On Sunday I went to see "Eternal Sunshine on the Spotless Mind," and I was sorely tempted to be spontaneous and call up Gordon to invite him to come along. I had this wonderful feeling that if I did, he would say yes. And it was for that reason that I didn't.

I have always been very successful at offering Gordon something in which he is interested and getting him to participate. It stopped feeling like a payoff to have my invitations accepted; I want to be invited... So, I prayed that I would have the strength to refuse myself the easy out of bringing him back into my landscape. I went to the theatre alone.

On Sunday night I began to feel overwhelmed with discouragement about work as I was clearing my wallet of old receipts. I came across a beautiful note he wrote me back in October--a note telling me that while he was glad I liked my job so much, he didn't want me to forget about my poetry...that "what [I] have to say is beautiful..." As much as that communique meant to me then, it doubled in value as I stressed about having to go into the office on Monday.

In a spirit of gratitude, I wrote to thank him again...I told him that things were hard for me right now, but that this was not the point. The point was simply that I could feel the weight of his friendship toward me so strongly in his note, and he needed to know that he'd done so much more than perhaps he knew...

On Monday he wrote me back, and the tone of his e-mail was so warm and newsy and open, that I found it hard to censor myself--so I said "we should get together sometime soon to discuss what's been up with each of us." I didn't know if he would reply to that or not. And I didn't care. It came from a place of candor in me that didn't require anything from him. When he replied the second time it was to say "let's get together tonight."

He arrived at my place yesterday at about 7:30, and for 3 hours we talked about everything. Something was different. Something in me was less obsequious, less "grateful" to be in his presence, and so I enjoyed him so much more. In our time of "exile" from each other, we've come to so many of the same conclusions about things, our individual lives... I find that the passing of time has done nothing to our uncanny similarity to each other--in obvious and obscure ways. I didn't feel afraid to rock the boat with him. He was like an open door to me--there was nothing I was scared to ask. There were no huge disclosures, but for the first time I didn't fear hearing something I didn't want to know, so I didn't hold back.

I told him that he is an anamoly, that I hope he never loses the beautiful contradictions that take turns vying for supremacy in his heart. He told me my poems were contemplative, yet restless.
He suggested about three things we could do together in the future. I told him that since he can't make it to St. Mary's to hear me read the poem I wrote for him 2 and a half years ago, that I will give him a private reading later. He sang to me some song his band covers ("Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard), he was confessional, he was funny. He was a man and a boy--and his tenderness disarmed me. Really.

Something odd happened. At one point we were talking about his graduation from seminary--3 and a half years ago, now. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying and asked "Did you come to that?" I told him that I hadn't. He said "Did I invite you?" I replied, without any undertone, "There are so many things you didn't tell me about or invite me to..." He looked remorseful and said plaintively. "I'm sorry." I didn't bother to say to him what I was thinking--that 3.5 years ago it made sense to me not to be invited to things in which he was involved, because that was the nature of our relationship.

I guess it doesn't matter because I don't think he was only apologizing for that.

I thought about him all night long while I slept, and have yet, a full 24 hours later, to throw away the ashes from the many cigarettes he smoked.