(no subject)
I feel ashamed, somehow, at the things I have poured into this journal, written with the belief that no one will read it (and at least, very few do), scared I share too much of myself here, scared I have spoken too much and that makes me feel vulnerable, and I hate that, but here I am again, writing words that will show up in white type on a black background, because I must get some of these thoughts out, in my old belief that if I write them down they will lose their sting, and I can turn off the computer and leave them here, and they will lose power over me. But I know from years of filling leather covered and spiral bound notebooks that that is a fallacy, that they still exist in me, and running from them, closing covers over them, or, shutting down my internet connection, does not take them from me. Yet, I still pound keys, and I know now, that this is not some miraculous cure to racing thoughts, but, maybe, in my selfish way of putting down, a way to gain some understanding of what I truly think, to place order and extricate some knowledge of myself from these late night, or afternoon…martini just beyond my hands reach, self-indulgent ramblings.
This last week has been a tangle of warring emotions, from passionate desires to die rather than feel this breaking, this seemingly hopeless endeavor to make myself better, to shame at my fevered, dissociated attempts to chatter on with friends and family as if I can, with an uncontrollable mania, convince them I am fine, and, I am sure, I think, it only makes them more uncomfortable with me… to my passionate wish, beneath moon and stars or New York grandness and lights, to live, and to live well, to feel as if I belong in this skin, to capture some moment when I can see a future that is good and stimulating and where I can succeed at more than being able to live on air, which is bullshit, and to have some existence that is real and be able to meet eyes with confidence and calm self-assuredness.
New York was wonderful, and damning. Wonderful in the feel of electric energy rising through the streets into my blood and awakening a passionate hope that I can find a place in this world, be something, be a writer, and a person that I can fit into, and that I too, can traverse those stimulating, ambition driven threads of a mindset that exists far from this tiny microcosm of scales and mirrors and self-hated. My world, as it is now, is so small and cramped, and I wish for more, for a realness, a life, my god, I just want a life because this is not living. It is simply a moving from minute to minute, wondering whether my body will give out, or if I will cut deep lines into flesh to let the exhaustion pour out and find some rest in my own murder. It is sad and pathetic and the city flies in my face and I am awe struck with its beauty and movement and it promises me more than what I am now. It makes want to just be like everyone else and eat and feel life in this body, and then, to be more than everyone else (as pretentious as this sounds) and to be something beyond good, to be great, and fuck all of them that hurt me, and fuck my desire to hurt myself, because it is so pointless and ridiculous that I allow long ago pain and present re-perpetration upon myself, steal this one lifetime I have. Fuck them, because if I go on as this, I allow them to win, and allow them to keep the body and spirit they took, and still hold, with a knife to my throat, a knife that I take, and hold to myself, piercing my own skin now, picking up the torture where they left off. I ache, and feel violently angry, because I know that I am not even a thought in the minds of those that I began this to save myself from, and no one has been saved, least of all me, and, in fact, I am the creator of my destruction, and they are simply the reason, the excuse, I convince myself gives me the right, the need, to do this. I keep myself a victim, and the bile rises in me at that thought that what I considered to be strength at the outset, is actually a terrible weakness on my part. My disgust in who I am is circular, and self fulfilling. And that is disgusting.
But, New York. Evenings with Nick. And I worry that I was too frenetic, and not really me, but some fervent self that became overly unreal because I could not just be still and let it be as it had been with us, because I have missed him so much and I was afraid, maybe, that he would be bored in our nights in the village by my simply sliding into the comfortable space between us, and I think I touched his face too often as I sought to convince myself that it was real, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I wanted it to be just the two of us, and Jason’s presence made it strange, and I could not relax because it seemed more like a contrived visit than drinks and smokes and conversation between friends. Perhaps, with Jason there, I felt on-stage more, and I really wanted to simply be. But it was wonderful being able to meet his eyes and laugh and hear about his life now, and I wish the club had not been so crowded and the free beer at UC so far away and we could have just danced all night as we used to. I hope Christmas will be more relaxed and I can sink into my skin and move to familiar music, and I wish the damned dj, that Friday night had played Major Tom, as he had promised, so I could have watched his eyes light up, and him smile as he sank into the song. I miss his porch in Gainesville and feeling more free to talk without having to keep Jason in the conversation, and Jason is the love of my life, but my relationship with Nick has been more the two of us, a friendship of just us, like Carrie and I and our private jokes or Lynn and I with our lifelong shared past and easy affection. But, I was pleased to see him look comfortable, for the most part, in his new life, and his well-deserved pride in his new job at Random House, and I feel envious because he is doing it, finding his way, and living more than he ever could have in the claustrophobia of Gainesville. And I am happy, because I only want him to be happy, and to realize that he is worthy, and smart and creative and I hope this job helps him to find that. And I want him to find love in someone who makes him feel loved.
