My little screwball comedy with #8 continues. A few weeks ago, on bumping into my former lover and his new beau, #8 revealed that he had dated my former lover’s current boyfriend. Years ago.
“He told me that he was 17.”
If you’d like to see my face right now, imagine Reese Witherspoon in Election when she discovers that Matthew Broderick trashed the deciding vote that cost her the election.
He’s snoring in the next room. The windows are vibrating and car alarms are going off outside. We both seem to have been, and remain for now to be, blinded by an intense desire to make him happy. I suppose it could work, in that parallel universe with evil Spock and the menacing dog, but I’m not cut out to be a puppy person, or even a good bottom if I’m not taken to expensive restaurants. Where is my versatile intellectual truck driver with highly developed communication skills?
Sigh.
I haven’t been writing about our affair, as I just complain a lot about it. I’ve become an awful henpecking shrew, constantly complaining, to anyone who’ll listen. To strangers. Grocery clerks. Consider yourself spared.
I’ve been having a great time photographing, though. Forget you hairy dudes, I’m still bonding with nature. The kind that doesn’t break your heart or just lie there on its wet hairy back. For the past few weeks, it’s been spider webs. The light falling through the trees and across the webs is dazzling. The images are strange and other-worldy, little glimpses of these tiny magical constructions. Sometimes I get too close, and the web falls apart. I watch as the spider rebuilds it, tenderly preparing a new backdrop for me. It’s a collaboration that I’m really enjoying. I’ve started to digitize the chromes from the past few shoots, and will have something to show you soon.
I’m off to Alabama on Wednesday, to bond with my southern friends and to get grounded again with a good dose of sweet tea and southern comfort. I’ll be driving down to Florida with Mom and Dad, too, just like when I was a kid.
Stay tuned!