so i know i'm here i rant and ramble and often this is meaningless to anyone, everyone, but me, and maybe even then i'd best imagine i didn't do it
Anyway, this is new, so don't expect much right now.
december 28 98
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i hate these little human stories, riddles, the twisting and tearing of petals: he loves me not. but i love him and have become, somehow, transparent in my need for love. i can't stand his cleverness, the way he hides like the darkness
in a peek-a-boo game, but for the emergence of ridicule.
always, always this derision so that i don't even care to listen
because his voice disturbs my images of what he should be without
all that naked ambition. and i ask and ask and he coughs up his own childhood as the reason - i feel this keen sense of
loss that i never knew the kid he could have been, the him
with long hair and pirate earings who smiled so divinely in pictures, but swears, now, on his non-lost peg leg and talking parrot
that he wanted nothing more than to die. i wonder why i got him
only after life was finished. and i'm sick at the thought that
i should puke him back up as well, a remnant of something i
don't want: particularly those curling little-boy lashes that make me, saddly, wish i wasn't mistaken in being single.
december 30 1998
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why do we make one day stand out - do we need to look forward to something and we lack imagination to make that certain something important for ourselves without it becoming some national holiday and an invitation to accept alcohol? i hate pondering the existence of another year...this cycle this circle and meander through it again. its like this neverending conundrum: i'm most insecure when others are most distant and others are most distant when i'm most insecure. i need to poke this certain something, make it special by itself and not dependent upon crowds. or him, him of the overly long facial whiskers and overly short good night kisses.
january 21 99
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i'm a sometimes-teacher. there exists a part of me that can't stop hysterically laughing at this. others are turning to me for help, and i'm, like, listen i'm fucking schizophrenic, ok? sometimes, the times when i'm not teaching you, kid, i lay in my bed 'til the sun wants to sleep and i watch the mostly-gray light slink through my cheapo, free blinds and i smile at my cat, my only sir lancelot, and i know that my feet won't be able to take the feel of the carpet. at other times, kid, i dance wildly to freaky, funky music until the old man downstairs pounds on his ceiling or the couple across the yard in their cookie cutter copy of my home stare, and i can't listen to my music and dance without the blinds and the world open to view, so i stop. most recently, i watch the terribly terribly unsubtle romances and wonder who has the imagination to write this stuff this junk this dream that i wish i was unsubtly living, wishing i at least had the imagination to believe in it. and now, now i'm asked to put aside my ghost-writer paperback romances and my overly-melodramatic tori amos, and smile. for you.
february 14
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and on this great day - this fucking famous day - for not being alone...i wasn't alone. thank you, oh single one, and give me a trophy or smile or cut out your damn heart and give me a congratulations. i feel like i'm awakening from some painfully stylish loneliness where i was talking too much about things people already knew but not feeling those things that i should already know. and now i'm jumping about blindly, hoping he'll watch out for me.
august 13, 99
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its friday the 13th, muhahahah. i'm lookin out these windows like the engineer inside some huge mechanical monolithic structure and i can see my city. the way this certain dark blue rolls toward the neighboring towers with a finger pointed and upper lip quivering and my towers couldn't give a shit. they're like, hey fucker, we own this space, ok? the damn air rights are in our back pockets or the back pockets of the little engineer who runs tinkers and swears inside our heads. and i'm like, hey fuckers, i live here, ok?
sept 1, 99
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my cat is my number one man. which is really pretty silly when one stops to consider that i actually already have the best guy. but for some reason there's this wormy squirmy feeling i get when i think about forever. i'm a little bit slimed. like the milk at the very very bottom of the glass - the bit you look at and think, well, its not nearly as cold and it should be and maybe i back spittled and, and. and then you don't drink. but i think, i think, i could shoot my father for doing this to me. this white liquidy bit where i just want to rinse the damn cup. because this time. this time. i don't particularly care to.
sept 24, 99
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six years ago i was a cheerleader for the football team. three years ago i could strike up a conversation with a group of strangers in a bar. today i get nervous saying hi to a neighbor at a bus stop. and i wonder when the transition began, when that bright line was formed. i wish i could analyze each moment that formed the new me, revisit each action that moulded this terribly terribly flawed version.
dec 29, 99
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i can tell you about loneliness. its entering the fake millenium with zero companions. i won't be alone on new years eve: i've never been alone in my life. which is maybe why i'm so horrible at being by myself. which is maybe why i get so bored with others. loneliness is knowing i have no good goddamn reason for being lonely. its the guilt and embarassment that follow from wanting to cry at night. its the something shifting within me - the movement and potential for greater movement and not going for it.
