Wednesday, August 31, 2005
My choices so far are the Hotel Ürkmez in Selçuk [Is having great famous Turkish family hospitality, located in the center of Ancient World of Ephesus and Virgin Mary] and Guest House Eklektik Galata in İstanbul [The first and only exclusively gay accommodation in Istanbul].
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
We Are Living in Hell
From Raghda, a 14 year old girl in Baghdad.
It has been along time since I posted my last subject, the situation here do not help to write at all, the temperature is very high, no electricity, we have only 4 hours of electrical power in the 24 hours of the day, no security, no water, no peace and there are always explosions and bombcars, as an example, four days ago a big explosion happened near my house, it was done by abombcar, this bombcar cost people life's, broke windows, and brought fear.
Our windows were broken and so are windows of most houses in the neighborhood but thanks to God we are all fine but who knows in the next time we may get hurt, after the explosion we cleaned the broken windows so no one get hurt from it and so did our neighbors and some of them were out side wondering what happened, we were expecting that the American soldiers will search our house and the other houses in the neighborhood, but they didn't and that is weird because this is not the first explosion happened here, any way tings went back to normal few hours later but people died, Two of those who died were children about 10 years of age and they use to bring us fuel for our electrical generator...
Life, or something like it
Najma returns from a 15 day trip to Syria.
People in Syria are so interested in what is happening in Iraq, and they respect Iraqis inspite of everything the Iraqi government in saying about Syrians to the media. A shop keeper asked us once in Aleppo I think "Was it better when Saddam was ruling? Or is it better now when the bastards invaded you?"; Syrians hate the American policy, and scaring and threatening them isn't going to change the way they think about it to a better one!
It made me sad when a Syrian soldier at the borders between Amman and Syria asked us: "Why do you say such things about us on TV? More than a million Iraqis are living respectfully in Syria and you say bad things about us nevertheless?".. Dad answered: "It's not us who say it, it's the government, led by America.. It's a plan to divide us".
In my journey outside Iraq, I saw Italians, Americans, Kuwaitis, Iranians, Saudis, Syrians, Jordanians, Egyptians, Chinese and Filipinos.. Those I'm sure about, don't know about the others. All in Syria, then again in Jordan, so, no one should dare and say that Syria now is like Iraq when Saddam was ruling.. Syria has satellites, mobile phone and Internet connections.. They express themselves freely on TV, they dare to criticize the government when talking with us.. They might think they're living badly, you might think they're living badly, but you haven't lived under Saddam, have you?
One Year On
A woman with a relief organization reflects on her first year in Baghdad
I will tell you something though. Construction is taking place. Im right in the middle of it and I know for a fact that hospitals, clinics, schools, police stations, roads, ministries all over Iraq are being renovated or constructed. Yes I cannot deny it, cause I see the pictures at work everyday. But ask the average Iraqi, how do these things play in his everyday life, he will tell you its meaningless. The average Iraqi wants safety, wants electricity, wants water. The average Iraqi wants a government that cares, that does something for the people and not just sit and argue about federalism, name of country, etc....
Believe me, I see young guys at work, in their early twenties desperate to leave. They ask me or HUBBY, please get us out of here, please arent there opportunities where you live. At their age, guys in other countries go out, have fun, have dreams, have hopes, have ambitions. All you see in Iraq is sadness. They work their asses off inorder to support their families. They come into work everyday risking their lives just to provide for their parents or siblings. Do not tell me you want to hear good news, cuz from an Iraqi perspective there isnt any. Someone also accused me of saying Saddam days were better. No matter how bad things get, no matter how horrible the situation is, I will NEVER EVER say that Saddam days were better.
