Sunday, February 29, 2004

Leap Year

Happy 29th of February.
Over the weekend I have sat in this computer chair for longer hours then I care to admit. I am sick of reading and writing and thinking what I am thinking, and yet, to have accomplished nothing.


I deleted Jason from my phone last night and I feel great about it. I AM SICK OF GHOSTS. It is a purely a symbolic gesture, I know. I have his number memorized as it was my home number for several years, and I know that I will talk to him again, but that is beside the point. I don't want to refer to him in conversation. I don't want to sneak kisses at funerals and bars. I don't want to play this little game with him anymore, like it was all a big joke that we can call off at anytime and I will just move back in. I don't want to consider it a failure or a tragedy anymore. I want to take responsibility for what was probably one of the most difficult and courageous things that I have ever done in my life and that was to leave him. At the time I told myself that I was leaving to go back to school, that I was leaving the claustrophobic community, that I was leaving the isolation. The truth of the matter is I was leaving him and I couldn't quite admit it. The other day my friend Cole pointed out that I frequently refer to him in conversation and I thought, Yeah, what the fuck? Why am I giving him any credit for my life? Fuck that.
So on that note I will consider the great emotional upheavals of this lonely month a triumphant success.


To War

Something utterly beyond my understanding is trying my soul. It seems to me that everyone is suffering like a carnival mirror.

My brother is being sent to Iraq. The word came yesterday that his National Guard unit will be activated in May, trained and shipped out in October. It is the cruelest irony that he would be released from service in November after six years of duty. But now that contract is null and void and he is to stay in the Guard until the Guard sees fit let him go.

I give up. I am utterly humbled by these forces that are so thoroughly out of my control.

Saturday, February 28, 2004

Lesson Plan

Part of my horoscope for the week. I feel hit, and I am sick of being hit. I am even sicker of it being good for me.
I am gonna go out and drink again tonight.

Spring Fever

I have the kind of spring fever that can kill you. I just woke up from a night of drinking with the words DEATH and SEX written on my hand. Large. It was a specific kind of drinking, the kind where you have to drink enough to go to sleep cause otherwise you are only capable of seeking one or the other. DEATH. SEX.

Friday, February 27, 2004

Oddly Touching

Day one. I wanna write more.
Free time, after the running and cleaning and studying and all that. That gives me still two or three hours a day to write.
Lee had forwarded this link to my mother with the post-script ‘please don’t let this be us’. His last idea was an article about a 90-something couple that shot each other over a piece of pie. Oddly enough, somewhere in-between these two scenarios lay a version of the truth about their personalities, with a nod to whimsy and absurdity. She saw the kernel of a story and I wanted it too. I guess that is where we start. I want our vignettes to be complimentary and symbiotic.

Monday, February 23, 2004

Monday Afternoon

Brilliant. Beautiful. Hot and cold. My heater is on, the doors are open. The weather is stunning and holy. It deepens my seasonal aches and longings for unknown things. My desk is unreasonably cluttered and a few dishes are piling up in the sink. There are socks and dust bunnies rolling around - under to safe havens. I sometimes don't see things that are right in front of me, like the road, or the treetops in a deep blue sky. Other times these things are etched so deeply into my consciousness that my heart wrenches up and I cant tell if I want to grow roots or float off into the stratosphere.

But I cant really do either now can I.

I just gotta know what comes next.

This is now - this is where I draw back my bow string. I am struck with all these notions - like the dawning awareness of my own mortality, or the need of other people - and though I have always known of these things there is an understanding that has moved from my mind into my heart. And love, oh love.... something breathtaking has ripped all the arrogance out of me and I think for just a moment that I could forgive anything. Some wisdom cannot be conveyed, only absorbed by the process of living ..... that is, if you are receptive.


