The Attack of the Sympathy Cists

Felt wonderfully at peace today after a whirlwind of a weekend in Atlanta, where I had two gigs and a pretty amazing weekend. I got to connect with a wonderful woman that I've never met, Blue, who I'm now proud to call friend. She scooped me up from the airport, we shared a meal, had mad laughs and got a chance to enjoy each other's poetry ( we both had features in the same evening) ...all in one night. Our bawdy laughter, i think, still sticks to the walls of that Thai food resteraunt where we ate--a few ears forever assaulted.

I also got to spend time with one of my best friends in this world, Sethe's Man and bond with the family that hosted me, invited me to come down and feature at their wonderful venue.

Tuesday is swiftly becoming my favorite day of the week. These are the days I can work on the newsletter for my freelance gig, plan my cirricula for the rest of the week and maybe even write a poem or a group of words passing for a poem.

While I was in the shower earlier this afternoon, a line popped into my head: "He hates this skin he's been given." Yes, I'm talking about Rene--the acne, the puss-filled cists, the psoriasis that plagues him. I think I'm beginning to sympathize with him to a strange extent, as I watch the cists beginning to bloom on my own body. Acne and cists aren't contagious so I don't know what else it can be. Two weeks ago, I got my first one behind the knee. Last week, two almost simultaneously eruped: one on my inner thigh and a vicious one on my left butt-cheek. It hurts to sit down. It hurts to walk. Are these sympathy cists or are they just coincidental epidermal volcanoes of puss and pain? [did that make any sense just now? or was that just plain gross?] Anyway, I've never experienced these painful anomalies on my skin before, but why now?

Things that make you go hmmm..


You know it's big when I tell my mother that I'm seeing someone. My mom and I just don't have those conversations...well....okay, every five years we may have a little elbow-rub about it. I think that reluctance to speak with her about sex and love started way back in 7th grade when I asked her what an "orgasm" meant and she told me to ask my science teacher. Yep, that'll do it. Imagine my embarassement when I asked Ms. Lewis in homeroom. Imagine hers.

And then, there was that conversation my senior year of high school, when we went out to dinner and were having girl talk. My mother revealed that the only two men she'd had sex with were her two husbands: her first husband and then my dad. By that time, I had already had sex with four guys. I had already doubled my mother's number. I felt deliciously ashamed and kept my own dealings locked in my mouth.

Anyways, during the course of our conversation about my new man, something bothered me a little. Mom asked the question:

What are his interests?

And you know what? I couldn't answer. This bothered me: not because I didn't know what his interests were, but because I wasn't sure if he had any. Is that an awful way for me to think? The other day, I asked him what country he'd like to visit and he said Amsterdam so he could smoke ganga in the streets. I personally found that a bit ridiculous, but I tried not to be a snob about it and kept my thoughts to myself. So, in light of that, when my mother asked me what his interests were, my first thought was "marijuana" but I didn't think it wise to tell her that. I also thought "his 4 kids" but I didn't want to drop that on her yet either. So, I resorted to the poetic response and said that he was interested in the inner workings of things. You know, him being in electrical engineering and all...

As soon as I got back on Sunday, I called him during the cab ride home, across the Queensboro Bridge. I found myself eager to see him. He hopped the train from Bushwick and we all but melted into each other like two hot snowflakes melting into pure unmistakable water. That night, at dinner, he asked me point blank:

Why are you interested in me? What makes me different from all the other men you've been with?

Essentially, it was the tough-to-ask-tougher-to-answer why me question. I found the question, and the way he asked it vulnerable, searching, and breathtakingly sincere--born out of some sort of insecurity. I find that so sexy. In the end, after some mild attempts of bullshitting how different he is from the others--which isn't really all that imporant in the grand scheme of things--I just told him:

I just like you for who you are, and I'm with you for who you are and not what you know.

We were both satisfied with my answer, the way we are satisfied by each other.