A soldier's patrol through a shanty town
As we were leaving the town we ran into a scrap of a child with a spine as bent as an archers bow. His atrophied legs were crumpled beneath him in a wretched pile and he was lurching around on his calloused hands like something from a horror movie. As he clambered over to our patrol we noticed his mother standing at a distance and we waved her over to find out what was going on. Our interpreter talked with the mother for a moment and then told us the child had spinal bifida. As we talked with the mother the child just sat there at our feet, looking up at us through vacant eyes. It was a little unsettling standing there over him because he was in such wretched condition. Back home disease is something foreign and unwelcome, something walled off in an antiseptic hospital room. But out here there are no such barriers. Here disease is a wraithlike predator endlessly consuming lives. When you see these ailments up close and personal some small and bitter part of you just wants to flee.
The mother wanted to know if we could help her son, and as much as we wanted to help there was little that we could do. Once the interpreter conveyed the message she looked down for a long moment and then asked if we could spare any food or water. As soon as she asked two of our soldiers walked to our HMMWVs and pulled out a dozen Halal Meals and a box of bottled water. As she watched the soldiers unload the supplies she sat there in utter disbelief. For a moment I though the woman was going to collapse, she stood there like a tree swaying in the wind, her lip trembling and eyes focused on the vehicles. Then she recovered with a sudden start, and sped off towards her hovel. She moved with amazing speed, pausing only to make sure the soldiers were still following her. It was as if she thought our offering was a mirage that would fade from sight if she didn’t hurry. The soldiers followed her with the heavy boxes in tow and in the rush everyone seemed to miss the little boy dragging himself through the rubble. One of the troops heard him wail and immediately turned and walked towards the collapsed figure. When he reached the boy he bent over and gently picked up the boy, as if he were picking up an infant. Picking up that boy was one of the most compassionate acts I have seen here in Baghdad. In that instant the soldier looked past the disease, past the disfigurement, past the smell of rot and waste and noticed only what truly mattered. That the was a little boy who was scared and wanted to return to his mothers side. As he carried the boy to his home he stopped sobbing and started humming a tune. As they turned the corner to her home I could still hear him humming.
A soldier reflects after meeting a racist veteran
With that being said, let me tell you about an organization that does not care about the color of your skin or religious belief. It’s called the military. In the Army, you do not see the same racial problems. Black, Hispanic, white, purple… it doesn’t matter. You’re a team of green.
I recall one squad I spent time with. The squad leader was Samoan. One team leader was white, the other was black. One soldier was Indian, another was Hispanic and the SAW gunner was of Middle Eastern descent. When it came time for patrols and raids, these soldiers didn’t care about one another’s ethnicity. They had a job to do; their lives depended on one another. In the end, they became brothers. They would share music and joke about each other’s mom.
In fact, the Army does not tolerate prejudice. If a soldier speaks a racial slur, he can lose rank and half his pay. If the behavior continues, he or she is Court Martialed.
A 13 year old girl in Mosul confronts poverty
I anguished when I hear stories like these , my mom always told me that I can't change the world , there is a lot of people how don’t care about others , I can't fix every thing there is a lot of depravity in the world , she is right . I can't, but I can do something help these people.
In the orphan's asylum the condition is very bad & deplorable , the children there are in such seamy place , my grandma used to go to the orphan's asylum every year before the (eed) fiesta to get their size to bring them new clothes for eed , last year when she came back I saw her crying , I asked her for the reason , she told me that they don’t have heater & the weather was so cold , they don’t have healthy food , they don’t have even toys to play , no one care about these few girls & boys , in the next day we went to the market & bring them whet they need , they were so happy to have new & beautiful clothes , we don’t give the money to the administrative , because they don’t bring the children what they need , & bought heaters , healthy food , fans , clothes , or toys , they take the money & don’t spend it on the children , so my grandma used to go & buy these thing herself to make sure this money spent on these children ,these children don’t have parents & that make them sad & lonely , but if we bring them what they need they will be happy & forget there loneliness & may be in the future they will be doctors , engineers , teachers , may be.
After all of that , I hope I didn’t upset you .
