rolling, rolling, rolling

part of what he gets paid for is to assure me he'll succeed, right? if he expressed doubt or uncertainty, i'd never have signed up, right? i know his record is excellent. high and low-profile wins one after the other; plenty of ink spilled in his favor, and lots of little guys getting their money back from big baddies. he hasn't promised a pot of gold or any rainbows, just that he can and will help, and has previously proven himself an excellent negotiator. the irony of not having hired a lawyer last year for all this is not lost on me. the other side's haste and greed caused them to skip some very important steps. later on, yet another of their lawyers fumbled and flummoxed further paperwork.

it's an extraordinary relief to have it in the hands of a professional, because i felt like i was wandering through a kafka novel trying to resolve it alone. hours on hold for a different time zone, only to be disconnected or told it wasn't the right department, and THEN disconnected, never redirected. over and over told nothing could be done. this guy fell in my lap and put the brakes on everything within a day. the words "i'm attorney so-and-so" are like a hammer, eh?

i have to keep telling myself i'm paying him to win. cold hard truth, it's in his best interest to succeed on my behalf. still, i wish it was easier to ride on his coattails of confidence. instead, i feel as though i'm white-water log-rolling on the river styx. my balance has never been all that good, but i know the tide has to turn. i need for all this to finish, so i can start again. for real.

outside

one reason i wanted to return to city living was because i felt so isolated up there. for married folks with cars and kids, it was a nice neighborhood. ^^BUT^^ grocery shopping on foot was next to impossible; clothes, shoes and homewares were the far-away province of *the mall* -- i'd rather go naked on a ferris wheel than shop there. forget about a movie on the spur of the moment, and don't get me started on the local video outlet. a simple dinner date with friends involved such summary logistics of travel that it was usually easier just to stay home. but back then, at least one day off would be spent in the company, and in the service of, the g.c., so if there was another uncommitted day, it was in preparation for, or recovery from. the pattern was established, easy and comforting.as things have gotten more tryingly convoluted over these last months, i've found myself ferreted away in ever smaller warrens of this sunny sprawling space. ("all i need is this chair...") in fear of losing it, i haven't been able to face it or revel in it. worse, i haven't been in the world at large. some of the greatest art collections in history are moments away; movies, libraries, theatre, funky shops and food of the world at my fingertips. even simpler, an endearingly lovely city which can be walked for hours -- something cherished always renewed (on my first visit way back when, i sought out the samuel eliot morison statue and love it still...) ; something new always found.

yet i've denied myself everything. why? why am i so afraid of chance encounters or being seen? over the years, i've performed herculean feats of discretion, yet still feel so vulnerable. why is that? i *know* most everybody is self-involved. they don't look up, down or outward. (g'head and stand on a 10th-story ledge for a while; see how long it takes for anybody to notice you...) it's not self-importance. no. no. no. i feel like what i've been a party to is so egregious, so horrible, that i must look the monster. a coach bag and cole-haan loafers are no camouflage for this hideous whore...

turnstiles and tantalus

already it's that season where i'm in a constant work-whirl of shuttling between long enervating hours there and far too few hours here. frustration mounts when so much added effort begets no hope of increased reward.

in years past, there's been a surfeit of diversions in this season's few moments of down-time. now, i'm in the fight of my life, on too many fronts. it's an exhaustingly broad battlefield; i'm an army of one, with no allies, other than a hired gun specific to one prong of the siege. (additional worry of when THAT bill comes due brings small comfort from his parries.) too often i realize i'm forgetting to breathe. each time i feel close to water to refresh and push still onward, the pool around me drains fast away.

i know there must be resolution. when and how soon... ? will i collapse under defeat or finally exhale with victory? is it hubris to think the things for which i fight are *mine*? will that bring still more dire divine punishment ?

soundtracks bring no solace. the reminders are still too raw, so the speakers stay quiet. but with books and movies, i can easily suspend disbelief for camus or moody; caine, nicholson or mirren. i'll find snippets, not of profundity, but sometimes of perspective. recently, i left a little bookmark here. it was an especially and personally ironic quote, having been bookended earlier that day by clamence's remark that certainty is of no consequence, because so many imbeciles share it. as bess received frequent reassurance of rightness, she grew more confident -- heart of a king, etc., take THAT spanish armada! just 6 months ago, i was held safe and close and promised the choices being made for me were sound. it looked clear and felt true. in life's equivalent of seconds, i was proven a fool of astonishing dimensions.

