him today reminded me of wanting to be exactly like him. never condescending, always understanding, always calm and careful and soft and interested. which is part of why i could never be a doctor. writing to him reminded me why i wanted to trip along this trail in the first place.
hearing from them makes me want to dash to new york today and immediately enroll in their program. i want to be learning something real, something useful, something new. i don't know about manhattan for her, or for me for that matter, but the program is reasonably good and i'm sure i could easily sneak in.
i can't stand listening to her talk. her moronic voice drones on about nothing, rambling, rattling, so that she thinks she's smart because she's talking about something, because there's content in her voice. but not much. she never says anything that's not immediately forgettable. i've never had a conversation with her that has made me want to know her better, that has made me respect her anymore, that has made me see beyond her mask of makeup and the hours she's spent blow-drying her perfectly highlighted hair. it's no wonder she can't get into a doctoral program. i can only imagine the things she'd say in interviews. i can only imagine her jumbled speech, her incoherent, narrow commentary on autism, which she still doesn't believe is not the result of birth trauma. silly girl. two years from now i hope to god i'm nothing like her, even if they all think she's sexy. there's nothing at all behind it.
i think he flipped yesterday. i think he's floating inverted through the world, his tiptoes grazing the tiptop of my belly. i think he's itching to be born, almost as much as i'm itching to have him born, to be beyond the bulge, onto the next phase. i am anxious to labor, which means i'm probably ill-prepared. i am not afraid to labor, just ready to get on with it. it's a semi-psychotic craving, and i'm not really clear on its source...maybe the eagerness stems from the fact that the unknown always weighs more heavily than the known. and i'm ready to capture the experience and make it known. i have visions. in my dreams. during my day. last night i was somewhere with him that i can no longer remember, but i know that it was good, and i woke feeling his hair and face and skin and wanting to pull him in, wanting to merge, submerge. watching him with his hand rapid on his cock and his eyes closed always tingles up my spine. a part of me wants to crawl inside his ear and watch the video on his lids. a part of me is sincerely glad i can't. at least he opened them and absorbed sleepy, puffy, protruding me as he slipped inside at the end.
my focus problem may be part of my new bedroom boredom dysfunction, although today i wanted him more than i've wanted him in a long time. i can't sit to read an article. i can't focus on the tasks before me. i get easily agitated when i'm trying to do something, and i soon discard the task and find another so that my life consisted of partially completed tidbits that nudge each other but never truly connect. possibly it's hormones. possibly it's a more pervasive problem, a generalized inattention to life, a deficit in steadying my mind, readying myself. possibly, it's just that nothing's all that interesting, that everything, except the article from yesterday, is written so it annoys me.
she never wrote back. i don't know if she hated it or if she read my message and simply hit delete. he keeps trying to inspire me, but i need more time, more inspiration, more motivation. i need to actually sit and write. solidly for hours. maybe in august i'll finish the thing. but i've been saying that for years. i'm such a caricature--it makes me ill.
i need to spy on her. if he only knew.