Monday, August 29, 2005
Tonight I was ready, but no one wanted to be in the photo. We had a burning. There were ten of us, and most had just exited relationships. The idea was to bring items that reminded you of your ex, and burn them under the mango tree. When I came home it was well under way.
I guess I don't have that kind of anger. I want to move on, but not like this. I don't think any of the guys brought anything, although we definitely helped the women smash and burn. And oh did they bring stuff to burn. Gifts, stuffed animals, letters ... and in one case all the Christmas decorations she had bought to decorate a tree for him. We'd fill the red and green balls up with alcohol, add a few drops from her collection of essential oils, and then whip them into the fire - shiny little Molotov cocktails, scented with lavender.
There was something a bit sad about it all. All memories fade. The memories of pain will fade, and the memories of happiness will fade, until all we have is the present. We don't need to hurry forgetfulness on its way.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
I jumped the gun today. I wanted to bring something to Kurt and Arnold's Cohabitation Barbecue [my words, not theirs], and figured a nice cucumber salad would go with the grilled foods.
The picture makes everything look like it's dripping [or oozing], but it actually tastes nice and fresh. The procedure:
- Peel five cucumbers, and slice super thin. Mix with 1 T sea salt, and set in a colander to drain for an hour..
- Make a dressing of yogurt [homemade], sour cream, and feta cheese. If the yogurt isn't tart enough add some vinegar or lemon juice. Season with 2 cloves minced garlic and some chopped chives. I would've added mint, but all mine has died back.
- Mix it all together, and chill for an hour.
I'm bringing a Cascinetta Vietti Moscato d`Asti. It's a little bubbly, low in alcohol, and super sweet - a total girly wine. This is to wine what double mocha frappuccinos are to coffee; theoretically they're in the same family, but they probably wouldn't be seen together out in public. But I've been good today, and I want candy.
It's hard as hell to find that in my neighborhood. Billy's in Hale`iwa is great. I've heard there is one on Monserrat, but I haven't made it down there yet. But in my neighborhood? Nada. There used to be an old Japanese guy I liked. He didn't speak much English, and never asked how I wanted my hair. I just sat down, and he cut. He also gave a great massage afterwards. I think that must be an Asian tradition. It's one I like, a lot.
But the Japanese guy is long gone. Today I went to SuperCuts. I was in a hurry, it was close by, I didn't want to wait another week - all lame excuses, I know. I wasn't expecting anything great, but this woman was horrible. Every few minutes she would pull up a strand of hair and ask me how long I wanted it. Or what blade to use. Or how high up to blend - an endless chain of manini questions.
And ya know what? I don't fucking know. I don't know how high the fade goes. I don't know what number of blade to use. I don't know how many inches to leave. What I know is that I could walk into Billy's and say can you clean me up? and it would all be good.
Supercuts Woman was not all good. There was no pleasure in feeling the clippers against my head today. She dove in like a bird, like some intoxicated woodpecker in search of his last meal - clunk! the clippers would hit my head, then back out and clunk! they would come in at another angle. My dentist has more finesse. And the ultimate shocker was that SuperCuts has gone up in price - the bill was $14.58! That part sucked the most, because it only left me 42 cents to tip her.
The good news today? I just heard the rumor that Fantasia might have scored a lead in the Dreamgirls movie. That would be too fucking cool; I hope it's true.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
It took almost an hour to get to the top, and it was another world fromthe O`ahu I know. Ka'ala is an almost completely intact indigenous forest - one of the few I've ever seen. We were about 3000 feet up, in the mist. The clouds muffled sound, so all we heard was the lapalapa clattering in the breeze, and the echo of machine gun fire from the live fire range downhill.
I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story. I still need to sit down with Betsy and get the names for a lot of the indigenous plants we saw.
I'm loving my little Cannon PowerShot! I'm not so sure about PhotoBucket; getting the photos posted was a bit of a pain in the ass; hopefully it'll get easier as I do it more.