But back to New York, and the entity it is.
There was the public library where, as the ever geek, I wandered gawking like a tourist at the grandeur, and the books, the books on shelves, and the special books closed off to me by glass doors with rich furnishings, and an antiquity I could almost smell, as if I had slipped past the guards to open pages with poetry that I could lose myself in the music of, and Jason and I slipped through the cathedral hallways and shared glances of shared awe. And I wanted to hold him so tight because he gets it, my excitement at such a place, and I felt so connected to him, as always, and, we walked through Bryant Park, and I leaned into him, and we laughed at the little girl lording over the pigeons as a demanding queen, commanding them to leave, and trying to chase them away with kicking feet (not hitting any, thank goodness) and the wheels of her stroller because she was done feeding them and now desired their leave-taking. We spoke of moving there, of living within the architecture and screaming cabs and waking each morning to take to the sidewalks of this place so far from the small towns we grew up in. I felt more home there than in any place I have moved through, save perhaps, London. Perhaps it was the crowds that filled my head with story after story that I scrawled down in my journal to write up later, to capture the stories that exist in everyone, and I felt as if I were some prophet seeing into them, creating what I didn’t know about them, making them characters in my novel, immortalizing the boy running through Grand Central with lilies, or the girl snapping pictures of those with umbrellas in the evening rain.
And back home, between my mother-in-law trying to force feed me cake at my brother-in-law’s birthday party and reading my own poetry in a people crowded room, taking in wine from a bottle, to, finally, hearing Anthony’s voice across a phone line, across a country, after too long of missing him. And, that same night, I sat on the street, around the corner from Maude’s, hugging friends as they came and left, and hearing Kathleen’s voice, also across a country, turn from tears to laughter, and I laughed too, and we spoke of “penguin dust”, reciting a poem that became our strange, and personal mantra. And all was okay.
And I will be okay, I think. I must, because there is much to do. People to share lives with, and intoxicating moments of yellow leaved trees in crisp air, stars in a silky blackness, and birds to watch reeling under storm clouds. To imagine, to know, for a luxurious moment, that I have wings too.
This last week has been a tangle of warring emotions, from passionate desires to die rather than feel this breaking, this seemingly hopeless endeavor to make myself better, to shame at my fevered, dissociated attempts to chatter on with friends and family as if I can, with an uncontrollable mania, convince them I am fine, and, I am sure, I think, it only makes them more uncomfortable with me… to my passionate wish, beneath moon and stars or New York grandness and lights, to live, and to live well, to feel as if I belong in this skin, to capture some moment when I can see a future that is good and stimulating and where I can succeed at more than being able to live on air, which is bullshit, and to have some existence that is real and be able to meet eyes with confidence and calm self-assuredness.
New York was wonderful, and damning. Wonderful in the feel of electric energy rising through the streets into my blood and awakening a passionate hope that I can find a place in this world, be something, be a writer, and a person that I can fit into, and that I too, can traverse those stimulating, ambition driven threads of a mindset that exists far from this tiny microcosm of scales and mirrors and self-hated. My world, as it is now, is so small and cramped, and I wish for more, for a realness, a life, my god, I just want a life because this is not living. It is simply a moving from minute to minute, wondering whether my body will give out, or if I will cut deep lines into flesh to let the exhaustion pour out and find some rest in my own murder. It is sad and pathetic and the city flies in my face and I am awe struck with its beauty and movement and it promises me more than what I am now. It makes want to just be like everyone else and eat and feel life in this body, and then, to be more than everyone else (as pretentious as this sounds) and to be something beyond good, to be great, and fuck all of them that hurt me, and fuck my desire to hurt myself, because it is so pointless and ridiculous that I allow long ago pain and present re-perpetration upon myself, steal this one lifetime I have. Fuck them, because if I go on as this, I allow them to win, and allow them to keep the body and spirit they took, and still hold, with a knife to my throat, a knife that I take, and hold to myself, piercing my own skin now, picking up the torture where they left off. I ache, and feel violently angry, because I know that I am not even a thought in the minds of those that I began this to save myself from, and no one has been saved, least of all me, and, in fact, I am the creator of my destruction, and they are simply the reason, the excuse, I convince myself gives me the right, the need, to do this. I keep myself a victim, and the bile rises in me at that thought that what I considered to be strength at the outset, is actually a terrible weakness on my part. My disgust in who I am is circular, and self fulfilling. And that is disgusting.