looks to me like you need a little juice in your life

how we became so ideologically diametrically opposed i'll never know. slices of us slide snugly into place while other slices rub each other raw. he makes me laugh until i cry. he makes me scream inside my head until i nearly cry. i am not the succinct, successful arguer he is--illustrated from a very early age, straight through debating him in a stuffy classroom and running too quickly out of ideas, wanting desperately to scream at his smug, smirking face to just shut up, to today, when still i struggle for the words, the rationale. i can back up theories if they're mine, if i've given them a great deal of thought, if it's something i hold dear...i can't back up notions as naturally preferable as taking another breath. the same genetic material is worth very little, for all he claims it sculpts. similar genetic material and even very similar formative experiences so rarely produce identical results. that's what makes case studies so attractive....that's why i cling to individual stories over general group trends: because the unexpected discrepancy is what makes human existence exciting, beautiful. if all human outcomes and behaviors were predictable on the basis of nature and nurture, what would be the point? what keeps things interesting is the uncharted interaction of the two. while speculation on the derivation of charles manson leads to some interesting theories and conversation, one can only ever partly know. the gauzy enigmatic element offers such propulsion.
evolutionary psychology is a backwards theory that, much like greek and roman mythology, attempts to explain what it sees, what is. not by examining occurrences, but by postulating from now to then until a suitable explanation appears. i'll put some weight in the theories, but not much more weight than i'll put in the origin of mulberries' bloody tinge.
he didn't apologize. not really. and then he tried to claim credit for remedying the problem he caused last night on the phone with his father. when he said that his major flaw was hubris, he wasn't kidding. there is a definite pride problem with a side order of machismo that is starting to fray my nerves. i imagined myself in his position. i don't know how i wouldn't apologize profusely, or at least admit, repeatedly, that i had made the mistake. and later laugh at myself. humiliation sends him scrambling for compensation, for ways to color the situation to make it look like it were somehow less his fault. this is a move i need to watch. and weigh. like the condescencion, which still pervades... though more subtly, sneakily. i wish i had a more holistic perspective on his previous relationships. i wish i knew why she reacted the way she did when he responded to her appeal to communicate about gay marriage. what did he consistently do that made her bristle when she read his words?
it's impossible to ever be the expert on everything. i wish he would just accept that some people are more knowledgeable than he. i wish he would just accept that sometimes i will have knowledge he doesn't. i wish he could listen to them talk about things, act in certain ways, and not feel automatically compelled to outdo them. oneupmanship suits no one well.
on prickpoint, i'm eager for their response, eager to know if i'll be hopping suburban lines in the fall, eager to know if she'll be somewhere she's appreciated, embraced for the next year. i can't stand the thought of her impending parent-teacher conference because i can script it in my head: what a dismal bore, what an utter waste of breath. how can you tell someone something if they're already convinced they're right and you're naive? why should i have to bother?
that's why routinely it's futile to argue with him about anything he suggests, or to even offer my opinion, which he's regularly not asking.
or to argue with him about his conspiracy theories.
or to argue with her about her postmodernist theories.
or to argue with him about his racist theories.
there's no point in trying to halt the oral masturbation.
i just don't want it violating my time, space, thoughts.
this experiment is encompassing my universe, and i'm not even convinced that it measures what i was looking to measure, or that it's a reliable, viable measurement method. but, if it "objectively" refutes the foundations of his crappy book, the effort will be worthwhile. as long as my name's in the byline.
she cried when she told me she feared it would be divisive to have him in the room. i just don't want anyone suggesting anything, trying to tell me what i need when i'm the only person who can ever really know; i'm the only person who should be consulted when it comes right down to it. and i'll be the only person telling them all to shut up when the time comes. it's my experience, more even than it is theirs. it's my body, my energy, my pain. it's my prelude to the next time. so i get to call all the shots. he needs to know, too, that this is where i am. as he's reading up and boning up, i'll need him to be shutting up. this is one realm in which i will always, always, always know more than him. whether he likes it or not.
he looked crazier than he has in some time on the lcd picture on his phone. a protest beard, he called it...and, yes, he put the spots on the car. he claims she's no longer an alcoholic. apparently tripping, toppling down the stairs in front of her small children suddenly shocked her out of her self-absorbed stupor. but she is skeletal, he said. she is wasting.
and he wondered at her origin. as if it weren't at least partly obvious. the blonde one drank like a fiend and fucked everyone in sight because she wanted control, because she wanted to defy the control that had been tyrannically imposed on her entire life. and her dark, less ravishing sister starved, because she wasn't quite so brave, wasn't quite so good with guys, wasn't quite that kind of catch, hadn't reigned her pussy power, because that was all she knew how to to do, because that was the only way she could escape. the only way she could tell her mother to fuck off. i don't know how he could possibly think that a country club membership and one's own horse would be sufficient, that no one should come out of a happy suburban childhood a raving lunatic who throws plates across her psychward room at her husband and young children.
did he not watch american beauty? or did he dismiss that as flim-flam as readily?
i ached for her while we walked through the galleries. i hope he respects her work. it's amazing and such a part of her. she has an incredible talent and a knack for artfully presenting the world with its own rot. the juxtapositions that papered her walls were both clever and insightful. that it's something he doesn't understand doesn't make it less respectable....or wrong.
i needed him to mention this venue. i needed him to remind me it was here. i have been sucked dry for the last 28 days...my stint in personal rehab...i needed to remove myself from my own life, the consideration of which was leaving me exhausted, drained, parched...but i needed as much to open this today and thrust myself reflectively back into the juicy, pulpy parts that have popped up along the way.

splashing through the muck and the mud

i've never been so happy to see her get so muddy.
i've been a lot happier watching him walk out the door, though.
i don't know where we were today. drifting, somehow.
i'm not good with this relationship thing.
he told one of them last night about his intentions for the summer. i'm not sure how they responded, but it's reassuring that he mentioned it.
maybe his comments on the matter weren't totally displaced. maybe he knows him better than i. he certainly trusts him more. but he trusts the world more. and i'm not sure that's a good thing.
i need more sleep. i can't even write a decent sentence.