passing strange...
Desdemona slept with Othello last night. And this morning. By this I mean that I have taken method acting to a new level and had sex with my scene partner. The most strange thing (not strange bad, either) is that I am realizing this is the first time that I have ever slept with anyone who was really my friend and my friend first until now. And the roller coaster ride that was being with Michael I think is really coming to an end simultaneously as he could not even find twenty fucking minutes to have a break-up talk yesterday. I will miss him, I will and I do miss him lying next to me, kissing me, but I don't think that what I feel is as powerful as what I know and that is that things (by things I mean his tendancy to fall of the face of the planet just when I think everything is allright and getting better and will maybe be kind of normal)will not transform with in the time-frame I need them to. For so many years I have not taken heed of taking care of myself, so that men who are bad for me have become an occasionally glamourous and addictive habit. A sex or rhetoric and pain drug that is really almost the same as drinking to much is or cutting myself would be. I have gotten so used to feeling bad and abandoned that I have made a fucking art out of it, and I get really nervous when a situation positively requires that I feel lovely. I feel like crying today not only because I did not get enough sleep.I feel tears welling up in bewilderment because sex is so wildly different with different people that it almost seems as if it mutates into another thing, another act, another meaning, another sign (with results only possibly similar emotionally though they are consistant physically) every hour and every day.I feel like crying because I have realized that I kept picking boys that were exactly the same because I am so stubborn- as much as they hurt me I realized that in the end that was an outcome that I could control, and it did not require me to change my modus opperandi, it didn't require me to shift the base of my identity or my patterns of behaviour or my assumptions about the world. The discomfort had become positively comfortable, the martyrdom routine, resigned, like a mother of a naughty child she refuses to chide, like a herion addict who smiles and sighs everytime they buy another dose, winces with joy every fucking time they stick the needle in. I am crying because I am not a girl anymore, finally after all of these years and all of these boys and I don't even care if this one doesn't work. Because I know now that I am too old and too fragile and too lovely everywhere I am and every day I go to deal with the boy bullshit.The war I have no more weapons to wage. I want a man and they are creatures that do exist. I am crying because I finally love and know myself enough to feel like I can let someone in to change me a little bit and the pillars of my world will not come crashing down around me. I can let someone help me and ask them to do half the work, a real half, a true measure.Funny how I am realizing in this time of limited resources that the love that I can give is not infinate. I need to be bound in my giving by my need to survive as the creature of brightness that I was meant to be. I knew that acting was what made me a happy, whole person, but I didn't know that pretending to be someone else was to show me, through my teachers, through my colleagues, through him- how best to be myself. Not asking for help, not asking for care and keeping,not taking heed of your fragility are not always the strengths they masqueraded as in my long running show. Who knew that a Shakespearean scene about domestic violence could teach me how to be nice to myself. Othello isn't quite a tragedy after all.