at the same moment disapprobation in absentia was broadcast a few days back, i was awakened by the *real* sensation of his cheek under my fingertips, and his breath on my neck. still further confirmation my wires are all crossed. i should have been feeling a punch in the face. then again...

there's a frothy confection of 18th-century hoops and cake calling my name today, so i'll go lose myself in the folly of an indulgent bunch who came before me. for a few hours anyway, i'll balance the scale and burden of personal excess in light of others.

almost there

"what are you going to do with this?"
"you can have it."
"seriously, you should keep this."
"i don't want it. you can have it."
"but this is valuable!"
"i don't want it."

that back-and-forth repeated several times, over different objects, of varied values, til finally she realized i was serious. i'd only come for a few things, and wanted none of the rest. it all had been left behind nearly a year ago, and i'd only grown more disinterested. just "stuff"; no use nor space for it. divest. simplify. the van wound up full of far more boxes and bags for her than for me. (why the van smelled like the circus is a question likely to remain unanswered... lol.)

when we were finishing up, she remarked on my equanimity in the face of all this. i successfully fooled another into thinking i'm fine. composure is far more exhausting than it appears, but my mother would be proud of the sheer will i managed to find.

i'll boil the dust out and try to sleep. my shark awaits in the morning.

still

the water continued to deepen, and the tide grew stronger. i was going under -- fast. it seemed such a foregone conclusion, that i began to feel the peace said to overcome one drowning. mon dieu, enter the hired sharks! it's been an exhausting period of playing "my lawyer is better than your lawyer". shocking too, to see incompetency so clearly and quickly demonstrated, and watch the furious backstroke, when faced with even a glimpse of that fin.

with a few grand and some legalese, i've gotten a life preserver. the swimming leg of my personal ironman is not yet finished, but it's sunday. even piranhas take the day off.today i'll remain still and float in quiet. the whistle will blow again tomorrow.

quotable

"you have the grave wisdom of the clear-minded; you believe other people think like you."

~~earl of leicester to queen elizabeth I, in "elizabeth I"

as seen here

the steel and glass towers rise in hinterlands previously considered uninhabitable, so our city has way more swell and far less seedy. there remains a tiny quadrant in a weird no-man's land corridor where there are hustlers to be had. i see these boys, glazed eyes, dirty jeans and edged by a desperate aura. they make me incredibly sad. even worse, each only seems around a few weeks, and then *poof*.

recently i watched a surreal bit of street theatre. a man in his mid-50s, wearing astonishingly expensive loafers and a sportcoat likely woven by the still nimble fingers of a 6-year old tibetan, from the fur of fetal cashmir goats, was stamping his foot, pointing in the kid's face, and screaming, "YES, YOU WILL!!". hands in pockets, sneaker scuffing the sidewalk, the kid's head was hanging down, just shaking "no." "FIFTY BUCKS, I SAID!!! FIFTY BUCKS!!" the guy looked like he used those u. s. grants for toilet paper. i was down the block and across the street and i could hear him. i put on that handy-dandy cloak of urban invisibility and walked by fast. barely audible, i heard the kid say, "no."

my mind reeled as to the possible insidious demand. i also felt queasy having witnessed something that should have been so private. yet, i felt somehow the boy was safer because he still had limits. he remained human.

phew

for a few weeks i thought perhaps there'd been a shift in the cosmos. that my perceptions and foundations had been altered, but i hadn't been notified by the proper authorities. did i need to recalibrate my inner sextant? mais non!! ne t'inquiète pas !! it remains a cruel bit of black relief to *know* that when you see a light at the end of the tunnel, it's not peaceful angelic redemption, but the headlights of an 18-wheeler raging downhill with faulty brakes. i thought i'd been tossed a financial life raft; turns out, that puffy bit of comfort was stuffed full of used dailies. took a few days heading upriver for the old pulp to get soaked through, but, boy, i'm going down fast.

