cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A Rock, An Island Oh for fuck's sake, my sister is emailing me and trying to have a conversation about my divorce situation. No. Just no. I do not want to have a conversation with her or anyone else in my family about any of this. I am a rock. I am an island. No, seriously. I am. I sent Trish an email tonight trying to explain some of the things that I have been through for her sake, and about what I had to become in order to provide for her. And she just doesn't get it. She got angry at me. She really doesn't know very much about me, I think. She's never asked. She never asked why I started hunting wild b0ar on f00t armed only with a knife. This seems like the sort of thing that most women would be likely to question their husbands about at some point. Nothing says 'I don't give a shit about you' like ignoring the fact that your spouse is constantly running after dangerous game with a knife in the dark. I've become somewhat notorious for this recently. It is a fact that while I was in Texas last month I ran straight into pack after pack of wild b0ar in the dark with no gun or dogs or anything to protect me except for a sharp knife. No cell phone service even to call 911. The fact is that I did it because I was completely ok with the potential consequences. If I was mauled and gored then that would be fine. The pain and the long process of recovery would take my mind off of everything else that was happening. As long as I'm feeling something else, its an improvement. The rush of adrenaline was good as I charged after these huge hairy beasts that weighed 3 times my own mass. But it wore off so quickly. To go hand-to-tusk and really fight with one and come out bloody and torn would have meant a bright focus on what must be mind-boggling pain. No guilt, no dread, no sense of failure or abandonment. Just physical pain. Other people just become alcoholics or heroin addicts in order to accomplish the same thing. Poor Helenah had to watch me do this, again and again. She was worried every time that I was going to die. What I didn't tell her was that I didn't really care if I did die. It can't be easy for her to be in love with me. Especially with her being Swedish. I am deeply American. No Swede, in his own country, would do the things that I do. I am batshit crazy in a way that only an Australian could match. It must be very difficult for her to understand me, though I believe that she really tries. _____________
Several awkward scars from accidents long ago mark his face, including one at the corner of his right eye which gives a sense of perpetually having a tear drop ready to fall. Another very long scar crosses his belly where the kidney was removed in childhood. He has a bad habit of often smiling on only the left side of his mouth. If he had a cigarette hanging out of it then he would look like he was trying to imitate John Wayne. This man wears neatly-fitted jeans (size 33) over an old pair of battered combat boots which were once black and have lost most of their tread. Don't ask what those stains are on the leather of the toe. The hilts of a couple of sheath knives protrude from the right hand pocket of the jeans. Plain T shirts with no markings or logos. Perhaps an old oxford, white or green, untucked, with the sleeves rolled up. 1:21 a.m. - 2011-12-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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