hopskipjump time to fly away

like that, he hired me. grinned gentle liquid, said i impressed him, asked when i could start. good thing i combed my hair this morning.
this will be a weird transition. he finally told her we were "planning" to live together. not that, essentially, we are and have been for months. i wonder if that's evidence enough, if it's a topic even worth discussing. it will be a weird transition to just up and leave, but it will be so liberating, so refreshing to be doing things i want to be doing at my own pace, on my own time, for my own benefit. to be propelling, if slowly, forward. the time in between will be purgatory. i skipped out of his office, stumbled down the stairs and returned to my own, ready and raring to clean out my desk. but i must abide. at least for two months more.
everyone is so afraid, constantly, for me. there is so much doubt. why don't people realize that even if i left this job without another one in store the sun would rise tomorrow, the world would continue to spin and i would somehow scrape my shit together? i've always, always done it. and i always, always will. cobble things together to make a cocktail that looks messy, but functions just the same. it's the part of me he calls bootleg.
the part of me he calls crazy, says he loves and hates at once. that part that's the reason i'm in half this mess to begin with. and i should have let it loose a long time before i took this gig. i should have spread my wings a little further, not jumped as eagerly at the offer of health insurance and a pension plan. i'm too young for that, even if our delicate dance requires me to be responsible beyond my years.
he thought i was 28. he thought i was older than he is. at fifty, i'll be mistaken for sixty. probably....unlike the woman whose name i forget who recently wrote in the times magazine about the horrors of turning fifty and the trip to the plastic surgeon it inspired, i have no intention of masking my age. while the world around me nips and tucks, i'll grow old and grey. and he better love nonplastic me the same.
monday marks a less monumental transition, but a transition just the same. and i itch for it. i'm so unbearably impatient. this is a marked distinction between the two of us. he's contemplative. i'm rash and needy. i don't want to think about changes. i want to get the show on the road. i want to make shit happen. whenever change winks at me, i want it in bed. i don't want to play the flirty string-along game. that's why i've never been good at hard to get. i've never been good with men. i don't play the game. i'm not good at biding time. i desperately need the action. which is why a high-stress job will suit me. else i'd make the stress up for myself in other ways. adrenaline is so addictive.
she said she'd miss me. it's funny the impacts we have on people when we're not even looking.
one more step. one hour. hopefully, the pieces will slide smoothly into place.

i want it NOW

how many, many days.
he can't write.
but neither can i, even if i have a greater grasp of convention.
i don't have entirely selfless motivations for my offer to help him.
or him.
last night, i was there. but not really. the men who parachuted down on me did so to hit me with water balloons, not rpgs. i worry about him. my subconscious is obsessed with him. he has speckled my dreams for the last few weeks. vibrantly. in ways i can't explain, except that somewhere i must want him here beside me, just to know he's safe.
he'll be a different person when he returns. i wish to god i had the power to stop that. i wish to god the idiot in the white house knew half of what he was doing.
and i'm sick as hell of hearing everyone call the prison abuses appalling. no one should be surprised. these people aren't evil. they're acting on orders, role playing what's been beaten and siphoned and shoved inside of them. they've been taught to hate iraqis, like he was taught to have the viet namese, like nazis were taught to hate jews. atrocity inevitably arises. why anyone is ignorant enough to have expected otherwise i'll never understand.
29 weeks: he would be viable in the world. he is a big boy now. he could survive on his own. but he's better for now inside me. he's better for now needing, kneading me. birth is daunting for her in ways it's never been for me. i wish i could squeegee off her squeamishness, somehow make her understand that it will be all right. i'm bigger than this event. twelve hours or slightly more is such a dainty slice of my life. and hers. it's unfortunate that the same time period has wreaked such shattering havoc on her world. it will be monumental. but there will be so many hours to follow.
it doesn't have to be tragic. that's what i'd like to get across, what i may never manage to get across until i prove, squatting, spreading, pushing that he is perfectly all right. and so am i.
he interacts interestingly with his family. we continue to be such dichotomous entities the way we roll with our relatives. my impulse is to urge him to stand up to her, let her know that he's not responsible and that he doesn't appreciate her condescencion, let her know that next time they interact needs to be different. but that's not his style, and i don't know what makes me think i know better than he. i've never even met her. i just don't want to feel him seething near me when he finally hears the dial tone.
i asked.
and he said not right now.
his mind is full of as many hypotheticals as mine.
i'm just so much more impulsive.
and, like she said, i'm fearless to a fault.