Late-week journal entry

Therapy tomorrow afternoon.

Chris wants to see me this weekend. Its been a month. He's been travelling a lot. He was in Chicago when Peter was visiting and then he was home for a few days and then he had to go see a vendor down South. He's back and he left me a really nice voicemail that he wants to see me Saturday for dinner and a movie, either out somewhere or at his house, whichever pleases me most. We also talked a bit about Nic, no real specifics, just... I guess he is feeling like he's being edged-out, especially since he travels so much and I'm working so much and we only get to see each other two or three times a month. But we talk often on the phone, more than is my wont, really.

Nic just got back from an amateur astronomer's conference in Flagstaff, Arizona. When he was there he put together a package and mailed it to me. I got it today. There was a sundial inside, and postcards and information from the conference, and three books: the poems of Emily Dickinson, a book on the history of the Lowell Observatory, and gorgeous blank book titled: Desire, a private journal. Inside are the following words,

Within the furthest reaches of the heart lie those desires who name one dares not speak. So seductive, so intoxicating, so indulpgent, our most private passions burn at the molten core of our being, luring us to the very heights of ecstacy and depths of despair. Through the ages, the words of impassioned lovers have transformed a virginal sheet of paper into a sanctuary for a restless heart. Each of the pages on this journal awaits the expression of your own desires--unedited, undiluted, uninhibited. Abandon yourself. If you dare.

And underneath it all, a poem he wrote for me,
Time

Its flow so little understood
Perhaps it is its elusive nature that snares our fascination

That flow marked, labeled, counted
In a myriad of fashions

Marked by falling grains of sand
The spinning of the Celestial Wheel

The very death of an Atom
Or the beating of a heart held dear

Labeled as Microsecond, minute,
Hour, day and year

Counted as Decade, Eon, Century
Millennia or Lifetime

Unique in its relativity
Implacable in its march

Each life’s thread the sole real mark
Of beginning or ending

Woven into the fabric of existence
They bind us all together

Creating an unrevealed Tapestry
Upon which I find

My thread wrapped ever so tightly
Around yours

Thank You


I called Nic at lunch and thanked him for the gifts. Especially the poem. I hung it up at work. We eventually ended up talking about Chris and about the men I've had in my life. He said something like, "I suppose I shouldn't like your stud farm but somehow when you tell me about them I do."
And I answered, "I made a promise to myself years ago, that I would not do what so many women do, when they are raised by abusive parents. I promised myself I would only have good men in my life, that I would not perpetuate that cycle of brutality and demoralization by having children or getting involved with weak or abusive men."
He said, "Ah, I had noticed that and wondered if it was a concious decision or merely luck... I should have known."
Then I bristled at him about the 'stud farm' remark. I told him I'd only had 3 male lovers in the past 15 years, and that was hardly a stud farm.
He answered, "True, but you have quite a few male friends, and I'm sure a few of them would be willing to play 'stud' if you asked them."
Grr. Men! I growled at him and he laughed.
He has a great laugh. It made me smile.