I woke up feeling smothered but not smothered enough. If only the pillows were deeper and the blankets higher. The rain is back and I knew that before I opened my eyes. The apartment is cool and the wood floors cooler and little bits of grit embed on the soles of my bare feet. I stopped in the middle of the living room trying to find a sense of purpose for being awake, for moving forward, for living the day.
It dawns on me that I have this nostalgic melancholy that is a total falsehood. I recently found this great sad song and it makes me wish my heart was breaking so I could lay face down and listen to it over and over and over again. Its like an ironic whimsy to insist on the antithesis. I do this a lot. My friends understand this intuitively and maybe encourage it. I have a great love of mischief and a great need for order I suppose.
But I did stand there wondering why... Why the day? Why here? Bones creaking, skin prickled. I wear bright pajamas, like a glass full of limes. The give me good dreams, of this I am certain. Tangerine Duvet, limes on my bottoms, banana shirt, cherry socks, fruit salad dreams. But it is day now, gray and damp and the WHY escapes me. The dreams escape me. The yawning day and me, cold groggy being asked to answer this vacuum.
Coffee maybe? Take the dog for a walk. A good start. Brush teeth, wash face. At 30 (one week now) you'd think I might have mastered the art of waking up but I was never very good at mornings. Its coming back to me - the continuity - that I am picking up where I left off... last nights theories and TO DO's. ...Snippets of the day, thoughts about how we so deeply reveal ourselves, that everything we see is like a fucking Rorschach test - or wait - there was this parable... six blind me feeling an elephant.
.....And here I am stock still finding the thread and making the knot between my days. I have a lot to do yet.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

Whistling In the Dark

I feel squirmy and impetuous, burning and writhing and wanting so bad, so bad. It seems it can lead to no good end wanting something so badly. I feel turned inside out and nervous and my phone isn't ringing and my dialing finger is itching and my stomach is wrecked and I just need to go rub one out or something. I cant read or eat and I have lots of homework to do but that is the last thing from my mind.

I Met a Boy.

Thursday, February 19, 2004


Sometimes you feel as if you are just not fit to be a member of the human race. Grump.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004


So it is my thirtieth birthday. Or was... the day is technically over. It had a sweet vacation feel to it, like not the rules but the obligations were lifted. It was dreamy and comfortable. The night before...wicked and youthful. Who was there???
Two Erics, two Daves...three unmarried couples (both parties present), one married man and one engaged man, three parents, six single men, five single women... for a grand total of eleven men and eight women and one avowed republican. And um, since we are discussing demographics I guess I should own up that we were all white and straight... from families of alcoholic west coast wasps who haven't been to church for two generations. If it gives me any credibility some of us were on welfare growing up and I have two gay friends.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

Love is Grand, Clutter is Grander
I hadn't intended on spending Valentines revisiting the gruesome emotional fallout of my relationship with Jason, however relevant it is to me these days. It was more a coincidence, though a telling one. I have been on a vigorous campaign against clutter now that I have lifted my face off the floor where its been for the last two weeks, and the most insidious and pervasive species of clutter, for me is the loose paper with random scribblings that for some reason or other I want to keep. Thoughts, a neat combination of words, phone numbers, good intentions all. However, most all my writings before the big upheaval are neatly stowed and unmolested in a crate, and all the loose writings post-upheaval are mainly pertaining to Jason. I want to preserve these things for posterity, for my own sake, or for future material... and I want to get them the fuck out of my house, off my desk, out of to-do baskets, off the floor, out of my drawers, torn from notebooks, and recycled into paper pulp far away from me. Still, about halfway through the task the irony has settled thickly on me and I had to take the time to acknowledge it.


