April 6.
I fucking hate dead ends.
May 28.
You are who you choose to be.
Why thank you, Dean, for rising from the catacombs of my memory with that dusty bit of wisdom. Those pretty, neatly packaged words. But I see the catch: it's all wrapped up in that word "choose."
I'm at a crossroads, a big fucking fork in the road--a fork with what seems to be fifty different prongs beckoning me in fifty different directions. Fifty different MEs.
And in case you're wondering (whoever "you" may be...in truth I'm probably just talking to myself) this is, indeed, ME--not my bad mood, not that other woman--just me. Memememememe.
Wantingtryingstriving to be
what?
Well...that's the billion dollar question isn't it? The big fat billion dollar question.
"Does this mean you want to start another game?"
Maybe. That is, as long as I get to be black.
He smiles, and takes a seat behind white. "Of course." Spreading his hands in invitation, he says, "Shall we begin?"
Sure, old hoss. Let's play.
May 31.
I don't know why I'm so tired.
Hi, I'm Rick Steve. Today we'll be soaking up the sun on the beautiful French Rivi--
Maybe it's catching.
--strangely enough it was the prosperous who were most often suspected for practicing witchcraft, especially those who--
Second cup of coffee. Didn't even dent the haze.
--and we've got some great highlights for Kid Diamond here--just look at that left hook--
Thinking of all the things I'm not doing.
--just the way it is. Some fantasies are just meant to stay fantasies--
Maybe I'll--
This match strengthened the soul of--
Nevermind.
June 19.
I think I like books best.
But there isn't a whole lot I can do about that except keep holding on to what little I have, because it seems that that little is a little chunk of a bigger dream.
Metaphorically, anyways.
I must always remember to never forget Steve. I had until yesterday, when I almost tripped over him and the realization that he is my favorite.
On reflection, I must never forget any of them: Steve and his New York fast talk, Jack and his jokes; Karen and her trilling laugh; Katie and her hidden ink. People. My people. Yes, I'm glad I went back.
Now I have the others too, though thoughts of them are no where near as warm or comfortable. I'm still learning them, though there are those I seem to have hit it off with.
I don't know why, but I just like you better than everyone else.
Inappropriate? Probably. I should have said something clever like, "Uh-huh, and I'm sure that's something everyone else has heard," but all I had was a chuckle. A nervous, one syllable chuckle. "Ha," I said, because I was nervous, in fact I was in a fairly bad way that day, and you, sir, in no way helped with that.
I hope I'm wrong and I hope I'm not; it is inappropriate, but that makes it all the more interesting.
Ha.
June 26.
Like two little kids, we hunkered down to scrutinize the passing slug.
Funny how it's always the little things.
July 18.
And he's staring down at the board now, eyes all wide with mock(?) disbelief. Then it's over, and he smiles. "Well," he says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "That was an unexpected move."
"Well," I say. "That's how you win."
"Clearly I underestimated the element of surprise."
"That's not funny."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"Quiet, you."
July 25.
I don't know what to do with myself.
So here I am.
Whatever that means.
I'm writing a novel. I haven't seen that in writing yet. I am writing a novel. Iamwritinganovel. A novel. No-vel. Novel. Yes. Big Ugly Scary Words those are.
It's a humbling process. It's the other side of things, I guess. I can't be the big scary lady anymore when I'm at the keyboard. I'm not carrying that powerful red pen. I have no power here. I am at the mercy those Big Ugly Scary Words and I'm trying not to struggle too much as they drag me along and take me where they want me to go. Sometimes they shake me up. Sometimes they intimidate me. Okay, they always intimidate me. I am in a state of constant intimidation. I have absolutely no fucking clue what I'm doing, but I'm doing it. I'm doing it. And I guess that's what matters.
I'll just keep listening to that other woman, see what she has to say. To teach me--about her, and about me.
We'll see.
I think I'm editing myself too much in here. Thinking too hard on it. Did I used to do that? I don't know. I mean, it's a journal for Pete's sake. But it's on the internet. People read it. Well...one person reads it. That I know of, anyways. Hi, to you, by the way. How are you? I miss you, as always. I miss you before you even leave my front stoop, before we even get out of the car. It's ridiculous, sounds ridiculous on paper. But these things that I feel, they're raw and they're real, and I can't argue with that. It would be nice if you were here right now, lying on the couch, reading that Stand-worthy book of yours while I sit here and type, type away.
Yeah, that would be nice.
I was thinking about a writer and certain habits that he has today, and wondering if those habits would work for me.
--Mike Renfroe is calling the house. Should I...will he...too late--
It makes a certain amount of sense to me. If you've seen a movie enough times, it could just become background...
I was thinking about it because I watched a movie today, a movie I think could work for that--tone wise, anyways. It's really the only movie I can think of that would be helpful. I mean, I'm not writing this thing to Singing in the Rain or Pirates of the Carribean. It's something to maybe think on, to maybe try.
