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November 11, 2007I am not gayfor your informationI TOLD A GAY FRIEND,who’d inquired about someone else. “If I were, I’d have to give up getting my heart broken by men, and I can’t have that, now.” And how many times the heartbreak comes from not knowing what they’re thinking! You’re not a mind reader, so you choose among various scenarios. Did you see the way he raised his eyebrow at me just now? He was talking to that other woman, but he was looking over at me. Honestly, though, he held my gaze for all of six seconds. What did he mean by that? Nothing, it turns out. Of course Greg Behrendt summed it all up with “He’s just not that into you.” If he were, you’d know it. There’re no secret motivations behind his actions. He just doesn’t think about you that often. Get a life. APOLOGIAThis edition of The Ax Files is, admittedly, long. But you will plow through it, in the fullness of time, if you agree with the Temple U professor who wrote on my 1974 English 227 paper, “Moll Flanders vs. Pamela Andrews, that [I] have a “nice flukey mind, enjoyable to follow as it twitches the calm waters of expectation.” Unless you find this… UNREADABLE.Ever get that? Ever get one of those “unreadable” men? The Unreadable Male. I made a distinction a couple columns ago, that some men seem to be either “completely clueless” or “conveniently clueless.” Now I’m not talking about Henry Fonda or your father, but your average, messed-up guy on the scene. By “completely,” I mean, naturally clueless–guileless, innocent, he can’t help it, literally without a clue, like a blank book. By “convenient” I mean it’s something some men turn on and off to use as a weapon of conquest. They adjust it to the circumstances. Some men feign being unreadable because it keeps the intrigue alive, because they want to retain the power balance, keep you guessing. Others do not feign but adopt a certain behavior because they can’t deal with the emotions simmering beneath that which they pretend not to know about, either his own emotions or yours—you can read it any way, either way. Fearful of his own feelings, fearful of yours, masking his real indifference to your feelings (probably so he can fuck you), disrespecting you because he fears loving you, the variations go on. They may be playing clueless unwittingly, however, putting up some kind of face for you and no one else, because they don’t know they can’t deal with you, or haven’t even stopped to think of you. “Convenient” comes from the latin convenire—to be suitable for something, to fit. To convene is to come together, from venire, to come. When certain conditions come together, it is convenient for some men to feign unreadability, or to unwittingly adopt it.A male friend once declared, while we were joking about his being occasionally unresponsive about not returning calls or emails or what have you: “THERE’S A CERTAIN LEVEL OF MYSTERY”I have to maintain. Fair enough, but why? Why should he have to maintain a level of mystery on the one hand and later remind me of “the fact that we are just friends”? Not “we are just friends” but “the fact that,” etc., in case he hadn’t stressed the bald flat statement enough. “Just friends” is a niggardly description of any given relationship. I hate the dismissive tone of “just.” Some friendships can mean more than some marriages. My first love, after he dumped me over dinner in Newhope, PA for another woman, drove me home and said he was not setting me aside. “I think this can be a significant friendship.” We were in our young 20’s. I am still grateful for those words, and he is still the best of friends, 30 years later, married for the second time in Philadelphia, and we are hardly just friends. Our saga is epic. You’ll read aaaaaall about it someday. You are drawn into a mystery because you want to know. Know what? Well, you don’t know! Mystery is where sexual attraction comes from. You want to know what is it about this intriguing person that makes you want to pursue the aura of not knowing. You’re going to find out if you can. If the mystery is solved, do you retain your interest? ANYWAY NO BIG DEAL,he was just making conversation, just keeping it interesting. But because this guy actually was maintaining a level of mystery by unwittingly appearing clueless about my puppy love feelings for him, which I’d been frank about, I found it an odd choice of phrase. But people like to flirt, even obliquely; it passes the time and gives the mild satisfaction of a momentary non-threatening ego rush to lend interest to the afternoon. No big deal. But the remark left me free to think what I wanted. Mystery means something you don’t know or someone doesn’t want to you know. Why should you not know these things? Because honesty is not interesting enough? Isn’t mating a game, with strategies and surprise moves? How is one supposed to know what a man is thinking under his level of mystery? I’m not making fun. Getting behind someone’s mystery to the real person beneath is one of the hardest things anyone can attempt. IF YOU SPEND YOUR DAYSwith someone over a period of time, you will know get to know that someone and see what they’re made of, and the more you will like or not like them, or