Bill Murray *did* eventually wake up. I do remember that.
I can't very well write about somebody I care about in a quasi-public forum, now can I?
Well there goes that.
Maybe that's all I need to say. That I care, I mean. So does this mean that in the past four years, anyone I've come in contact with, no matter what, subconsciously I've known there's been no chance in hell they'd ever come within one inch of this blog? Ever? Never, ever, ever in a million years? Not even on a good friend sort of basis where I might actually confess my life?
That doesn't mean I didn't cry driving across Stamford from the people groomer to the mall today because I needed a new winter coat after my quarterly grooming and I was scared shitless I'd see him on the street and come unhinged because in this opening up apparently you've got to, you know, open up. And stuff. Who knew. I did not want to see him. I do not want to see him. Ever again.
Sometimes I cry after I've talked to him (are we confused about the hims now? Stop for a minute, you'll catch up) for an hour or two because that *stuff* just comes right up to the surface and I can either deal with it or just shovel it back under. And he seems to know this.
I am simply Not. Used. To. That.
And here's the other thing. It's not a one way street. I don't feel like I'm being preyed upon; having the life sucked out of me by somebody who needs to find a weakness, searching for the gap in the wall, first prying it open a small bit until finally inserting the scaley, needled proboscis, sucking out fear and longing, leaving behind misery and self-loathing. Really. That's happened. It breaks you into a thousand pieces and you wonder where you thought you were going with that in the first place.
But I'm afraid of the flip side. Really, I am. Scared shitless, if I'm going to be honest about it. I ask that we remember this is an unknown entity, really just about me right now and how I respond, what I make up about people, situations and myself.
It's a slow dance that builds, moving faster and faster; a Pavane. I keep wanting to put the brakes on but then I realize I'm really not sure what it is I'm braking in the first place. That's the thing about distance and intimacy when you take a few other things out of the mix. But the walls.
Sometimes I'm just blown all to hell. And that's OK.
I miss him a bit; and I've only ever danced with him once.