"deeply i go down into myself. my god is dark and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence." -rainer maria rilke


he's on a plane ride to the other side of the pond. i'm a trainwreck inside.

i'm still here.

for the time being, i've given up on moving this blog.  maybe someday when i have more readers, i'll put up a real big stink about the glitches i've been dealing with here...and google will fix the problems.

meanwhile, i hate it that i haven't been writing.  it's sort of a shame. 

i suppose i've been drawn back because he's gone to europe again.  and i quit writing when he got back from his last tour over yonder.  i can't bring myself to go into detail about why, but...well.  let me share a dream i had with you.

i am dreaming, and i am following him down a trail in the woods.  it's hard to keep my footing as i struggle to keep up with him.  as we descend a hill, he disappears...and i fall into an enormous mud puddle.  i am drowning in it.  grasping hands search for something solid to hold onto.  i touch fur.  the body of a dead animal.  i lift it to the surface of the puddle, and see that it is a dead beaver.

dead beaver.  if that's not symbolic of what i experienced the last time he hopped the pond, i dunno what is.

then i found myself in an empty movie theater, a home movie is playing in reverse on the screen.  he is walking with a girl with long brown hair.  backwards.  out of sight.  now i am being pushed up a flight of stairs, into an attic.  he is pushing her away as he pushes me into an empty room, locking the door.  locking me in.  and her out, it would seem.

the next day i awoke to an email from him...dismissing me.  the girl with the long brown hair is real.  she is "someone important" from his past.  
i don't remember how long i walked after i learned this.  but i walked and walked.  for days i walked.  shortly prior to receiving this news, i had lost my job.  i had nothing to do but to walk.  i walked all over south st. louis.  sometimes i cried.  sometimes i screamed.  i wrote a short film based on my dream, but have yet to make it.

a lot has happened since then.  i couldn't let him go, and now we're a couple again.  the girl with the long brown hair is gone.  i've seen him three times since his last tour overseas.  

i wish i could write enthusiastically about all the freaky sex we've had.  but i can't.  

because he's over there again and i can't stop pacing inside...worrying over whether or not this is going to be an encore performance.

maybe it's the benedryl and red wine, but all i want to do is lay down in a quiet forest on a bed of ferns and sleep until this anxiety subsides.

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"in the slaughterhouse of love, they kill only the best, none of the weak or deformed. don't run away from this dying. whoever's not killed for love is dead meat." - rumi