indeed grow to admire and/or love them. As Tom Ammiano remarked of Chris Daly’s attempt to forbid sexual liaisons between superiors and their staff, “we’re human beings…these things happen.” He even found it sort of “creepy” to have such expectations of people controlling themselves by law. Feelings evolve over time. But when someone maintains a level of mystery, an unreadability, over time, this evolution can be frustrating, obsessive, destructive. It can kill any chance of a real-life relationship where you speak to each other as equals. I don’t how to read him. I can’t get a read on him. What’s your read on him. He’s unreadable ONE TIME I OBSESSEDfor years about a man I thought, behind the mystery, was a sacred tome of mystic cuneiform characters it would take me all my life to decipher, but over time he proved himself to be a blank book, at least for my intents and purposes. Nothing there after all to rate his extraordinary status. I still love him. But I can see now that he is both special and simultaneously not so special. Not so special that I can’t love someone else. We often think people are blanks when we simply haven’t taken the time to explore the text, but his text, was ultimately, well, unreadable (by me). Finally I gave up trying. There was a sequence of attachments I got into one after the other that had such similar elements I thought, the devil has got to have written this script. In the shady alleys of love, not telling someone to stop doing something is like giving them permission to keep doing whatever they’re doing, even encouraging them to keep on doing so. This man I loved who kept receiving my occasional suggestive and inappropriate-in-so-many-ways emails and cards without response for a couple of years, was not doing me a favor. He should have cut me off at the pass, returned my cards as unsolicited mail, in sum, let it be known, bee-yatch, this stuff doesn’t fly. Too bad people have to use words to express something as fluid and volatile as emotion…but also too bad they don’t use them more often to cut through crap. I HAD A THOUGHTabout this man the other day, a busy professional, the executive director of a nonprofit, with a take-charge personality, who normally would not back down from any challenge. Only two times have I seen him unable and unwilling to deal with a situation and the first was when he hid in a store across the street until a mentally disturbed street woman who was lingering nearby his office moved on. The second was across the table from me at the coffee shop where I laid all my cards on the table and he was trapped. After the initial surprise and defensive denials, as if he didn’t know what I was talking about—I exclaimed, rather angrily, “I’m in love with you!” Don’t you dare deny it for one more second!We talked for about 5-10 minutes. “Is there something I can do?” he asked (to help you stop loving me). “You’re doing it.” I just wanted an honest talk with the guy. It was the only time I’d been one-on-one alone with him since we’d met and I wasn’t there to chit-chat. It was an all-over awkward encounter, and finally he pled hopefully, “Can we talk about something else?” He reads my column when he gets a chance, and referred to my writing, thinking it came from the verb to ponder, be thoughtful—as “ponderous.” Gee, thanks, but no, no, that means heavy and awkward. He asked me to use it in a sentence. “This luggage is ponderous, let me put it down.” “Your love for me is ponderous, don’t bother me with it.” I saw him starting to squirm again and we chatted amicably about a trip I was about to take. He wanted to know why I picked a male writer, Jack Kerouac, as my biggest influence, and I informed him I am completely uninterested in the gender of any writer. I don’t go out of my way to read or not read “female authors” or especially admire them. I don’t care if they’re women, or men, or write about gender-based issues. I am a writer, not a woman writer. All I’m interested in is good writing. Then he took off, and I finished my Hefeweizen and went on with my life. IN THE CONTEXTof other behaviors I’ve seen in him, it occurred to me that he had two foolproof defensive factors for not dealing with my feelings: his status as a professional and his existing relationship, now his wife, who I imagine is very easy to live with. No over-the-top drama, no hysterics, no tears. Just speculation on my part, I don’t know her. Outside the comfort zone of this perfect one-two punch, “I’m engaged” and “I’m a professional,” he might have to hear about the feelings of any women who might have felt free to approach him because he wasn’t wearing a ring at the time. I think women just plain freak him out. He is handsome only after you get to know him, in a craggy Mount Rushmore kind of way—and then he is transformed. Who is the most beautiful man in the world? The one you love. But he has a lot of presence and knows how to command a room, so both strong and weaker types are drawn to him, but they all end up rebuffed by his professional polish and unavailability (unreadability). It’s unlikely we will ever really be friends, though we cleared the air, because of the embargo against alluding to my history of “feelings” for him, and because of sex