it's been brought to my attention that i don't really credit miller for much in this here diary. in fact, i make him look like an ass.

i guess i just don't think about what i write here as any indication of the very full and busy life that i lead. i don't take into consideration that people are forming opinions and impressions of those in my inner circle. i think my narcissism and ego take precedence so really what comes out here is all the stuff that pisses me off - or invokes some other kind of intense emotion - rather than the cuddly soft warm stuff that surrounds me.

maybe that stuff is too much a part of me and i've learned to take it for granted. maybe i don't even see it anymore, like it's just another layer of my skin, only it doesn't peel away in the summer or flake dryly away in the winter. it's kinda like the water i consume everyday. of course it's there, of course i'll drink it, of course it is the healthiest, purest substance i could ever drink.

that's what miller's love is. healthy, pure, sustenance. my love for him? not so much. my love is tinged purple with alternating waves of anger, remorse, boredom, happiness. our loves are equally human, but he loves me like the sun - warms his face against me, takes root in my rays and grows strong in the full blast of me. my love for him is like earth - rich and forgiving, changing with the subtle rhythms of our live together, sometimes barren, sometimes bursting with growth.

miller has wrapped himself around our home like ivy. he said to me, "i'm not comfortable anywhere but here." and i know he means that - i can see it in the curtains he hung; the pictures he positioned in mirroring rectangles on the wall; the clothes he folds and hangs, folds and hangs; the peace lilies he diligently waters and turns so that each leaf basks equally in the filtered light. he is now the red and white festivity of our christmas tree; the folded back doors of the advent calendar; the neat stacks of books and magazines on our coffee table.

home means more to him that it does to me. though, i freely admit that through his vision and my own mistakes i have learned how sacred home is. he is the walls and the carpet and drafty windows. he is the green thumb and the constant cleen sweep. there are no thank yous because he could be nothing else. there are no apologizes because i can be nothing else.

i told miller once that if we were rich i would buy a home in the deep country for him and javi. it would have a river for fishing and swimming, fertile soil for gardening, trees for climbing. it would be verdant and loud with nature's cacophony. i would visit them there, but i would live in a city somewhere. perhaps a second floor apartment on a busy street in a busy city with a market around the corner and a bar across the street and anything i could possibly want in a 10 mile radius.

i would write stories and go to lectures and discover new music and meet at least one stranger a day. i would send postcards of lobsters and tall tall buildings and i would take pictures of parades and neighborhood festivals. i would retire to the country for long weekends of editing and lovemaking. i would find javi growing strong and dark, finding himself in mudpuddles and tree limbs.

this is my fantasy. this is what separates us, miller and i. this is what draws us to each other - his gentle peace, my straining against it. but is he an ass? sometimes. if he was incapable of being such, he wouldn't be human.

if he weren't human i could never have learned so much about myself through him. if he weren't human i would never have learned how it feels to trust him so completely.