I thought about going out tonight - some of the guys are going to see Ursula 1000 at 39 Hotel. I love the DJ, it would be great to hang with the guys, but I'm just not in the mood. I think I'm still going through some residual nicotine withdrawl. My body is definitely suffering & taking it hard, though my mind is ok. Strange how every time I quit it's a different experience.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
I've seen him a couple times walking in front of my house, or riding his skateboard by. He'll turn and smile, I'll smile back and try not to trip, and he'll ride on. He's hella cute: lean, tanned, curly blond hairs on his legs, tall ... it all works for me. Today he stopped to talk - and surprises me with that opening.
Turns out we were arrested together a few years ago for illegally hiking in Makua Gulch. There were about four separate groups of us: M. and I, some sailors, and some students. DLNR stood in the mouth of the valley and busted all of us coming out.
The universe loves irony - I now work for the same guys who arrested us.
This time I'll remember his name [Tomas Tomas Tomas ...]. I invited him to join the gang on Ka`ala Saturday, but he's of to New York tonight.
I've finally been making it back to the gym. I've started going early morning, before work. One day I hope to make it for the 6am yoga class, but that is not going to be any day soon.
I googled some "ideal male proportions" sites, unsure if they would inspire me or make me feel like shit. Some shot back some ridiculous results - one chart said I should have a 28.5 inch waist based on my hip size ... if I were anorexic that wouldn't be possible. And some inspired me. Some were actually do-able. I put a calculator that gives ideals based on wrist size in the side-bar. The Iron Dungeon gives a different set of results based on height and weight.
Yeah, I'm giving in to body fascism and Madison Avenue's false ideals and skewed images of masculinity and all that shit. And I'm giving in without apology.
Current Stats: 195 #, 38" hips, 36.5" waist [damn!], 43" chest, 14.5" biceps, 23" quads.
My Goals: add 1-2" on my biceps, 1-2" in the chest, 1" on the thighs, and ... ahem ... take off 2-3" in the waist. My abs still show, but I want my obliques back, dammit!
Monday, August 22, 2005
I first found the bike a couple years ago, parked by our front gate. It was obviously stolen - the license had been painted over - and it had been ridden into the ground. I knew immediately that someone had ditched this one to steal my Cannondale.
I was crushed. I fixed this one up a bit, but it was too small for me to ride comfortably. I kept it around. Paulo rode it while he stayed here, then Roy rode it on the North Shore. It was fine for the country, but when Roy moved back to the city I bought him a good road bike. And we abandoned this poor guy again, propping him up in the side yard and moving on.
When I was packing the last of Roy's stuff Saturday I noticed the forgotten bike. I felt a pang of regret when I put it outside the gate for the scavengers to pick over - it was another memory that I needed to say goodbye to. I figured a student would pick it up, or one of the homeless guys trekking down from their camp on Wa`ahila. Or just some random crackhead.
It was still there when I left for work this morning. Fuckers steal everything that isn't nailed down in this neighborhood, but there sat my lonely neglected bike. I felt for it - as if a bike could have feelings. I almost turned around to bring it inside.
And so I was glad to see it when I got home. I brought it inside. I'll fix it up, and have it ready for the next friend in need.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Make a paste of:
4 cloves garlic
2 T roademary
1 T pepper corns
2 Balinese long pepper
1 T sea salt
2 T olive oil
I"m not much for measuring, so these are guesses.
Smear it all over 2 1/2 # pork loin. Put loin in cast iron skillet, and cook in 400 degree oven for thirty minutes. Turn oven down to 350, flip pork over, and cook for fifteen minutes more.
It smells divine. The flesh in nice and soft and pink. This oughta last me for a couple days.
I had the house - inside and outside - cleaned by 4pm. What a fucking miracle. I went to Hula's for sunset cocktails - the first time in months - and ran into lots of friends. Then headed home to do some cooking for the week. First up: A new recipe for gazpacho, based on one from Sandi on tribe.net. Not sure yet if it will replace my old, but I like it. It's a bit thicker and meatier than the other. I've never added avocado and egg before, and both seem to add body.