Dear Sam,
Hey baby! I moved and many other things. I have been thinking about you a lot. Part of moving requires that you dig into your archives and my memories are writhing on the surface like worms in freshly turned dirt. I really miss you. I really missed me. I think I found myself in the dirt too. In three years I have been stripped of all of me, and by attrition became little to nothing, a shriveled raisin Asia. I feel so good though. And sad, and heartbroked and all that bloody stuff. I'm living in P_______ now in the blink of an eye. Change is ferocious. I'm in a basement in a house I never knew existed on a street I never gave a second thought to trying to make it mine, trying to find a little comfort. I have a yard and a great porch, my own bathroom and some friendly neighbors. Is this my life now? So it seems. I have a little cell phone that doesn't ring much. Not with job offers, not with messages of love and sorrow, or reconciliation or anything. Maybe its better this way. Shit, I don't know. I didn't think this would happen to me, to us. I thought we had it, the impenetrable cocoon of private jokes and sly looks. Guess its not enough. When the cracks start to show you spackle them with excuses and justifications till you just cant anymore. At night he would hold me so tight I could barely breathe, never let go. But in the morning all the things I can no longer deny come writhing into my mind and it eventually ripped me apart it seems. I still writhe. I am a thousand snakes in a gunny sack. There is no cure for what I have. I left. That's what I did. The idea was this, that I would come to P_______ and rehydrate this little raisin me back into the plump little grape I know I am. (its so hard to find a pool of water in this the rainiest of towns). Innocent and well meaning enough. There was no talk of goodbyes or separations in my plan. Truth is, its easier to leave then to be left and this whole damn thing has become a little death and a painful grieving. Denial, anger, bargaining...whatever, maybe acceptance. He became hostile and mean and we haven't talked in five days. I think he only knows denial and anger. He talked dreamily and excitedly about the things we needed for our home... a new bed, a new truck, while I was packing boxes and taking pictures off the wall. And in a few short weeks he hates me. I never wanted that and I would do almost anything to not have it this way except sacrifice myself again. So I writhe and check my cell phone for missed calls but there never is one.


The day has become clouded over and cool. It smells and feels like fall, especially in the evenings when darkness comes sooner and sooner with its foggy mists, damp leaves and warm exhalations. Its nights like these that I want to go for long endless walks with warm cups of tea in fuzzy clothing.
Or did once.
Though lately I barely walk anywhere, unable to shake myself out of feeling crippled, and when I do, I arrive at cold beers and overflowing ashtrays and shot glasses of Jose Cuervo tequila with decaying limes and caking salt. That is, whenever I have time allotted for such pursuits. The hours between now, 4pm and work, 7pm seem to stretch on endlessly without volition or inspiration. They are a specific kind of hour where my heart and mind sink into grave despair. I am smoking two packs a day now in these hours. I am developing cold sores and aching backs and sunken eyes in these hours. All songs become sad songs. I see things in terms of their potential to be lost. I am poisoned by loss.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Slippery Slope

Today the weather is back to normal, overcast and cool. The last week has been unseasonably warm and absloutely beautiful. While I am still down the slope I dont feel that I am sliding anymore and can now begin the climb back up to dizzying heights. My apartment is in shambles and I have not been able to run for almost two weeks.

Monday, February 09, 2004

What is John Doing?

John is really depressed and cant get
over his ex-girlfriend, so he sits around playing the piano
for like five hours a day and is taking prozac.

Posting Archives

I am posting some old emails... lightly edited... cause they are of interest to me and cause they will eventually disappear, sink silently below the surface of time and I dont want it all to be lost. Plus, I think that it gives a neat gyroscopic personal history of the events that shaped me with out my own heavy hand trying to rewrite it. I mostly edited the boring details about bills and the revealing proper nouns. Elsewise, its all the real thing. Years of emails are gone forever so I want to keep the few that I have.
That is too bad for me but for a reader it leaves just enough holes in the story to pique the imagination, and an opportunity to make make it interesting, meaningful and/or whatever the hell. I have no dillusions, but my favorite art is a piece that has an undone quality to it, something that begs you to finish the story. There are a few tales that are done, like Madonna and child but they have been thoroughly represented over the course of time. 'Nuff said.

Friday, Sept 10, 1999

Dear Sam,
Hey baby, Yahoo is kinda fucking me up right now. i am at my friend Bill's house in P_______ listening to all the sounds of construction. I shake my fist at the bastards all day long. Will they never get it right?

