confession: i’m afraid of meeting my favorite authors. all but one that i’ve met in-person has seemd flatly two-dimensional in contrast to their multi-dimensionally stimulating writing. there has been one exception. this exceptional person whose presence and personality precisely match her vibrant writing has given me a book by an author who has quickly become another favorite. this new favorite author of mine is coming to town on saturday. i’m afraid to meet her, because i’m afraid of being disappointed. i’m afraid of having expectations in the first place. i ought to buddhist-know-better than to have these expectations. i ought to buddhist-know-better to release my expectations and show up to the moment with an open mind and an open heart and receive whatever gifts await me (and i can frame anything as a gift). i ought to buddhist-know-better and apply what i know about most things.
confession: half the time, if wizard or papi have a plate of food in front of them, i want a bite. they don’t mind sharing, they want to share with me, because they know i barely eat. yesterday wizard walked into the bedroom eating a banana. i was laying in bed reading a book and wanted a bite. he stuck the banana in my mouth with his fingers. i wanted to bite his fingers, just because they were close to my mouth, and i’m a biter. to avoid being bitten and because he assumed i wanted a bigger bite (not realizing that i wanted to bite his fingers), he shoved the banana farther into my mouth. there was too much banana in my mouth. i half-spit it out as he half-caught it and then accidentally dropped the slobbery banana in my hair. he called me banana hair for the rest of the day. this is our version of true love.
confession: the refrigerators of 40-year-old bachelors sadden me almost as much as the humane society’s advertisements of abused animals. i don’t mind the condiments, beer, and emptiness of the refrigerator belonging to the 25-year-old bachelor, because i know that his mother or somebody’s mother or some girl trying to impress him is happy to feed him and send him home with leftovers. but the 40-year-old bachelor’s refrigerator with its condiments, beer, and nothing else reeks of loneliness and a lack of care-taking. as i close the door on the refrigerator sadness, i want to walk out the front door and go to my overflowing fridge and pantry on the other side of town.
confession: i wrote to my best friend, my pixie sister, and my mother that i’m afraid of moving because i’m afraid of missing the people, places, and routines in austin that i don’t realize i’ve taken for granted. i’m afraid i won’t try to make new friends in the new place because i’m a loner-by-nature and i’m weird and my long-term friends understand and accept my weirdness but i don’t trust that new people would. i’m afraid that the reason i want to move isn’t a good enough reason and won’t work anyway because the reason i don’t want to live in austin anymore is that it is too painful to live across town from an ex-wife and kids i never see. i won’t drive south of highway 290 because then i am too close to them, then i am only minutes from them. austin isn’t my safe place anymore. paris is my safe place, but i don’t want to live in paris, because living in paris would ruin its appeal for me.
confession: i tell myself i want one thing and then proceed to do another. i’m not sure if i’m being dishonest about what i want or if my actions are incongruous to my desires.