On to the grinds:
5 lg tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and diced
1 cucumber, peeled and seeded and diced
1 1/2 stalks celery, diced
1 bell pepper, seeded and diced
1/4 habanero, sliced
1/4 c lemon juice
1/4 c red wine vinegar
1/4 chopped red onion
10 oz can beef consomme
11 oz can tomato juice
2 oz anchovies, in oil
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp oregano
Puree it all up, and keep in the refrigerator. Tonight I'm loving it. We'll see how it lasts.
Got the living room part of my studio cleaned, & that was more traumatic than I thought. I packed a box of Roy's last belongings, but no sooner would I tape it up than I would discover one more thing that should go in. I broke down a couple times, and have been feeling heavy in my soul all weekend.
Part of the trigger was a roll of film I found. I've seen it laying around for months now, along with a camera that Roy had never used, much less mentionned. I brought the mysterious roll in, wondering what it held. Clues to some of the mysteries of the past year, perhaps. Or pics from his past life.
I knew it was dangerous to get them developed, but I went ahead. And sure enough, it was Christmas pics from him and his ex. The other Mike. It was strange to view this tidy domestic scene. Mike smiling, & much more feminine looking than I would have thought; Roy looking lost. Handsome, sure ... but lost.
I put 'em in with his box. There's still one more roll at Long's. I'll check them out mid-week.
So it's been a chore cleaning. Maybe I'm finally dealing with our split. His reaction was so dramatic that the first couple weeks I was spending more energy making sure he was ok than making sure I was. Which was kind of the pattern all along.
The house feels empty without him. It's hard to clean, or read, or cook, or even watch movies. I do better in relationships. And yet I crave freedom and adventure. One day I'll have to reconcile the two.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Surf was flat at Canoes, and there were choke people in the water, but it felt good to be out again. Spent a good part of the afternoon afterwards talking to my folks. Then I decided it was time to get a digital camera. Went to CompUSA, got one I liked ... and then my van's starter died. Called Triple-A for a rescue. The guy helped me push-start the van. I had to swallow the macho for a bit and admit that I had no idea what people mean when they say "pop the clutch." So I pushed the van, and he popped my clutch.
Ended up getting home late, and biked to the park. It was a very good and refreshing evening. When it was time to leave I doscovered I had a flat - damn kiawe thorns. So I hitched a ride back with Kevin and Frank, and I'll worry about fixing it - and cleaning the house - tomorrow.
I have no idea how to format pics on eblogger, so these are kind of randomly assorted. I only managed to get half the guys in the pics, but it's not bad for the first day with a new camera, and shooting in the dark.
I'm much more clear headed this morning. I'm still a bit shocked that I was replaced so quickly. And a bit miffed about all the drama. But there's always a bright side: I'm keeping his board until I hear otherwise. After ours were stolen last year [mine, and the nice one I bought him for his birthday] he saved to get new ones. And got himself a decent one. And me a ratty heavy thing all water-logged and full of holes. I never did manage to repair all the cracks in it, and one of the reasons I haven't been on the water is that my board was so mediocre.
I didn't buy a new one because ... well ... I kept buying him nice things with my excess money. I haven't had four extra bills in awhile. And I certainly don't have much to show from him - only his things that he couldn't carry with him, and things I bought him that don't fit in his new condo. So I'll keep what I like, and the rest gets boxed this afternoon.
Off to surf.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
I was at the bookstore, picking up a guide to Turkey, when Ron called with gossip. Good. I love gossip. But the news was this: he just had a great night with Roy and his new boyfriend. Already? They were happy and giggly and flirting with each other. Roy? Giggly? And did you say flirting with everyone?
They're a couple. Frik. A family. The new husband, with his Jaguar and his two kids, spending their weekend in Wai`anae swimming with the dolphins.
