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Forty-Fifth Sitting

I swear to (at) God I didn't write that conclusion. I gave the section to Ted, and I asked Him how I should end it and He wrote something. And if it sucked that's only because He's ticked at My trying to steal His woman. I wrote a song, and it goes like this: "I'm gonna steal your woman. Because I feel like it today. And after I've wrecked your life, maybe I'll throw Her away," etc. It goes over the backing track of "Cool Jerk," by whatever moldy stupid band it was that sang "Cool Jerk." I wrote the words as a joke when I was with her a few days before the end just to watch her get appalled and to crystallize my image of what I'd be like if I was a jerk... because I wasn't a jerk... technically... yet. I think if I were a jerk, I would be cool like Coyote. I could hear me singing and say "Fuck this" and leave; I could be offered various items of food and just walk away. So what in heck would I need? What does Coyote want? Does he want? No wants... not after the basics are supplied. If I could RELAX, I could be a jerk. I don't want His whole story, and if I read it I'll just laugh. I will savor distance between Us and do unto Other however will benefit Me, so ha. By definition, I am a jerk, and so am the sort of creature for whom it is appropriate to act like a jerk, and love it... and just not think too hard about much else. And so I do; and so I did. Mad passion is for fun, and just because maybe I'm slightly drunk is no reason to stop trying to read my handwriting `cause it's TYPED in, ya You, or it will be, and fine if you don't like it. My public needs this finished satisfactorily so they can go back to struggling along pathetically. And so I'll tell `em a story with more frigging SEX than the whole SEX section... and a lot shorter too. And the only one that dies is my soul. Oh, shut up.

No, wait. That's the other way I used to end stories, before I was creative enough to have people (or DOGS) die... somebody would say "Shut up." Too much Cracked(TM) fucking magazine in Sixth fucking grade, I bet. So, shhhh.


I don't even slightly remember the rest of the day... It was the Tuesday after the Saturday that we went downtown and before the Saturday that I left. I don't remember anything bad happening so it was probably wonderful. I probably wrote a lot, and we probably talked really well. <<pause>> Oh. Yeah, well, maybe not. Go look at sitting twenty-eight. So I don't know if I should be cheery in describing this indescribably wonderful event or continue to portray myself as a jerk. I'm... dammit... I sober again, I guess... pretty much... which doesn't mean I was actually drunk before, because you don't know, you bastards. You don't know how long it's been or what I've been doing, because all you want is the STORY, right? The Story? You liked it when I changed the style near page fifty or so to actually employing content, didn't you. I mean, can't we just talk for Chrissake? Do I have to amuse you? Do you always need a show? With puppets?

Look. I'm sorry. No, I'm really sorry. And I'm going to stop being all pointlessly hostile, and I'm going to embrace the subject matter and give you your money's worth, by gum. And if I do that, if I stop and actually think about it, if I remember the point of reliving the way I'm supposed to... but it's hard, dammit. Right. Right. That's why I need to do it. I need to get the truth of the situation into me; I can't repress or shut out any part of it or myself; I've got to stay whole. It's all right... just relax now. Now read that part of 28, now. Read it with Me... come back to that time...


She sat down next to Me, and started reading some of what I had just written, specifically comments about the ways in which We're wrong for each other... She couldn't read my handwriting on the word "everyman," and so I had to sort of explain some of what I meant, but it wasn't a lecture like it sometimes is, and I was sort of vague. She was very warm and receptive nonetheless. God, do I remember the details of the set-up, or am I making them up? I can't be sure. But I do remember the result: She lay on the couch on Her stomach with Her head at one end and Her feet at My end. I knew She was tired and worn, and Her feet were very accessible... and alluring... So I began, despite whatever We were supposed to have learned when He intruded, to massage. And I was thorough... and very gentle but very intense. I began with the feet, one by one, and moved upwards through legal areas... As I worked, both of Us fell increasingly under that spell; Her skin rose to meet me as I... well, you get the picture. This continued with increasing power until I was lying next to Her, touching Her face with Mine, with My arms around Her. We stayed that way for a very long time, our bodies fully pressed against each other. I heard myself whisper very softly in Her ear those three words that I have not spoken aloud to her since. She gave a little gasp, and We held each other tight. So so tight.

After that, though it was late, She insisted upon returning the favor, but because She's trained in the whole thing, insisted We move to the ground. I brought the couch cushions with... and after that blankets were fetched. For a revolution and a half of the first Enya album, She kneaded Me, gracefully, like one of Her pots, and all the pain and stiffness that I feel right now was totally washed away. Eventually We moved to Her room and talked more as I put Her to bed. No... those precious days were not wasted. Not that one, at least. My Love, can you hear Me? I know you'll read this section first because it's about Us. And I just want you to know, here in front of the whole world, that I meant what I said, and I want to say right now what I haven't been able to let myself say to you in any form, because it sounds reckless and absurd... but I now that I will always love you, even if you stay with Him and drive me mad, even if I end up happily married to someone else, I love you, and though I may not feel it in exactly this way ever again, it will never leave me; I will cherish these memories.

Very close now. No, not crying yet, not feeling the full push. Do I understand? Do I UNDERSTAND? I may never see Her again. And more likely, things may never be as good as they were then. If She stays with Him, if He really pulls against the odds and makes it work (which I hear He's totally serious about doing)... No, I can't get myself to visualize that. I can't believe She would negate what We have, even though I realize She hasn't given Herself anywhere near as completely, and officially not at all.

I am in Her dreams, though -- many of them... and She liked the tape of the song. A lot. And... no, I guess I can't tell you, as that is the present, which will be included in this book only accidentally or in some short epilogue, and then only if it takes Me so long to get a publisher that there really has been time enough to need one. But I can think about it... the future, that is... the epilogue... If I totally lose Her, this book will be the only record I have, apart from this frail little mind and several dozen photographs (many featuring DOGS!) Ah, Book. I love you, I think. I think I love everyone and everything. That's what I think.

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]