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October 10.30.01 For the last month, my journal has been here. But I am switching it to this website starting now. Here are some excerpts from October. It is almost over, you know. Of course it is odd to live no more on the earth to abandon customs you have just begun to get used to not to give meaning to roses and other such promising things in terms of a human future to be held no more by hands that can never relax for fear they will drop you and even to put your name to one side like a broken toy. Strange to wish wishes no longer. Strange to see things that seemed to belong together floating in every direction. It is very hard to be dead and you try to make up for lost time till slowly you start to get whiffs of eternity. But the living are wrong in the sharp distinctions that they make.
I do not understand why we seem to be in a constant state of temptation and denial and eventual contempt. I do not understand why I constantly allow myself to daydream in want of something, fully knowing I am only going to deny myself in the end. I had only told him once, in January, when we were starry-eyed and senseless. He says being in love with me is the "sweetest sickness." Whatever my reasoning, I went on a date Wednesday with a boy who spells it "Wenesday." I remember the first time he told me he loved me, on Rue Cler, in the dark, damp air swirling around us, his arms swirling around me. I also remember that I never responded. Our relationship was about infatuation. There was nothing healthy about it. We took advantage of each other. He wanted what I had physically, and I wanted what I imagined he could give my mind. I wanted him for desperately stealing kisses one minute, and ignoring me the next. I knew he needed me. I knew I had power that his girlfriend never would. And that is why I went after his best friend. I remember that first hug, in the noisy echoes of the concrete stairway, the phone ringing incessantly beneath us. I remember his strange smell which startled me – a mixture of Irish boy and laundry soap. I hated that smell. I never found it again.
Sometimes I am good with you.
Sometimes I remember your kisses, your heart-stopping kisses. Sometimes I remember the tragic, cliched scene at the airport, the tears in your eyes, And your efforts to hide them. I remember you. Sometimes. But most of the time I don't.
There is something so intimate about writing your thoughts down with your own hand in your own notebook. It is almost a transfer of the weight of your thoughts – once they are down, your mind can finally rest. If she knew I was writing this, she would certainly think me to be insane. I am even starting to wonder if perhaps that conclusion would not be so far off the mark. Perhaps I have gone insane. Perhaps that is why the world seems to move around me faster and faster while I remain so still. We went out at the very last minute to do irrational things like stuff our faces with cheesecake and watch German films at midnight. He has become respectful of me – I hate to say this, but he has grown up. He is a true gentleman now, and I know he won’t call me again.
His shirt was circa 1978 Sesame Street, the ones that Bert and Ernie used to wear every morning, singing the rubber ducky song in my living room. It was the sort of ultra-modern thing that every single "non-conformist" art student was wearing that year. His shirt clung closely to his skin, not catching at all in the strong autumn wind. The flat brown and green and orange stripes gained some texture, and began to separate as they came nearer to me. A faint yellow emerged between the muddy stripes. Even the lines on the long elastic cuffs became perfectly clear as he stood directly in front of me, his face obscured by his floppy, wind-blown hair. He had his dog with him, on a short leash. His dog was a mutt, probably rescued from a nearby dog pound – a heroic measure for this humanitarian, probably a vegetarian. And although I should have been happy that I thwarted another superficial, ordinary, embarrassing guy, I was strangely disappointed. I keep watching this movie over and over again, though there is really no point. I could recite the dialogue in my mind forwards and backwards. I wish I could call you back, but you are a rock star. I know he will never understand it, why I give him attention one minute, and cower away from him the next. I know he will never understand why I proclaimed my crush to him, and then changed my phone number. I know he will never understand that the only reason I want him is because I have a boyfriend. People never really know what anyone else is capable of. Ted Bundy was a nice young man. I feel like I am stuck in this city, in this apartment, in this job, in this school, in this life. I feel like it is time to break free. Again. Nothing is logical anymore. Things are just happening and stopping for no real reason. I am even stopping myself. Stopping myself from doing all the things I would like to do. I do not have the energy or the patience for the world anymore. I never thought I would be this sentimental. And I bet he didn’t, either. I always thought I would be the one who after all was able to stand up, tall and proud, and exclaim "look at me now!" But that is not how it happened. |
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