But, New York. Evenings with Nick. And I worry that I was too frenetic, and not really me, but some fervent self that became overly unreal because I could not just be still and let it be as it had been with us, because I have missed him so much and I was afraid, maybe, that he would be bored in our nights in the village by my simply sliding into the comfortable space between us, and I think I touched his face too often as I sought to convince myself that it was real, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I wanted it to be just the two of us, and Jason’s presence made it strange, and I could not relax because it seemed more like a contrived visit than drinks and smokes and conversation between friends. Perhaps, with Jason there, I felt on-stage more, and I really wanted to simply be. But it was wonderful being able to meet his eyes and laugh and hear about his life now, and I wish the club had not been so crowded and the free beer at UC so far away and we could have just danced all night as we used to. I hope Christmas will be more relaxed and I can sink into my skin and move to familiar music, and I wish the damned dj, that Friday night had played Major Tom, as he had promised, so I could have watched his eyes light up, and him smile as he sank into the song. I miss his porch in Gainesville and feeling more free to talk without having to keep Jason in the conversation, and Jason is the love of my life, but my relationship with Nick has been more the two of us, a friendship of just us, like Carrie and I and our private jokes or Lynn and I with our lifelong shared past and easy affection. But, I was pleased to see him look comfortable, for the most part, in his new life, and his well-deserved pride in his new job at Random House, and I feel envious because he is doing it, finding his way, and living more than he ever could have in the claustrophobia of Gainesville. And I am happy, because I only want him to be happy, and to realize that he is worthy, and smart and creative and I hope this job helps him to find that. And I want him to find love in someone who makes him feel loved.
But back to New York, and the entity it is.
There was the public library where, as the ever geek, I wandered gawking like a tourist at the grandeur, and the books, the books on shelves, and the special books closed off to me by glass doors with rich furnishings, and an antiquity I could almost smell, as if I had slipped past the guards to open pages with poetry that I could lose myself in the music of, and Jason and I slipped through the cathedral hallways and shared glances of shared awe. And I wanted to hold him so tight because he gets it, my excitement at such a place, and I felt so connected to him, as always, and, we walked through Bryant Park, and I leaned into him, and we laughed at the little girl lording over the pigeons as a demanding queen, commanding them to leave, and trying to chase them away with kicking feet (not hitting any, thank goodness) and the wheels of her stroller because she was done feeding them and now desired their leave-taking. We spoke of moving there, of living within the architecture and screaming cabs and waking each morning to take to the sidewalks of this place so far from the small towns we grew up in. I felt more home there than in any place I have moved through, save perhaps, London. Perhaps it was the crowds that filled my head with story after story that I scrawled down in my journal to write up later, to capture the stories that exist in everyone, and I felt as if I were some prophet seeing into them, creating what I didn’t know about them, making them characters in my novel, immortalizing the boy running through Grand Central with lilies, or the girl snapping pictures of those with umbrellas in the evening rain.
And back home, between my mother-in-law trying to force feed me cake at my brother-in-law’s birthday party and reading my own poetry in a people crowded room, taking in wine from a bottle, to, finally, hearing Anthony’s voice across a phone line, across a country, after too long of missing him. And, that same night, I sat on the street, around the corner from Maude’s, hugging friends as they came and left, and hearing Kathleen’s voice, also across a country, turn from tears to laughter, and I laughed too, and we spoke of “penguin dust”, reciting a poem that became our strange, and personal mantra. And all was okay.
And I will be okay, I think. I must, because there is much to do. People to share lives with, and intoxicating moments of yellow leaved trees in crisp air, stars in a silky blackness, and birds to watch reeling under storm clouds. To imagine, to know, for a luxurious moment, that I have wings too.