Maybe.
I kind of wish I could do what I used to do with these. I guess I've been trying. I honestly don't know where all that came from. I think I spent a lot of time on them though. Or maybe not. Maybe I was just putting down what came to mind.
Whatever it was, I kind of what it back.
I am twenty years old.
I am twenty years old.
I am twenty years old.
And I don't feel any different.
What does it take to make you feel different? Really different? I'm not sure if I've been there, yet I know that I've changed.
Does that seem right to you?
I want to make a movie.
But I don't have any money.
I am a murderer because I am killing time.
The summer is coming to a close and soon we will all be going back to busytown. It seems like we just left... You know, I wonder if I just maybe traded one busytown for another this time around, but I think I should let the name stay in its place.
Listen--I gotta make this phone call, a phone call I've been meaning to make for years but haven't had the guts... Old friends. Why is it so hard to get back in touch? Why is it such a dreaded and nerve-racking moment? It's like...it's like you don't want to taint the old memories with new ones. You want it all to be the same. When they pick up the phone, you want them to be nine years old again, and you with them. It would be easier that way.
Wish me luck.
August 29.
So I got dragged through the mud.
And a lot of it got in my mouth. But I didn't choke. No, I just swallowed it like a good soldier, though now I'm feeling a bit sick, but nothing I can't manage, nothing I can't handle.
I guess I need it.
I spent the early part of the afternoon in this guy's apartment, sipping water and eating pita bread and talking about all manners of things. Writing and danes and Tyler Durden and writing and engagements and incest and writing and whatever else that came up in those two hours. It was different and new and nice and we should do it again. We'll call it "Salvaging Our Social Lives"; then again, I don't think 'salvaging' is the right word. It's difficult to salvage something that never really had much of an existence in the first place.
At least, not here in busy town.
I'm supposed to get back in the car tomorrow. I'm praying it rains. No, but I really shouldn't say that. Get the monkey off my back--that's what mother said, and I guess--no, I know she's right, but I...well, you know.
But that's a cop out. I don't...I don't really know...okay, I'm trying not to sound emo, because I hate it when journals get emo, at least the ones people post online. That little diary with the little lock on it that you keep at the back of your drawer, that's where all the melodrama goes, all that angst, a pathetic mixture of self loathing alternating with self pity. No one reads that. Everyone reads this.
And I've nearly forgotten what I was saying.
There's this door in my head and it's standing wide open, and it's letting everything through. I think it's always been cracked, that's just the way I am, but at some point it got pushed open all the way. Everything floods through and out and all over and I don't know how to shut the damn thing again.
I guess I'm going to that meeting. Maybe the parts of me that like leering at red headed women and wearing men's underwear will find it empowering.
Nights have been rough here in busy town. My body is covered in sweat instead of sheets. My teeth have been falling out again. I can't remember why I wake up feeling like something has gone wrong. And I'm still not getting any sex.
There is a mad drummer upstairs. I don't know what to do about it.
Sometimes I think about sharing this space with you, though I doubt you'd ever really use it.
Maybe I'll wear my skinnyboy jeans. It seems appropriate. I think I'll stop short at the boxer briefs, though. Wouldn't want to push it.
I think I feel a little better now.
November 11
I don't really have anything clever to say today, but I'm here anyway.
For months we all chanted Yes We Can, and now we can finally say Yes We Did. Thank the Man Jesus, I say Amen.
The last time I was here you didn't know about because I pulled a Mort and put the delete key to some good use. There is some part of me that sort of wishes I hadn't, but I had meant to say something, and it came out all wrong because I was feeling more or less like I always do on Sunday afternoons. But really, it came down to one thing: The thing I will always remember from that particular night is the way our shadows looked together on the wall.
I used to do this sort of thing more often. I'm trying to figure out what changed. Maybe I...
I should probably be thinking about Luke and his Pal in the Well. But I guess I'm waiting to make sure he's doing okay first. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow I'll know.
The tape recorder. I should play around with the tape recorder. Really I should play around with EVERYTHING, everything I've got that's sad and lonely and collecting dust. Especially the tape recorder.
My bad mood sneezes in the back.
Yeah, and maybe you too.
I really wish the certain ghost of certain a someone would leave me alone. Then maybe I could escape all this mediocrity. But I can't blame him for it, no. He just put it in words, in a nice little neat and tangible package that likes to pop up in my head from time to time. But that can't be me. I really can't let that be ME. But then we're just back to where we started, back to Dean and that chess game I've been more or less ignoring.
"Achoo."
Oh, you're terribly funny, sir.
"Just a reminder that I'm still here."
Yeah, just like my guy in the bar. And the killers in the kitchen. A whoever the fuck you are, mr. Roland Rip-Off.
