The eggshells still sleep in the corner of the overflowing, small, green trashcan. Just yesterday I was cooking the same breakfast for two people. I offered to Jeramy a nibble before leaving, but he turned it down, as anyone would turn down a meal half eaten by thier ex-lover's new lover.
The smell of him is still thick meshed between the threads of my long-since washed black quilt. Beer-stale, sweat, passion without thought for tomorrow. There will be no hangover.
He is on a train now. My body is a doll of the past. His eyes, dark and searching, are a photograph in my album.
I'm almost half way through Henry and June. There are several passages I've been underlining so I may go back later to savor them. In any case, as not to ramble, Nin begins seeing this psychoanalyst who breaks down the way she loves...the way she splits her love between 3 men. Oh, its her childhood..her missing her father. Nin tragically grasps onto this right away, comparing Henrys ice blue eyes to her father...her lust for older men, because she always wished for more attention from her father, as a child. I suddenly felt defensive and slapped the book down with a profanity. Splitting loves seems to obvious, and I cannot stand to see people break that obviousness down to some sort of need from childhood,a slight sickness, strange abnormality, or a roadblock to work through. How can one get sensuality, analyticalness, animalness, and pure beauty all in one? I truly think its a sign of strength to admit to oneself that not all these things can be found in one person and to allow ourselves to permit our minds to stretch outside the gated yard of conventionalist of one idealistic lover. (especially for women!). The more conservative would classify Nin as a whore, a slut, loose,and depraved. However, I see her only being honest with herself when it comes to her own satisfaction (mentally and physically). To think that this splitting of loves is only a sign of low self esteem, depression, self hatred, or soul searching is unbased, especially when one has thought about each and every action as much as Nin.
I've just been ripped across the coals by Jeramy.
"You're a kid! A stupid fucking bitch! I see how you are now! You are 8 years old!"
I recite to him my recent conclusions about why I am more comfortable with several "lovers", or, perhaps not several at a time, but the lack of being with one for too long. Perhaps is it less about filling myself and more about finding in them all the angles and glinty aspects of body and mind that I desire.
He says that Im full of shit. I must want everything at the same time because I have no idea what I want. My dear, it is so untrue! But how can I explain anything to someone so hysterical at this moment!
He says "I understand you!" I tell him that I cant even pretend to understand him, so how could he say such things under the current conditions of separations and hurt feelings?
He is silenced.
During the outbust, he threatened me with the metal pole that holds up the window in the kitchen,and then threatened my sanctuary.
"Between us is no door! If I ever hear anyone in there with you, I'll bust it down!"
He shakes the pipe at the defensless white surface.
I say" so what are you going to do? Knock on my door every night and check?"
"I might," he says, "and if i find anyone in there, they will be wishing they'd never set foot in this place!"
I am still compassionate of his feelings. I am. Would I perhaps even feel slightly the same way were the situation turned around? Maybe not so violent, but hurt. yes. I am compassionate, and yet my desires have led me astray over the past week, month. I am completely ready to move on with my life and this current living situation is a mountain i keep falling down on this quest of self effacing dissertations I seem to feel the need to write. What am I to do? I am a prisoner in my own castle!
I use my screen background like a picture album. My favorite on is always on top. I turn the power now to glimpse his face, the beauty that it is, or perhaps represents. I have not decided. Beauty, I think. The hazel eyes, the olive skin of a partially mexican heritage. The softness of it against mine, pressing against my naked chest as I kiss those perfectly shaped pouty delicious lips. I could have loved him. I know this, which is why over the past week, I have held his notion with such fondless and obsession. It is easy to love someone you dont really know.
I have not looked at his picture since he left my apartment, but I look now.
A tightness in the chest! Just another kiss and I might be satiated for another hour. Maybe.