however, on the emotional side of things... (betting windows now closed on whether it's more often heads or tails -- and which is which) no doubt perverse to you, but comforting to me, i still take some solace that not everything should be taken at first glance. particularly when the eyes are too swollen and flooded to see past the heart.

proof

the condition of our relationship was that it was unconditional. (of course the subtext being its secrecy, but we both deftly held that disconnect behind our backs.) his own denial of his worth made it impossible to believe that mine really was *that*, even though i knew it with absolute certainty.

one part of our dynamic was random acts of profound cruelty from him. it was to break me and further increase my dependence. he was newly awed every time at both my ability and desire to crawl back, taking succor and final healing only in being his. the specifics of what was done no longer matter, and are not something likely perceived as anything other than shocking abuse. suffice to say, in context, perversely they bound us more than anything tender we ever shared.

now that context no longer exists.

he did something this weekend so inhumane, so merciless, so callous even i was shocked. he publicly repudiated the self that i knew, the one that owned me and had promised me *forever*. thus, in front of thousands of people who'd spent years reading his articulate words of devotion to me -- and mine to him -- he invalidated, denounced and denied everything.

i spent 2 solid days retching and crying. unable to do anything other than crawl from the couch to bathroom. i tried, but could not navigate the flights of stairs to go to the store. (in fact i just got sick now and had to pause writing...)

but now i know what *unconditional* really means. although my eyes still are swollen from the anguished sobbing of each night this week, and my stomach sick with horror, if he came here right now, i'd drop to my knees and welcome him like he'd never left.

there seems to be some twisted need for each of them to publicly humiliate him in a search for closure (?). have i become such a non-entity that the fall-out to me is unconsidered? she may not like it, but the ugly truth is there were 3 of us. yes, my feelings are mine and my responsibility. what gives either of them the right to publicly stomp on them? it has made them both look audaciously shameful. i took great pains these last months to maintain everyone's privacy and dignity. and here they both are shouting in the town square, pinning scarlet "a's" (p's?) on us both.

he's been on and on about karma. i hear it's a bitch.

the pillory and taking stock

uncomfortably often, the g.c. used a trained dog analogy to express my progress. the old-timey-days fable of the *gypsy dog* also pleased him then; that fur suit still fits and i'd heel to command, but it's apparently irrelevant. as far as my own dog, i always knew there had to be a difference between a walk with me and somebody else. angle, pace, pressure, give-and-take.

the g.c. had my collar, both around my neck and in my head. at this point it may make him incredulous but the internal collar still gets pulled. i felt it *hard* the day after my birthday. yet i knew the pull was different. yeah. fucking horribly different.

there she was, striding through the place she'd only observed ex post facto. the bile rose so fast i thought i would faint. in a heartbeat, i retched into the basket, and had to lie on the floor. (such immediate manifestation of my distress makes me know i have a very long way to go here...)

when the shit hit, one of the things he asked was i avoid posting on what had been our shared outlet, and was now the forum for her revulsion. it would never occur to me to air dirty laundry, but he seemed uncertain how i would behave since she was acting in ways he'd never foreseen. we also both knew she'd be watching and anything i might post she'd construe as relative to him, or to us. out of a sense of personal privacy and respect for both of their dignities, i wrote nothing and grieved alone.

now, all these months later, she has dragged him out into the virtual town square to shame him.
in the scarlet letter, hawthorne wrote, "this scaffold... the platform of the pillory; and above it rose the framework of that instrument of discipline, so fashioned as to confine the human head in its tight grasp, and thus hold it up to the public gaze. the very ideal of ignominy was embodied and made manifest in this contrivance of wood and iron. there can be no outrage, methinks -- against our common nature -- whatever be the delinquencies of the individual -- no outrage more flagrant than to forbid the culprit to hide his face for shame."

a sentence to the pillory was rarely more than 2 hours, for it was very dangerous. no physical harm could come, so she hung him out for not quite 3, then completely revised her post. he has been gone from the site for quite a few months, and she posted at a slow time of day, so it's questionable how many readers made the connection. however, she seemed satisfied through her redaction.