discrimination. I am a woman who love(d)s him. It was easy to stay stuck on a man I loved, available or not, who was in turn attracted to me and obviously enjoyed my attentions. As long as I didn’t know what he was thinking, I fed on that little bit of ego massage. In this my latest decade of life, I look forward to being a gift giver in love to someone who thrives on it. I’m the type to send men flowers (including Gavin Newsom, in my time), cook for them when I won’t for myself, give them mint oil foot massages after a long day, buy them something that reminds me of them—kind of a spoiler but really just thoughtful and loving. I had delivered to my first lover, to the apartment I lost my virginity in, across from the Pine St. Cemetery in old-town Philadelphia, a single red rose. He called the gesture “neopolitan.” I was 17. I hope for someone who doesn’t feel smothered by such attentions but considers himself blessed by them. FOR THE PURPOSESof this discussion of friendship and love, by “friends” I am broadly including people you know simply by virtue of having been introduced to them, by seeing them around, by knowing the same people, and anyone in your life that you don’t actively dislike, with or without reason, whether or not you have expressed it to them, as well as those with whom you have a active friendship. I DON’T LOVE ALL MY FRIENDS.I like them fine, I like them lots, I see them around town, do things with them, or tolerate them, or write them off. For the purposes of this discussion I am calling love “a special regard for someone, whether sexual or not, whether requited or not, that raises them beyond the level of other people you know.” Someone whose death would not mean, “Oh what a shame,” but constitute a real loss for you, whether demonstrable or not—that person as distinguished from all others. You would go to the funeral whether invited or not. And you would cry. “I loved him.” People want these sorts of relationships, but they don’t always pan out. Sometimes the regard is one-sided or delusional. But whether the love is returned or not doesn’t diminish the love itself of the one for the other. You own that love and can do with it what you want—express it, deny it, ignore it, claim it doesn’t exist, make others happy with it, make yourself happy with it, shout about it (from rooftops if necessary), live your life in it, embarrass someone with it, torture them with it, choose to spend a lifetime dwelling on it. It can be a very touchy subject as to whether and how the love should be delivered. What kind of love is it? That of a father, an actual lover, “just” a friend? At whom is it directed—a teacher, a priest, a brother, your best friend, your lover? You may wonder and wonder who wrote it, but there is no Book of Love to consult. There’s no algorithm to extrapolate scenarios and guide you. It’s pitch black out there. We’re all stumbling around. WHAT IS THE MOST EFFICIENT WAY TO HEAL AN OLD HEARTBREAK?Replace it with a new one. WHAT DO YOU DOwhen the new one doesn’t love you? You go on being yourself. You don’t take it personally. It’s just what it is. He’s just not that into you. Whatever you’re good at, you do it and take joy in it. Or don’t, do it with tears streaming down your cheeks, but still do it. Whatever you enjoy, indulge in it. Have coffee in your local hang. Everything is perfect, and perfectly evolving into the new now. Sometimes you become enmeshed with someone or your idea of him not only because he is worthy of love, but because he represents a certain pattern in your life, and in these cases the person doubles as a an object of love and a “situation.” You’re just like the guy who…Why does every guy… Every time I so-and-so, blah blah blah happens. Why me? ALEXANDRA, THIS IS GOD.You weren’t listening. Love is not in my plan for you. LOVE! O WHY CAN’T WE ALL HAVE IT?Unlike simply liking any given person, every love is discrete from another, for that person alone and featuring its own energy source. It burns on its own self-creating fuel. You can’t possibly have the same love for one person as you do for another. Can’t. You love each of them because they are who they are. Does your love for one person diminish that of another? In the ideal world we all wish we lived in, it wouldn’t be possible. These people, and your love for them, are things unto themselves. On planet earth, people want the love people are giving other people for themselves. Where human contrariness is not a factor, jealousy doesn’t make sense. Everyone “owns” the feelings of a certain person for them. They can’t be transferred to another. Even if he’s married, his feelings for you alone are yours. It’s a piece of him his wife doesn’t, can’t logically, have. Unfortunately these feelings are not, cannot be, always given to the person who is the object of them; they remain where they reside, inside. You may not even ever know about them. Nevertheless, those parts of him, they belong to you… GAVIN NEWSOMowns a small piece of me (miniscule next to the part that thinks he’s been an awful Mayor and will continue to be so) because his weaknesses and failures inspire in me a feeling of pity and wanting to reach out. They, the weaknesses, get worse as time goes on. I feel he was