Super, Man. Cycling. Sunday, Sunday.

…I am getting stronger. How strong? Let me tell you:

I lift the vaccumn cleaner from the storage closet, not just lift it, but jerk it up and over the trash can there, quickly but with guidance, so as not to hit the valve of the water heater as I did a couple of months ago, opening up a drip that spread out as a dark carpet puddle a date and I could not understand, a puddle we dumbly watched grow, me finally figuring out the water heater was dripping but having no idea how easily shut off it could be, so by the time the mystery of it all was solved, the puddle was deep and deeply set and bowls had been filled and emptied and filled again.

Not this time, with ONE hand I lift it, pull it, jerk it up, control it, no valve struck, no trash can upset, just the vaccumn cleaner come free, and me vaccuming well, quickly and with assurance.

A little later, I pull free the plastic that covers the tofu with one quick jerk, another show of strength.

A household warrior.

…And now, Sunday morning, my computer still broken, the disc not here, a sort of relief, no internet access, just me and my laptop, a virgin laptop I will never plug in in that way, never give over to the mercy of the internet, that world unclean, like any world; I keep this laptop in the garden.

Not that the things I write on it are all apples and rainbow.

…And I think: Maybe the cycle is changing. Maybe it will change. Maybe I will change. Maybe that is possible.

Finally the weight of the last serious girl, it’s somewhat gone. I’m better than I was even a month ago. Her name is not so much lost in my mouth; the vision of her not so slipping around in my brain.

Maybe cleansed by sickness.

…And I see the cycle very clearly, this girl, the one before:

The raising, and the razing. The re-raising, and then the razing again.

Like a an act of Zen, but only externally. The way they slowly create that art in the sand and the sweep it away. How it calms them, how it proves their acceptance of the transitory nature of existence.

I create and sweep away but not to prove anything, not to calm; I sweep away by bad habit, out of fear, out of ignorance, I’m not sure.

It suggests and addiction to the process of building.

Or, as my friend AP tells me, an addiction to beginnings.

But we’re all like that, I swear. The whole history of this human world is that of building up into the near perfect thing and the finding excuses to tear it down or get others to tear it down.

So that we can go over the horizon and start again.

Biologically speaking, instinctually speaking, from a hunter gather standpoint, from a naked man in the cave standpoint, it is probably a healthy impulse.

In the spoils of this present tense, maybe not so healthy.

The way we lift torches and run through our houses, giving light to those possessions we wanted so much and worked so hard to have, giving burn to that material that is our shelter, that is our identity.

Drawing pictures of our perfect others, drawing them on beds asleep beside us, in that peace that is so like death, the way near perfect things, the way contentness sweeps over us, and suddenly we find fear: I will die without restlessness.

And I crumple those pictures.
Her laughing face.
The way we ran together through the grass.
They way she held her thumb against my pulse.
That’s her looking back over her shoulder. It’s not even sadness in her eyes, she just doesn’t understand.
It’s always too late to follow.
Your always too far down the trail. And if you turn, if you turn to go back, you will find she left that place you called home.

…And the mother of my son, my ex wife, the only woman whose love outlasted her want and need; the only woman who knew how to care…

This has all happened before.

…To these and other women.
To me and other mes.

…Lines of girls, this false sabbatical.

…Sunday and I think and think. Cabin fever and I think and think.

…And what do I know about women?

What I think I know about women I know from the ways they come at me and the ways they leave.

And the kinks they showed me in between

…And anything beyond purely sensation based sex, that straight on thoughtless fuck that is about nerve ending and nothing really more, is kink, the moment you eroticize the vision of the body moving against you, the head you hold in your hands, by the hair, pushing down, the taste of that other person, you’re already in your kink…

You think you like that position just for the way it feels?
What is your fascination with mirrors?

What I know about women I know from the ways they come at me and the reasons they do so.
What I know about women I know from the ways they leave and the reasons they do.
What I THINK I know.
And from that stuff that comes between.
It is, of course, a limited