a virtual hanging certainly provides humiliation, but here is where i get lost. what he did was horribly wrong. the lying and deceit for those many years -- terrible. both before and with me. now forced to confront what her husband had been doing, every kind word and every tender moment they ever shared seem a lie. it's a dark, lonely, painful place. in her place, hell, in my place, i'd prefer privacy because of how this all reflects upon me. she still sees no personal culpability, so i guess doesn't own a mirror like mine. he was always adamant about being responsible for one's actions. but she apparently gets a free pass. he will carry her burden and his own.

she claims the discovery came as a complete surprise. she had no idea he had been unfaithful for 12 of the 15 years they'd been married. even when, in a very invasive letter to me, she expressed dire unhappiness and dismay at his lousy husbanding and bad parenting. how could she possibly have been so unaware? she couldn't sense his difference when he came home after a blissful day of utter indulgence with me? their oldest son *knew*, but she holds fast she did not.

she has a right to all the indignation she can muster. but by holding fast to unawares, she only looks disconnected and uninvolved. by painting him with the broad brush of oh-so-very-bad, she looks to be the martyr, and the robes are not very flattering. airing this in public makes her look small and mean. she included links to videos of betrayed wives going berserk, trashing their husbands' stuff. she thinks they're funny. courtesy of friends, i'd seen them before. to me, there is no humor. i find them scary and very sad. they make me feel profoundly uncomfortable and i honestly can't watch them. her anger is still so palpable even after all these months of headshrinkers and him crawling for forgiveness, when will she reach the next phase and let the fuck go of me?

all week at work, i've searched the eyes of every petite blonde for either suspicion or gloating. i spent far too much time barely holding on and tamping down panic attacks.

all week i grappled with this post, because i sensed *it* wasn't over. i was right. her outting was a walk in the park compared to what came next.

rant

our galloping mormon (oops, lol, at 1st i typed "moron") has reinstituted random bag searches on the mbta. a "suspicious" person will be pulled aside and his/her backpack/briefcase/overnighter swabbed for explosives residue. unlike nyc, where cops actually peek inside the bags, this will be a chemical test. u.s. currency samples anywhere from 30% to 75% positive for cocaine. atms and bank bill-counting machines come up totally high as well. if i sleep near a fertilized field in yamhill, will my tote tip the boston bomb meter?

the nyc policy has been upheld in higher courts. the local one was originated during the 2000 dnc and also judged legal. (i want-want-want to believe it was the same judge who deemed it best to literally cage protestors outside the fleet center, but i know that's my tinfoil hat talking.) however, this does explain my recent sightings of black-jumpsuits, jackboots and german shepherds. (exhale...) funny, huh? how they were actually looking and sniffing before an official announcement?

the egregiously blatant political posturing comes as no surprise. the man has visited iowa many times more than any other potential republican candidate. "look at me!! tough on terrorism!!!... no candy-assed-massa-commie here!" pre-caucus tv ads, anybody? unbeknownst in the land of all-that-corn, he's a carpet-bagger and most likely unfamiliar with our local history regarding the troubles caused by writs of assistance. our profiteering forefathers had a very definite problem with illegal search and seizure. as *reassurance*, t officials offered that trains would be held so that the searchee doesn't miss his connection. what about all the rest of us being herded while he gets needlessly hassled? if a guy with a bomb sees ray-bans on a 6-footer leashing an 80-pound dog, is he really gonna buy a charlie pass?

our maundering man in the white house last week smiled and squinted for the cameras, then signed a new home-land security manifesto. in a much quieter signing statement a few days later, he challenged, and basically pledged to ignore, 36 of the laws within it. during his term, he has *challenged* about 800 other "laws". ALL OTHER PRESIDENTS COMBINED HAVE CHALLENGED A TOTAL OF 600. since 1789, 42 other men have been commander-in-chief. that averages to 14.29 per president, or 2.8 per year. he has publicly stated that god told him to run for president, so really, should it surprise me that he does not feel bound by earthly laws? the historically valid procedure is to veto that with which the president disagrees, and chuck it back to congress. this provides a smooth loop in our constitutionally secure system of checks and balances. but if shrub is lulled to sleep by thoughts of the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse galloping across the incinerating globe, why should a little frayed shred like the constitution be a mote in his eye?

lastly... foley and hastert.