used as a mold to manufacture a made-to-order mannequin who actually struggles to be the human being that’s trapped inside it. I don’t hold him at fault for his personal errors of judgment or passion because we all make these errors but he makes them from a podium. The poor guy is doing his best to be what he doesn’t want to be, the shill Mayor of San Francisco who owes a lot of favors to a lot of rich people. It’s painful to watch. Purely my interpretation. Politics aside. Once again, I’m not making this up. ITunes is playing The Kinks’ “Artificial Man.” God, I love life. Long may I live it. You might ask, how can you love Gavin Newsom and still have written your viscious trick or treat feature on him? Because he is a public figure subject to attack based on performance, but he is also a human being I have some sympathy for. My heart goes out to this deeply embedded trapped creature, when my mind is not busy criticizing him. Whoever he might have been on his own is nearly gone. That’s why I have sent him flowers on Valentines Day. The first time was because his wife had just left him and I wanted to make sure he got a decent Valentine (I’m just that kind of girl). The second was during the Tourk scandal, to relieve the pressure of having the world judge and laugh at him for being human (susceptible to love or sex and having bad judgment and screwing his friend’s wife and his friend and almost his career at the same time—three strikes and you’re out! Well, not quite out, as it turns out, Mr. 71.93% of the vote as of 11/11, but what a great big regrettable mess). I wonder if I’d still sleep with him (assuming the chemistry was there), if I had the chance, while still thinking he stinks at his job, in order to draw out the inner Gavin people don’t see. I believe I can see it. Wanting to salve inner suffering is one of the elements of my attraction to people. With certain men, it comes out as sex. Not always, but it’s an impulse something like “sin eating,” wanting to relieve the other person’s suffering by physically taking some of it on yourself, like the prisoner with the special gift in “The Green Mile.” Any day now Gavin’s going to pull up in his Lincoln Towne car and proffer the champagne and roses and the supply of raw money he needs lay at my feet to convince me to stay here in the City of Art and Innovation, because my God, you belong here, Alexandra, pleading, San FranSASSY! will lose another little piece of its soul if it loses you (cry of anguish). Lucky for him (but don’t tell him) I’ll lay myself on the N Judah tracks before I get chased out of here.I was exchanging a late night email with an English seller on E-Bay who told me, You had better get your beauty sleep. I responded, “I couldn’t be more beautiful. No one could.” When I reach a mellow relaxed level of a ‘shroom high, the thought that recurs throughout the experience is: “EVERYTHING IS PERFECT.”Everything is as it needs to be, to be what it is right now. Your only obligation is to see. Why didn’t you see it before? You weren’t looking. No judgments. You need the vision to see that “now” is part of an ongoing continuum and that everything in it is perfect—by which I mean “perfect for the moment to be what it is, and will continue to be perfect as it is always now, when everything is perfect.” Not as in I adore you, you’re perfect for me. I mean as in “conditions which exist, which by their existence allow something else to be.” Because the barometric pressure and humidity are perfect for rain, the “conditions” manifest as rain. Everything is where it needs to be to be this moment in time. But remember—no judgments! That’s a hard one, maybe an impossible one. Not this awful moment. Not this glorious, victorious moment. Not this distressing, pain-in-the-ass, terrifying moment, this moment I wish would pass—just this moment. “EVERYONE IS SPECIAL”is a paradox. On one hand it’s “Everything is Perfect” in action again. Everyone is what they need to be to not be someone else. On the other, if the thing that people have in common is being special, that commonality becomes nothing special. Yea, you’re special, I’m special, everyone is special. What’s so special about that? That’s why I took it both personally and not personally when a “just friend” told me conversationally “I love you.” I was touched that he expressed his special regard for me (the personal part, exclusive to me) with such ease, but didn’t take it to mean that that regard is so special as to elevate my importance to him above anyone else he loves (not personal, not exclusive to me), and nor did his nearby girlfriend, if she was even paying attention. In fact, I had once addressed this person in my column. During the zombie attack after the mayoral debate (only in San Francisco!) I had asked him if he was going to go to Temple Bar and he didn’t know, remarking that he also might want to go to 12 Galaxies or to some other event that night, I told him, “Actually, I just want a glass of beer.” He said to me, “I piss beer,” and then “I shit Guinness.” Appetizing as that sounded, I turned on my heel and (as Steve Allen would say, turned it off again) and went on my way. But when he did show up at the Temple an hour or more later, I took my beer