It has been long and long since I wrote anything, but the desire has been creeping up on me for days. The desire to make sense of my life, to put words to experience has finally got me here, struggling to type with a cast over my broken left wrist and trying to ignore the pain from my right forearm. Both of my elbows are broken from a botched attempt to break in to Jarred's locked house for him after we got home from Thanksgiving dinner. That's not what I want to write about though. I want to write about Keli.

Last night I realized, or maybe realized is too strong a word since a part of me knew it all along, but last night it dawned on me that Keli doesn't care about Farscape in the slightest. We watch at least one episode almost every night; Hany, Keli, and I cuddle up on the bed together to watch John Chriton try to get home, help his friends, evade his enemies, or assault them. Keli is often the instigator for this nightly space drama, as she was last night. She's also often the first to poke her head up and suggest that we watch another most of the time. And this despite the fact that she seldom bothers to watch the screen for more than fifteen minutes before turning her face into the pillows. If asked, she'll say she's listening.

What dawned on me last night was that the reason for this behavior is me. Watching Farscape is one time when I can be pretty much counted on to snuggle up next to her and stay put for an hour or more. There's no talking during the movie, but at least I'm there and in some sense we're together. This idea raised a confusing cocktail of emotions for me. First I was touched and honored that Keli would go to such lengths to be with me. This thought brought me to tears and, after the episode was over last night, I cried a little onto Keli's hair, whispering "I love you so much," while she faded in and out of sleep. Next came shame. Shame that Keli needs to resort to this kind of manipulation just to get some time with me, shame that our supposedly transparent and honest communication skills missed the development of such an elaborate ritual. Shame that I hadn't before appreciated the hoops she jumps through to create connection with me. But I also felt anger. Last came anger. Anger at Keli for manipulating me. Anger at myself for allowing me to be manipulated. I recognized my anger as delusional immediately, based in patterns of fearfulness, anxious that I might be used, that my independence and autonomy might be stolen, that my childhood might be recreated and I be left powerless again. Even so, the anger took a while to fade.

I focused in on Keli's constant stream of contented little sighs, and the whirlpool swept me back up again. I was touched and honored to be the cause, or part of the cause of her pleasure and contentment. How marvelous to be appreciated, to be wanted. But when the little little stream of sighs failed to ebb and quiet I started to feel distressed. Rather than an expression of pleasure, they started to feel like a bribe to stay a little longer. Like when someone starts moaning and groaning about how wonderful a back massage is just to delay it's cessation a little longer. I stroked her neck and whispered "shhh", embarrassed by my temerity. Who was I to shush her, and why couldn't I just keep taking pleasure in her pleasure the way I had at first? I looked over at Hany to see how he was reacting, but he seemed oblivious. Feeling guilty, I disembraced Keli, grimacing as one of the little sighs told of her disappointment that I was leaving (real or projected I have no idea), and made my way through the closet to my own room to play a little magic, watch a little porn, and listen to a couple episodes of This American Life before going back to our group bed and snuggling back up with Keli at three am or so.