foley is a notoriously closeted homosexual, who repressed himself for professional gain. his superior, hastert, came to power on an odd reverse. hapless and grossly fat, he proferred no danger when out went the newt, and the blue dress was being bagged. snow has called them "naughty e-mails", but i can only imagine them as every parent's internet nightmare writ large: an unacceptably older man, i-ming "r u horny?" while junior should be finishing his trig homework. yuk. in the daylight, he thumped his chest about electronic predators, then at night poured a drink and logged on to troll. but now he's cloistered behind the walls of rehab and tossing up alcohol abuse and prior priest abuse as excuse. how much does this cheapen those truly damaged by addiction or rape? what disservice done to 99% of the homosexuals who live normal functioning lives like everybody else?

ephobophilia is not to be confused with pedophilia. nor is either to be confused with homosexuality. yes, sometimes they tragically overlap. and yes, quite frankly, i'm ok without the image of 54 year old foley in his shorts i-ming pages late into the night. but i can't be the only one seeing the turn-a-blind-eye-parallel between the republicans and the catholic church. sick men were moved around like chess pieces, code of silence was honored. everybody else throws their hands up in the air to show they're clean. in the mean time, true conservatives (my mother swears she doesn't know a single gay person) then see sexual preference as pathology. suddenly, they're all in wrinkly trenchcoats outside the playground fence. simply put, if the lid is on too tight for too long everything boiling inside is gonna blow.

the eisenhower strike group and its load of tomahawk missiles has set sail for the persian gulf. significant numbers of other naval forces have received "prepare to deploy orders". anybody betting on a rove november surprise?

rant over. for now.

the little we can see

when my dog was still alive, one of our habits was long late-night walks. we lived in a beautiful federalist neighborhood, where by philosophy and design the houses were quite close to the sidewalk. residents in those days faced the world and their neighbors in it. in an an even older part of the town, homes dating back to the 1600s practically muscled themselves onto the street.

our pace was brisk, but one of my guilty pleasures was peeking in windows. mostly seen was the mundane of the end of the day: washing dishes, reading the paper, or watching tv. but some snippets stuck. the spouse who tenderly embraced his mate from behind, the woman kissing her man good night while he remained in his armchair, salon-type gatherings of studious looking so-and-so's sitting bolt upright, or raucous holiday parties, where the music and lights spilled out the window too. there was the also the horrible. seeing people fight. faces torn with rage and hands whirling in the air, trying to catch the despair. or just one, alone, crying.

blogs are like that. i meander through lots randomly, and most are accounts of meeting friends for pizza or a hike. shopping for school clothes and posting baby pictures. they bore me to no end and i have no idea why even the writer feels the need to preserve the oh-so-ordinary.

still imprisoned by my heart, i'm unable to stop reading the g.c.'s blog. i got trapped in the beginning of it because he was in such turmoil, and that electronic outlet was all he had. he was careful to correct me that internet outbursts aside, he was managing. we were still in contact then, so he helpfully moderated what i read. now i'm left to my own devices to translate, but it seems clear she cannot let go of me. she wanted it then and still bristles with rage at not having had a confrontation with me. apparently his prostration at the altar of their marriage, his confessions in therapy and his crawling penitence aren't enough. her once-removed knowledge of the difficulties of both my heart and my finances don't pay her pound of flesh.

only just recently do i not quiver with tears when asked about him. at last i went an entire day (yesterday) without crying. what would happen if she did actively seek me? she *joked* more than once to him about showing up at my work. would she have the audacity? it is a public place, but it is my JOB. a reservation one night, which matched her maiden name (she kept it), nearly made me faint. i'm certain she knows my home address, and could knock on my door any day. does she just want to see me, or must words be exchanged? she's won. that's clear. he will do everything possible to be taken back. i'm in solitary confinement with useless devotion and meaningless endless love.

i can't help but think there is a mean streak within her that aches for a fiery denouement. that she longs to see the whore bereft and vanquished. to wave her marital sword of victory in the air and crush my face in the mud of my past with her husband. a mountain of "i'm sorry", from him isn't enough.

he never spoke disparagingly of her. but i can't help think someone who wore an emotional coat of solid ice all those years has deep coldness in her heart. my wound remains so raw, my financial problems so profound, i don't know if i would collapse or strangle her if she dared invade my privacy in any way. and what says this of him? bound to a woman who holds a hard spiteful need to smote me personally...