I don't know what to make of it all. If I even smiled at someone it would lead to a jealous fight. Our rare nights out consisted of him pouting until we got home, at which point he would be happy again [and I would be pissed]. I could barely get him out of bed before noon for a bike ride, much less an adventure. This isn't the man I knew. And definitely not the man who was fucking suicidal all weekend.
And I don't understand my own reactions at all. I'm shaking. Not sad, not mad, not angry. Just shaking. Partly it's a release of so much pent-up emotion. Stress from thinking his life was in danger. Stress from the guilt of causing him pain. Stress from avoiding Waikiki for fear of running into him and having a scene. And stunned, because I haven't even started to date yet and he's married already.
I've just been coming to terms with the choices I made. I know I'll probably be single for awhile. It's the pattern. And I've been surprised at how fast my bad bachelor habits returned [late nights doing nothing, not eating right, skipping the gym, wasting too much time on-line], and how fast the loneliness returned. I thought I'd get more than a three week respite, but like an old friend it was right there waiting for me.
Of course I'm moving on. I've had fabulous nights out with friends - some of the best nights in a year. I've got a huge trip coming up to Greece and Turkey. I've reconnected with friends. And I've got my profile out there. But tonight in particular was one of those rough ones, with a three day weekend ahead and almost no plans for it. So I'll go out and have a good time. I'm glad he's happy. It's what I wanted. But suddenly I don't think I can handle seeing it.
Three days ago I was the stable one. And now I'm the mess?
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
I wanted to love the world with you. You could love me, but not the world. The seeds of the tragedy were laid out at the start, but I wanted your love so bad I ignored them. Even though I knew all along that one day this day would come. I just didn't know it would hurt so bad.
Friday, August 12: I get a call from Bob. The new bike I had bought Roy was stolen from work. It hits him hard. I agree to call him Saturday.
And so we talked for the first time. He's not doing well. I want to help him, and I want to make his pain stop. I still want to show him the beauty of the world.
But I know now, more than before, that I cannot be with him as a lover. And for him it's all or nothing. He won't allow for anything else than that I meet all his needs and desires.
And so here we are, the present day. I'm back to the life I lived before: plenty of friends, a life I love, and lonely nights.
This all started when I wanted to go to the gym alone to think. This was ... Sunday morning? And one thing lead to another, and soon everything went nuclear.
He says he loves me unreservedly, and I know he does, and I've never had anyone love me like this, ever. And yet I want to be alone now. This might be the biggest fucking mistake of my life.
Or it might be what I need to do to get my life back. Because I don't like who I am right now.
I want to be part of the world. It is integral to who I am. It is, for me, the essence of life. The community activism, the travel, the circuit parties, the politics, the waking up early to hike a mountain with friends, the dinner parties, the benefits - they're all the same. They are all part of the whole. Shutting oneself off from the word equals death.
We could be one of those couples - and I know plenty of them - where one is out and about all the time, and the other stays at home. Neither one of us would like that, I think. But it's the only option I see. I cannot and will not change something so integral to who I am, and I have to accept that he is who he is.
I was finally able to tell him this last night - after a year and a half of trying [and always being cut down before I finished]. And only then it was after three days of fighting and me being a total bitch & finally wearing him down so that he would stop fucking interrupting.
At the end of the day I like people. I don't think he does. At the end of the day I need to know that I am part of the community. He doesn't. I want to enjoy life, and I wanted to enjoy life with him.
He says he does. He asks me to teach him. But how??? His defenses against the world are so strong, and I am turning into uber-bitch trying to get through them. I can address them, and end of being a constant nag. I can swallow my concerns and focus on the good, but then I end up sitting on the bathroom floor holding back the tears.
And I have spent many nights sitting on the bathroom floor crying silently. He must think I have the most irritable bowels in the world.