glass and put it between his knees and asked, “Can I get a refill?” Then I made note of the irony that it was not until he erroneously accused me of hitting on him that I discovered how very attractive he is—multi-talented, sharp, capable, committed—because it caused me to take notice of him, as distinct from the usual suspects. And since the regard had seemed to become mutual, I boldly suggested, in this column, “You love me a little bit, don’t you?” But I struck the entire passage, considering the word love to be too open to interpretation and misinterpretation. As he lives with a woman I didn’t know that well at the time, I decided not to use the passage. It was my way of occasionally being discreet. And then he without provocation told me freely that he does (love me a little bit). I’d suggested the perfect job for him was the one most abhorrent to him and he exclaimed, “Fuck You! I mean, I don’t mean fuck you, I love you,” but he had to tell me I was wrong. PERHAPS YOU THINKI’m being abstract and all up in the clouds, but one thing all loves have in common is the element of special regard. If you didn’t have this regard for someone that distinguishes them from others, you wouldn’t feel, or call it, love. Of a thousand people you can say, “Yeah I like him. I have no reason not to. He’s OK.” But how many of those thousand do you think absolutely so stand out from the pack that you must have a regard reserved for that person alone? In my case, lots, it happens. I can think of a dozen in one minute as I type. And all those loves exist independently of my loves for others. PEOPLE FREAK OUTwhen they hear or see “I love you” directed at them, but the love itself doesn’t expect anything in return. Love doesn’t think it has the right to be or not be given, or the obligation to be taken. Love just is. It’s what people do with it, and the judgments and expectations they heap on it, that make it fearful, or controversial, or problematic, or the joyful meaning of someone’s life. It’s all open to interpretation. That’s where words fail, or confuse, or, occasionally, excel, become poetry. OF COURSEthere are degrees of love—I like Vivaldi but I love Bach—but whether the power of a given love is misdirected is a judgment call. The difficulty with these terms is that they been watered down over time and that is exactly what makes them not special, i.e., discrete from others. I have a special regard for you that I have for no one else because no one else is you. I love you. But I also just love Billy Crystal because he’s funny and a mensch. I love pizza, who doesn’t? I love my new couch. “Love” is easy to throw around. Don’t you just love Clay Aiken? We say it both when we mean it (scary) and when we don’t (OK, love you, bye bye), perhaps as a defensive fear of real love? Of course I love! I love a lot of things and people. I’m not afraid to say I love you. Except that I’m terrified of it. GENERAL NOTE TO ALL WHO COMMUNICATEat any given time by writing rather than speaking. If, and only if, corresponding about sensitive matters—someone’s love for someone, whether yourself or not—someone’s death, don’t use throwaway closers that sound like you’re just needing to get out of there. “I hope your autumn is going well,” “Take care and stay healthy,” “And my favorite: “I wish you well!” (See my Short Attention Span Poem “Short Story.”) I wish you well (in your life without me)! What a kiss off! But doing this is not necessarily intentionally callous or dismissive. It could be a lack of creativity. They’re lousy writers. They don’t know how to use words to exit graciously and gracefully with sentiments the situation actually merits. If we would go back to the real meanings of words before we use them, they would regain their power made ordinary by the throwaway language of convenience. They wish you the best. The fact is, they do wish you the best, but the words are so common, it comes across as their not meaning them when they’re saying just the opposite. I do wish you the best, really I do! IT IS A BEAUTIFUL GIFT—“I WISH YOU THE BEST.”You don’t wish everyone the best, so don’t use it with people you wish the worst. Use words as markers for their meanings, not their ease of use, or trendiness (BFF, ohmigod). “OH MY GOD!”It is a blessing, a prayer, a celebration, a hosanna, you are addressing God with an exclamation. You are either saluting God or requesting his attention. Where and when should you use it? Oh my God look at her dress. Would you bother God to look at someone’s dress (and judge it), or consider it a tribute to him that you did so?Oh my God the storm was devastating. God, this is worthy of your attention. People need your help. Oh my God my heart stood still. To address God when your heart stands still (literally or figuratively) is a confrontation with him re your fear of death. Is it time to meet my maker? Oh my God, I really thought I was going to die. Am I about to meet You? Oh my God you like okra? Hey God, drop what you’re doing and listen to this: she likes okra! Isn’t that disgusting? And by the way how’d you come up with okra? Oh my God, he’s going out with her? God, excuse me, but can you tell me what he sees in her? And why he prefers her to me? “I LOVE YOU.”I am one of