All my relationships before were burnouts, not the beauties but my attraction, the way we rubbed and sparked until we exhausted it between us. Not Medusa! My friends tried to talk me out of it. My last girlfriend knew. She begged me, “Don’t leave me for Medusa, for fucksake.” But I did. I totally did. I get it, don’t get me wrong. It is Medusa, after all, her supermodel body topped with that gorgon head of serpents. I know people can’t see it, but most are just being bigoted. “Bestiality,” ex-girlfriend called it. She left a bunch of dead lizards rotting in my breakup box, ruining my favorite boxers. I’m still airing out my comics. Maybe I’m being delusional about my love for Medusa, but aren’t we all? Don’t we just project onto our loved ones this idealized version of them or what we want them to be? And then we wake up one day and see what they really are–something more terrible than Medusa. And with her, you can never see the real thing–you must always avert your eyes and live with the idealization. Plus, when I’m in her arms, and the snakes slither around my neck and hiss in my ear–maybe it’s just me. There are, of course, ups and downs with Medusa. Mom’s statue with her mouth open and those rock tears I can’t chisel away. Tonight, the ex comes to dinner, seeing only reconciliation, but she will see things as they are in no time.
August 9, 2010
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