.. Marcel!,Remember when I cooked tandoori for you? You knew I had no clue but could you taste how hard I tried? It’s no different now, only I know what I’m doing and I know what you want. Maybe this is the problem, that I’m not stabbing an identity out for you, that my arms hang hard as wet ski jackets as we anticipate another Friday night out.
Four years ago you would have joked if you could have imagined such circumstances but when you doused me in reflective overtones last Friday morning, it was hard enough to butter my muffin let alone talk on about how for some reason we don’t wing it anymore. You said you feel like you have been sentenced to dinner and a movie for life, and that we loved eachother too much to enjoy it.
Well Marcel, this is the way that it feels seven days later. You are not the only one who has been sentenced. I’ve been waiting for the mood to change. Our mood. And thinking about how I once cooked you cyst-inducing chicken in a broiler and you said it would be even better with chiapis. Spontaneous moments were something we didn’t expect, and the revolutionary province or whatever they call it in Mexico was great to imagine soaked with the saucy residue of our dinners. See, the thing is we used to jitter nervously into an understanding and appreciation and now there’s nothing left to jitter about. I don’t tell you how watching you wash the cat (for no good reason) reassures me. It feels good; even better than the cliché of wild love we used to play out. Because that’s what we were doing when we were laughing at the Woody Allen film like it was our own. Talking about things to denote our understanding of them, rather than build on it. See now we do build on it, but there is no worry. No nerves, so when I get home late from counseling the victims and you’re already home, and I see you sulking in the sofa, I know it’s going to be your mother, or your car, or a clerk taking shots at you. Anything but us, because we are stuck and can’t see the single good it represents. Do you see what I am trying to say?
You say I am too logical for someone who likes to have fun and to fill the you speak/I speak story, I tell you that you are too fun for someone that is so logical. I mention this because the other night when we were out eating too much ethnic cuisine with Bob and Bob, we were this tight that people suspect. We are walking equivalents to misconstrued images. Images bleed over; the idea of what we should be wants to ruin what we are. I don’t want to get to making changes to deal with a problem that isn’t the problem. And that there is this deal out of this nothing, and that we both want to understand and respect (please use another word for our feelings) our fimmus leaves us cornered.
So when you told me you had been sentenced to dinner and a movie and even when we went to the movie and laughed like it still like it was our own (quick note: why do we always go see the younger actors?), even then I thought this: life is one thing, you are another.
You know,
Dija
The end of the peel...
... great managers need to be disturbing at first
