There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan
Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.
On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.
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