Jason and I spent the last three days camping on the coast and job hunting in a market a lot like A______. Our timing was perfect. The tourist season slows considerably after Labor Day but it is also the last week of work for many kids who go back to college. We both got jobs on the first or second try, me bartending and Jason serving. I guess I forgot to tell you, yes! We did get the house. We are moving in early next week.

In the meantime we're couch surfing in P_______, feeling like bums and freeloaders. I split last night cause I was irritated with him and didnt want to start an arguement. At the busstop I realized (somewhat vengefully I must admit) that I didnt want to stay at his (f*cking) friends house where I told him I was going, and I wanted some of that elusive freedom whereby one makes decisions based on no-ones wants and needs but their own. so I high-tailed it to my friend Bill's pad but now its morning and the light of day shines in. He has no idea where I am, has no potential phone numbers to call and I have the keys to the car. Oy, the webs we weave. Maybe I will come with peace offerings, coffee and donuts.

That is all the news I am fit to print. Yours sounds like the quintessential Italy experience, how you describe it. I want to know more.
I know my address but not the zip-code... of what use is this?? Actually, I have neither with me right now, they are in the car, which is with Jason. *sigh*

John got back from bootcamp.

I have to go, if I put this off it will only be worse.
I love you, love you, love you,


Summer Starts and Summer Ends

Friday, June 18, 1999
Home Sweet Home

Dear Bill,
Well here I am in the old home town, living like a hermit. House sitting for my mother makes me feel like I used to when
I played dress-up as a kid. But now its for three whole months. At first I was lonely, I missed Jason and was homesick for P_______. I was irritated that I had made the decision to come here and felt that I really fucked up. The idea that everyone was soon leaving freaked me out, as well as the overwhelming solitude, but it is quite calming and now I am realizing there is so much I want to do with this time. I guess you understand as you had said as much in your own email.

I'm not a total hermit but more so than I have ever been before. I had a couple beers with my friend Darcie this afternoon but was home by 7pm. We are going to the lake tomorrow to take Cairo and ourselves swimming. I also keep running into old faces from high school but I am timid with my time and energy and don't yet feel like I am ready to mingle with my past. Unfortunately my mother told everybody she recognized and a few she didn't that I was coming back for the summer so the feelers are already out so to speak.

Anyway, I hope you are well. Sound a bit like you had a mini-crisis (maybe I am misinterpreting) and withdrew into a psychic exoskeketon of sorts. I hope all equilibrium is back cause summer is here and there is no better time for a strong sense of well being if you let it.

Thank you for the beautiful letter.
May all your eight ball shots sail straight and true...
Love A.K.

Tuesday, July 27, 1999
Re: Ai yi

Dear Sam,
This is the shortest email ever.
I am so sick of typing, I am so sick of irreparable
damage to long letters by a grumpy and overheated
I have to keep it short.
It is hot, and dry, and hot still.
I spend as much time in or around water as I can,
which isnt much time after all.
My summer here is coming to an end, zero minus three weeks.
What comes next, I dont even know and I'm scared.
I'm too broke for it to be anything but scary.
These are the weird days, I can sense my own mortality...
It makes the sunset more beautiful.
I grow old.
I love you, A.K.

Sunday, Nov 22, 1998

Oh what the hell

Dear Sam,
Hi there, I heard that you were coming home to A______ on Saturday. I hope you are there. I am having a horrible day. A really really bad one like I haven't had for awhile. Fights and rain and woe is me.
I'm out of smokes and out of cash, lost my check card, banks are closed. I took the day off for a friend passing through town and she
disappeared, left me at a potluck where I didn't know a single soul. so I drank white wine and wandered around bumming cigarettes and rides home. Got here and realized my backpack is in her car while she's off in a parking lot with a broken down car, probably crying because she is traveling across country for the fourth time in six months with her JUST FRIENDS NOW boy-friend and six other men, their van is busted and the car she went to get them in is too now. So I took the day off and I cant afford it and I'm alone with nothing spectacular, interesting or even critical to justify it.


