Perhaps I dreamed about the
tortured caverns, the lonely party spaces of
love. Always beyond, and its mother and sister more readily available, in
the motel rooms. And ex-boyfriends hanging around in a knot of
plainclothes cops, and the pot in the foil turns out to be a bulbed
plant. Pot doesn't have a bulb! I suddenly exclaim. It's changing before
my very eyes. It's rapidly turning from a clean bust to an exoneration.
He's not going to be put away, he's gonna go free. He's never done
anything to me, but he's a threat. If he's free, he'll compete against me
for her, for Love.
But there's nothing to be
done, and he'll go free, which is where I walk
away.
It starts off like she's
interested. There are conversations, an
invitation to dinner, or seeing her at a party. An Elizabeth connection. But
Love defies definition. She likes me, but is out of reach. Just out of
reach. Not mean, not bitchy, nothing like that. She becomes more and more
an inhabitant of the other room, more and more a vague vision to be
sought.