Mood Indigo

T.S. surprised me, a pleasant thing after this weekend's disappointment. We are on friendly terms again after a long talk Sunday night. He apologized for being defensive. I apologized for being moody and calling him a schmuck. He said my calling him a schmuck was a wake-up call, made him realize that he had been callous, made him realize how important our friendship is to him. Good. I was hugging myself with one arm as we first talked, and my other arm rested against my chest with my fingers spanning my throat. I really didn't want to talk to him. I was so mad at myself for having expectations in the first place--if I hadn't had them, he wouldn't have disappointed me. He said he had understimated his importance to me. I think we both did.

And then I told him it wasn't his fault, that it was me, that I had picked fights and put my fingers in emotional sore spots with two others this weekend, and that I think it is a combination of recovering from illness, and the moodiness from the pill. I'm hoping as I feel less tired I will regain my impulse control, regain my ability to govern, if not what I feel, then at least how I respond to what I feel. I was particularly rough on M.R. this weekend, and J.L. too, in that thoughtless way I have of communicating my internal dialogue sometimes. I enjoy M.R. so much and I still can't believe the things I said to him this weekend. I'm shocked he didn't just tell me to fuck off...lord knows I said it to him first.

All three have forgiven me. I am very fortunate.

J.L. has been sick, and I have missed him so much that as soon as I got home fom work I telephoned and woke him up. He was so pleased that I called--he sounded excited like a little boy, but with a man's voice, all gravelly from his sore throat. He apologized for the way he sounded, and I told him I thought it was sexy, making him laugh a bit. He said he will go in to work tomorrow, but he still sounds sick and exhausted. I am worried about him, as he's been sick for nearly a week now. I want to go take care of him. Illness always brings out my maternal, big-sister side, but in his case, it is more than that, and has been for a while. "I love you," he said, after I told him to go back to sleep. His words hit me in the solar plexus, and I was silent for a long moment. He waited for me to speak, as it seems he has always waited, with his feelings filling the silence...so genuine, so loving, so terribly sweet. There was nothing to say but the truth, and I gave it to him. "I love you too," I told him, and ended the call.

It was clear out again tonite, and I went down to Meldrum Bar, where the rivers meet, and walked north along the Willamette, watching the last of the sunlight fade. The moon was full and bright, and I smiled up at it, my heart full and my mind clear. The moonlight made silver ripples in the water, reminding me of the silver in J.L.'s hair, and I wanted to run my fingers over that brush cut and more. I wanted to go to him and kiss that hint of a dimple in his chin and snuggle up behind him and hold him while he slept. But I didn't, no, I kept walking, with happiness and melancholy as my sole companions. But I walked too long, and a fog rose from the river, and I didn't have my walking stick, silly, graceless me, and I tripped trying to avoid some geese, and fell. When I got home I took a long hot bath, and found nothing amiss. I'll have a few bruises and my shoulder will be a bit sore, but not as sore as my self-respect. I know better. My lack of grace and a wandering daydreams should always be accompanied by a good stout stick. Too bad I'm not masochist enough to clout myself with one.