All the gutters are clogged with leaves and the rain is
filling the
streets are flooding.

The God-Damned holidays are here.
Cairo's eye need medical attention.
My dad sent me another credit card.
My roommate is moving out.
My jeans are fading.
It is a bad day.

Tuesday, Oct 6, 1998

Dear Bill,
Hi, I wanted to go to Gina's party but something perverse in me kept me from doing anything at all worthwhile. I am that way often these days. I wish I had gone now, I thought I wouldn't know anyone there, including Gina anymore and I didn't have any money and I knew I would feel like a shithead saying so. But its really true. I cant even postdate a check. You cant tell a bunch of canvassers that. I thought until today that I was gonna have to sell my bike but it made everyone sad and they yelled at me then Sam's mom offered to loan me 300 dollars. outta the blue.

Catcher in the Rye is great. I feel ripped off that I never read this book earlier and that all the people I know never forced it on me before. I'm only a little way into the story but I'm forming a phenomenal crush on the main character. The only other literary crush I've had was on Yossarian from Catch-22 and how I lament....

Things are weird and good and bad and hard but its worth
the struggle.
In spades, A.K

Wednesday, Sept 30, 1998

Dear Darcie,
I'm getting itchy and squirmy and unrealistic. I'm craving change. I want out.

Menthols help if you have bronchitis, which I did. They make it less painful to smoke when you absolutely want to smoke. I quit smoking a week ago. I sat around getting addicted to my inhaler prescription cause it was oral and made me feel speedy but I lost it and much to my chagrin, breathe fine without it. I have gained five pounds since I quit.

Jason apologized to me for his emotional transgressions (what we discussed on the phone the other day). It surprised me, I thought I had just been drunk and making little sense but that was not the case.
Anyway, I am totally in love. We talked about going live at his mothers house in Iowa when he gets back from Australia so we can save money for our bike trip to Ireland.
I know its all pipe dream but it feels so good to talk about the future and make big plans. Perhaps that's the source of my malcontent.
It is.

My intolerance is reaching a high water mark.
I'm gonna explode.
love a.k.

Monday, Sept. 28, 1998

Not up to it.
Dear Sam,
Monday, I survived Monday again. The five day work week is grueling, unforgiving and relentless. Its Monday again and again and again. This weekend has left me with sort of emotional hangover and in less than prime shape for MONDAYAGAIN. I was like a zombie this morning, standing around like I had something to say then realizing that there was no reason to stand in wait like that. It was like an acid trip, suddenly wondering if you were acting totally weird and inappropriate and no way to tell.

Its seven days not smoking now, except for the second-hand smoke that I asked Jenny to blow in my face. It was unsatisfying.

All the summer has gone out of the air and been replaced with fall, the perpetual mid-afternoon feeling. I wore a dress today and the air was
fine, just a few degrees above a mild case of goosebumps. I lament summer.

You and Scott..
Scott and you..
How is Scott?
I miss him.

Your mother is an intense woman. To what extremes will she go? Does that scare you? It scares me. What did you say to her? What did she say to you??
Sam oh Sam...What are you gonna do?

I want out.

Sat. Sept 26, 1998

What to do, what to do?
Dear Mark,
I'm getting addicted to the inhaler, I think its an oral fixation.

I have the worst dog in the world. She is terrible. She is a monster. In the last 24 hours she ate a cube of butter, puked it on the bathroom floor, stole a Snickers bar and a roll of Lifesavers, ate them both, dragged the cats bowl off the counter and ate all his food, ran away to Jason's house, dragged my underwear into the front room and spilled the garbage. IN ONE FUCKING DAY. I don't know what to do with her.
I want to punish her. I want to spend more time with her because I think that's the source of this behavior but I don't want to reward her. I want to fight her. I want to take her to a doggy shrink. I want to kick her out, tell her to get a job and see what the real world is about. Then I look her in the eyes she just looks back as if she has never heard of alpha-dog. As if she has never even heard of the concept. There is no challenge when she looks at me, its like she thinks were on par in every way. WHAT THE FUCK?
She would make a nice rug...

