November 1999
“And he took the blind man by the hand, and he led him out of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw aught. And he looked up and said, I see man as trees, walking.”
–Mark, 8:24
I always feel like an imposter in women’s clothing stores. Not so much in Macy’s or any of those big somber clothing cathedrals; only in the smaller shops in the mall, with all the gum-snapping high school girls shopping and manning the counters and talking about their boyfriends. I go in there and they’re all walking around in their little skintight high-fashion outfits…it’s such a highly-charged scene, the more so because none of them seem aware of it, as if being surrounded by half-naked beauties in a room covered in soft fabrics and, my god, mirrors was perfectly normal.
Sometimes I worry that I’m a one-way mirror, with all kinds of people peering inside to see what I’m up to while I can only see myself…
November 2000
The night comes every day to my window.
The serious night, promising as always,
age and moderation. And I am frightened
dutifully, as always, until I find
in the bed my three hearts and the cat-
in-my-stomach talking as always now,
of Gianna. And I am happy through the dark
with my feet singing of how she lies
warm and alone in her dark room
over Umbria where the brief and only
Paradise flowers white by white.
I turn all night with the thought of her mouth
a little open, and hunger to walk
quiet in the Italy of her head, strange
but no tourist on the streets of her childhood.
–Jack Gilbert, “The Night Comes Every Day to my Window”
Michael Justin Mathews asked me today what I want in a man.
What do I want? I want what every woman wants. I want a god, I want an incubus, I want kings and princes and the leader of the free world trussed up like a sacrifice on my fucking doorstep.
I also want a punky haircut, a proficiency with guitars and motorcycles, an outrageous wardrobe and clearly-defined cheekbones.
November 2001
Half the time I feel like he’s my child. It’s a sort of combination of maternal love and maternal exasperation. And I feel he takes me for granted like one does a mother…He seems to be always sick or depressed these days. I begin to think he catches plagues and curses from my mouth…
At work I got started on trying to talk Michele and Nuala into writing a soap opera for our friends to perform on public access…
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