those truly unafraid to say it, and I’ll take the risk of saying it to those afraid of hearing it. A lot of the time it just makes me too heavy-duty for the guy. Tough shit. “I love you.” Oh boy, what did he/she mean by that? And now what am I supposed to do about it? Well, to the guy who conversationally told me he loves me, I love you too, you are ultra hip and cool; and to the guy I recently told I love you, there is nothing threatening about me. It has nothing to do with my gender or any sexual attraction to you. It’s a total turn-off that you’re not attracted to me. But I hold you above other people. I will cry at your funeral. That’s why I ask myself the age-old question, CAN MEN AND WOMEN BE GOOD FRIENDSwithout their partners feeling threatened, and without sexual discrimination? We go to people for certain things—because they know all about depression and confusion—and we need that contact. Because they like going to the Opera with us. Because we love them. Hey, sue us. Say a guy has a live-in partner. Is he going to experience the blossom of his love for those friends who happen to be female? Is he going to spend much of his time away from his partner hanging around with select female friends? How do these triangles work, even if they all spend time together and like each other? Depends how confident and open-minded the gal is, and how trustworthy the guy is, I guess. In the case of my friend whom I love more than he loves me, if he would call it that (I think not), and which whether yes or no does not affect my love for him; it remains extant—in this case I imagine that I will see him around town here and there, like I usually do, as we both do our thing; that he is not going to call me and come over, get comfortable on the couch and watch the DVD of “Darjeeling Limited” because he wants to share my take on it; that he will not save the new Coen Bros. film for me and just me—he’ll take his girlfriend (I just ran into them on the street—perhaps they’re going tonight); that he will respond, or not respond, to an email, as suits himself; and that he will hesitate mightily to join me (not only because I am a woman who loves him but because of other bad trips, when all I want is to share, to shower him and the world with ‘shrooms from my November baskets of plenty) before he eventually relents (I don’t care how long in the space/time continuum it takes I’ll be here) and gives in to the ‘shroom bloom I offered him with me in Golden Gate Park (because I’m a friend who feels like he could use an LSD trip to the moon, can provide him that, and wants to go along for the ride); or possibly because he can’t think of a kind way to say no. My favorite piece of graffiti ever, on a newsstand at 39th and Hawthorne, Portland: I NEED AN LSD TRIP TO THE MOON.Damn, punctuation sure gets complicated around here, wouldn’t you say, Jane? Oh my, I’m a little high. Why might a guy not spend an afternoon at the park with me if he enjoys my company? Sexual discrimination. Because I am a woman who loves him as a friend and doesn’t mind saying so. If I were a man who loves him as a friend, he’d have no reason to decline. Unless he doesn’t want to take an LSD trip to the moon. “FREE TO THINK WHAT I WANT”Women create mental constructs of men who are not really in their lives. If men present themselves as unreadable, intentionally or not, women are free to make them into whatever image they need them to be to maintain their delusion that there is hope or more significance to a relationship than there is. Someday somebody’s going to get hurt big time. I’m telling you, people, honesty is the key. But who speaks their mind all of the time? Who welcomes anyone unveiling the real person within? How many people do you make yourself vulnerable to? Even if it’s someone completely trustworthy, it’s much, much easier to leave those mysteries intact. Why? Because way deep down, the real you thinks you’re a loser, or that no one can love you if you own parents didn’t. If someone comes along who wants to eat these sins against yourself, you’d be giving up an entrenched part of your identity. Then who would you be? Hard. Hard stuff. As a shrink once told me, “IT’S REALITY THAT WILL BRING YOU JOY.”It’s the most important thing anyone ever said to me. The truth shall set me free. The truth did set me free. It freed me of delusions and opened the doors to joy. It is reality that brings me joy. All the weirdnesses that transpire in relationships will ultimately enrich them if you face up to them and progress from there. It’s hard work, God it’s hard, but it’s fighting the good fight, my friend, yes? The truth, if you let it into your life, will bring you something real, something more substantial and worthwhile than your image of what someone might be if you only knew what they were thinking. I say go take that trip to the moon and explore the territory. It could be a significant friendship. In the meantime, LET’S LIGHTEN UPand remember that, as Dalí made evident, all can be deconstructed into rhinoceros horns.
------------------------------------------------------------ Imaginary men
Yes, rhinoceros horns. Don't ask again. copyright Alexandra Jones 2007 |
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