Quit your job and take a big risk. I guarantee you, you will be better off for it. But do something you have always wanted to do, don't just
get into the same old situation. Ddifferent faces, same story. Its so scary, its so fun, DO IT.

Good luck in your new house. I hate moving, I hate it. But having a new house to kick off your shoes in and call home is great fun. If I was Chicago I would bring you a plant as a house warmer. Go buy yourself a fern or an aloe or something and think of me. Happy house to you!

I gotta go...impatient guests you see.
lovelove a.k.

Thursday April 30, 1998

Dear Sam
I'm trying to head out the door for some coffee and a bike ride but I have to take the time to respond to you and your dreams. Some themes never change and yours is charmingly intact. I want to drive to Mexico with you and

...I wrote that yesterday, I don't remember what I was gonna say or why I ran. I just had to.

I have so much I want to tell you, about funny sensations, and faces I cant shake, passing phenomenon that I want to suspend into a lifetime,
and I shaved my legs.

But I have to much in my brain, the scissors are too close to my hair, the icecubes in my coffee are melting, the dishes are piling up and I have to work in a few hours.

Suffice it to say I had a happy three days off and I'm daydreaming about convertibles, cacti, lollipops, Graceland, being shanghaied with only a handful of postcards and no return address.
These days are sensuous and sexy, I'm unforgivably airborne.

Asia K.

Originally written 2.4.04

And so the day begins and ends with death - from a whimsical and flippant rumination to a concrete reality. I lit a candle and searched for a picture but ghosts of my past life obstinately leering from the pages of the first album - too daunting. How funny, that we plant the seeds of our own demise, though the cruel irony is only for the living to absorb.

My friend Doc. He loved his dog. Her name was Lacy. She was a surrogate lover for a man thoroughly bereft in his loneliness. His nickname was Doc and it was almost two years before I knew his real name - David 'Doc' Holliday. Its not that he didn't have friends. We were his friends and we were numerous, but in love he was a very unlucky man and he experienced it with haunting depth. It was Lacy in the cab of the truck who knocked the gear shift into neutral and it was the truck that pinned him to the retaining wall -and he died. I keep trying to picture his face.

I have no experience with death - save for distant far off Great Aunts and Uncles who wrote with a shaky hand about broken hips. And my dog JoJo Baggins in the seventh grade. And two goldfish a decade apart. A couple house plants. A friend of a friend.
Its odd really, this distance from such a cold reality of life, at nearly 30. And suddenly I am acutely aware of its proximity. Not because of Docs passing, but because of the persistent nagging of adulthood. If a dawning awareness of your own mortality does not usher in maturity and personal renaissance then what will?

On the way home today weary of injury and failure, weary of gaunt yearnings and obese demands I suddenly thought what a relief it might be, someday, to lay it all down. Still I prefer later then sooner. And death circles in on me, if not by taking those that I love then in the periphery of my consciousness - like a rustling outside the clearing round and round. I know of it when a twig snaps and I wake up and run to feel that Cairo is breathing. She looks at me with rheumy eyes - quite alive for all her age and showing only a few signs of slowing down. But if she doesn't know its coming, I do. She wags feebly, polite yet irritated to be woken. She dozes during the day but sets herself truly to the task of sleeping at night.

So I light a candle to my friend Doc. I hope you understand my need for the galloping distance I placed between myself and my life on the coast. You were a good man, a good friend, a passionate chef, generous, easy to laugh yet serious and sensitive appropriately, a good sport and a well mannered Southern boy. Also angry and frustrated, rebuked and overeager in love and I am so sorry you never found someone to return your affection. As one of many friends, you were well loved after all.