Worst of all, I have no interest in sex with the man I love when things aren't pono [and yet I can trick with strangers if I wanted to ... huhn]. So I shut down. And hate who I've become.
Every time I have told him I was sad or upset it has led to a blowout.
I want out. I need out.
And yet his tears are so real, and hurt so much. He says he loved me heart and soul from the moment he first set eyes upon me.
And I feel like damaged goods, because I can't understand this. He's being true and honest, and yet I don't get it. At times I think he fell in love with a fantasy of his creation, some guy in tight jeans and a black shirt. Beause he didn't know me. How can you know someone from a glance?
And what has always hurt was that that night was a magical one. We hit four Christmas parties and then the disco. I saw most of my friends. I danced half the night away. I felt the love of the world, and shared the love. I went home alone, he went home with his date [and mine!], but we exchanged numbers and it was all good.
So how is it that this part of me ... the part that loves people and drinking and dancing ... the part that he saw first ... is the part of me that he dislikes the most?
I was so happy to have someone in my life like him, who loved me like that. After all the years and pseudo-realtionships and dead ends, I thought I finally had someone to share my life with.
Part of my heart pulled away long ago. There was a bad period - a very, very bad and ugly period - where he was drinking too much. Part of me hasn't recovered from all that. We almost broke up then. I couldn't follow through, and he agreed to get help. And things really are so much better now. So much better.
If I had left him then it would have been justified. Now it's a betrayal. I know that. And I hear the cries, and I know that I've hurt him more than I've ever hurt anyone in my life ... part of me wants to throw myself down at his feet and beg forgiveness.
I was looking at the calendar, tracing the last fight I had with R, and the progress of our break-up. What's shocking is the rapidity of how it all fell apart - although for me issues had been building up for a long time. I tried to help him work through crisis after crisis since January, and avoiding bringing up my issues because I knew they would lead to a fight.
And they did.
Thursday, July 21: His birthday. I suprise him with two new koi, a tancho and a hikari-moya. I take him to dinner at Hiroshi's. We have more drinks at Momomo's. He wants to keep going; I'm drunk, tired, and need to work the next morning.
Saturday: We take a long bike ride through Kahala. Watch the dolphins. Bike around Diamond Head and to the beach. Dinner is at Keiko and Greg's. It's a good night, although he keeps going tot he kitchen and pouring himself drinks long after the rest of us had finished.
Sunday: He's still asleep at noon. I've been up for hours. I nudge him awake, tell him I'm going to the gym. "Without me?" he asks. I tell him there are things I need to think about. And he's out of bed and begins the verbal attacks. The fight lasts all day.
Monday: The fight lasts all day. We talk on the phone in the afternoon, and I think things are better, but I'm wrong. The fight begins again at night.
Tuesday: I tell him I'll leave work early, so that we can sit down and talk things out rationally. Without fighting, and without drinking. He calls me at work. He fell off his bike again, and is going to Hula's for a drink. Don't bother coming home early, he says. So I work til 6, get home, he's still at the bar. I won't talk to him when he's drinking, so I make temporary peace. He interprets that as that everything is ok. It isn't. I still haven't managed to finish the sentence I started Sunday morning. I'm still not pono. "Do you love me?" Yes, I love you. "Are you in love with me?" I don't know what that means anymore. The fight starts again. He spends the night piling his things in the middle of the living room.
Wednesday: I know the words to stop him from leaving, but I refuse to say them. He asks me to hold him one last time. I do. And I know then that I want out. I'll copy my old posting from that morning next. At 2pm that afternoon he called to say he was leaving.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Word is R. is ok at the moment. I'm part of the problem, so it's hard to also be part of the solution.
Monday, August 15, 2005
So here I go again. This time I intend to keep focused on the basics - friends, surf, food, war, travel, and wine.
But I'm shaking as I write this. I wanted to check the drama at the door, but life won't always allow that. R. is now drinking again and making suicidal statements. I'll do what I can to get him help.