Loss - This overwhelming sense of loss, of making fruitless love against all common sense, when all the choices are the worst ones, good intentions delayed, haunting dreams of broken things, faces and feelings and memories and fragile, hopeless aspirations, worthless endeavors.... ALL seeming to crash in one fell swoop down, wine-drunk on your little couch in your little apartment - alone in your ever dwindling corner of the world where people, the ones gone and the ones never to be keep eroding your sacred fucking personal fucking space with their deaths and their god-damned perseverant lives. I woke up last night with my throat aching like I had been crying in my sleep.


Monday afternoon, 5:17 pm. This is an entry from last week that I am just posting now.

It's almost 7am, the time I am usually falling into my deepest sleep. I am now wide awake with a mind searching for things to worry about. I started with the fridge and how poor people have to endure loud compressors and moved on to composing a letter to my friend Lyssa who hasn't returned my last two phone calls. .. considered how the call log of a cell phone has uprooted the morning-after mystery of nostalgic 3am calls to ex-lovers made in a fit of damn trounced judgment - and how once I got stoned and stared at the walls obsessed with circuses and death and my fingers explored my ribcage with the word 'cadaver' repeating itself over and over in my head till I finally nodded off. There's a good reason why I don't smoke pot (very often) or drink to excess (very often).
I have this little encyclopedia of Wonderful Things in my brain where I hoard and catalog tidbits that excite me, like the fact that there is a 24 hour coffee shop tucked away in my neighborhood, and even though I have never been there I am delighted by its proximity in case of emergencies - I also have stashed the secret to perfect breakfast potatoes, a surefire product to remove grease stains, a trick to never again burn microwave popcorn and a short cut to the airport. Among other things. These kinds of things thrill me the way hardware stores and fabric shops thrill me even though I own neither a hammer or a needle. A stapler makes a poor substitute though I use mine for both.
I also quite thoroughly set my jaw against the idea that in order for something to be meaningful it must be dark - and to be artistic it must be neurotic - And then I realized concretely that I was


and resigned myself to it. I am here writing now. My dog doesn't much care for my company at 6:45am and continued to sleep fairly soundly with one half-open rolled-back eye regarding me - aware I am sure that while I was pretending to stroke her gently I was secretly hoping to wake her up.
I find that the less time I spend with people the less I am aware of my problems, or should I say my *personality defects* AHEM.
This seems obvious right? But it also strikes me as rather profound. Am I really maturing with age or just picking off the critics? I went to dinner with an old 'friend' (I hesitate to say) the other night, someone who I keep at arms length for good reason, someone who is acutely needy, alarmingly needy...STARK NAKEDLY NEEDY! and a body in his sphere of influence can suffer mightily and is left with the impression that they are at sea with a drowning sumo wrestler.
(or does fat float? feh)
Anyway, his inability to acknowledge culpability is astonishing -BORDERING ON PATHOLOGICAL- which brings me back to my point. Which was...Um...
My own personality defects. I have been rooting around for them lately like some lost article of clothing and just when I was sure they were nowhere to be found - but just before I got smugly self congratulatory I got the sneaking suspicion that I was wearing them.
(does this metaphor work? I am not sure. Its 7:30am so who cares)
They were the very clothes on my back! The point is - I have to take an honest inventory now and again. I mean, dinner with *** was alarming enough as a stark example of how thoroughly we are capable of self-deception.... I would be, AM terrified to be blindsided by gross negligence -my own- while lashing out at a world that has failed to live up to my expectations. Have I conveyed this?
I wonder if I can sleep again.


It's been quite a while since I made any posts here and a few significant events have taken place. I have been writing still and when I have the time, or make the time I will transfer them here. Instead I have been drinking and making a general ass of myself. Might as well cause I cant run (injured) and havent mustered the gumption to go back to the gym having discovered that Jason's girlfriend works there. Yes. That is right. AND MAN, DO I FEEL UNTRUDED UPON. It has been more then a few weeks since I set foot down there. But this is the least of the news. The real stories deserve more of my time and attention.


About Me