The bad mood sneezes again.
Ah, quiet you. It's not even your turn yet.
"All the more reason for him to be upset."
Can we quit kicking this dead horse already?
A collective NEVER resonates through the room.
Sad but True.
I think I need to practice. I think that would help things out a lot. See? And I didn't even need a therapist to come up with that. That's another $60 dollars saved thanks to the powers of Common Sense.
You know, I am a terrible nap taker. It's because I can't sleep under pressure. It's the knowledge that anything less than three hours really isn't enough in the long run, and as the time tick tick Tick TOCKS away, I see how more and more useless my tossing and turning is becoming, and then I begin thinking about everything I SHOULD be doing, like home work, or thinking about Luke, or playing with the tape recorder (especially that), and eventually I just give up. But the whole affair leaves me so morose that I just basically sit there and stew and play two hours of some inane word game on Fucking FACEBOOK.
Really, I shouldn't bother, unless I know, without a doubt, that as soon as my head hits the pillow, I'll be dead to the world. Being sick and stuffy just isn't enough.
There's this guy in my creative writing class who wears tight jeans and flannel shirts and cowboy boots, and I had to make sure I didn't say the wrong name-- "...I agree with Thomas" not Tom because for whatever reason he decided not to shorten it. It felt sort of unnatural, saying the whole thing like that, coincidences aside (I am always looking, even though I know I won't find you--don't take that the wrong way, I'm sure you know what I mean. It's like...visually filling a gap because that's the best you can do without getting into trouble). Though there are times when it does roll off the tongue rather easily, even though I know you don't like it as much.
Last night I was thinking about my name with yours, thinking how I liked the ring of my full name with it better than my nick name. I was thinking about how I would sign it, and the giddy girl in me even wanted to practice, but I usually prefer to keep her at bay, if I can.
I've been listening to the radio a lot lately. Erin doesn't seem to much like it--the commercials and the DJs bother her with their interruptions, but that's half the reason I listen to it. It's this...strange comfort. It reminds me of home. These are the summer voices, Foster and Dmitri and even Ally Morgan. That, and it's a nice smattering of rock in all its periods and forms, and I haven't really been in the mood for anything in particular as of late.
I probably stole some poor kid's future copy of Pride and Prejudice today. Oh well. They can always order more. I guess we're reading it together, then, huh?
I lied to Sara--I am definitely thinking about Christmas. But I still hold to the claim that I am utterly and totally a Scrooge.
(Humbug.)
November 13
I remember when I used to write in that thick little journal back when I was fifteen. I remember that every time the 13th of any month would come along, I'd mark that it didn't come on a Friday. That would be the entry. That's it. It really must have impressed the hell out of Kris. "Damn, just missed it again." "Ugh, there's nothing great about Wednesday the 13th. *sighs*" "Here's to better luck next month." As if it were some sort of gamble. As if I couldn't just check a goddamn calendar to see when it would be. As if it were all that important. But it was, I knew it was. Because good things always happen on Friday the 13th.
Anyways, just missed it again. Better luck next time, chaps.
Seriously though, I think I want to share this space with you. I think it could be nice, troubling one another with our distant thoughts. More than nice. Maybe wonderful. Certainly romantic.
But I know this probably isn't your sort of thing. But there's a small chance for a nibble, so I'll leave the bait on the hook.
I use that whole fishing metaphor way too much. I'll blame Rex for that one. The things we inherit from our fathers...
"Hey, could you do me a favor?"
We were in the bathroom, I was taking the shower she had just left. She was wearing this dress, and her hair was red and wet and sticking to her back.
"Sure," I said. I knew what she was going to say, but I wanted to hear her say it.
"Could you help me zip this up?"
I hope my grin wasn't too obviously wolfish. But why would she be looking for that sort of thing? She has no idea. No fucking clue. And it's better that way.
And we had just watched that scene too, the one in Street Car where Vivian asks Marlon to help her button up the back of that wispy new dress she had put on. He couldn't do a thing with it, men with their big clumsy fingers, but I had no trouble at all.
I wonder if I can keep this sort of frequency up.
November 19.
I saw a film today, oh boy...
Yeah, and then I bought a record, and now I have
every
single
one.
Yeah.
November 20.
I have been censored. I don't know if I should be offended or amused or somewhere inbetween. What? Did I say 'fuck' one too many times for ya? Huh? Ah well, It's probably for the better.
I read this story the other day and I loved it. There were a lot of questions left unanswered, but I didn't mind so much. What matters is that it stuck with me, stuck with me hard. I understood you, Matthew, in a deep and secret way, which was why I had a lot of trouble not standing up for you when Thomas called you sick for what you did, what you were doing. But it would have been too incriminating, so I just kept my mouth shut. It wouldn't have been worth it; not for a bit of fiction. Sorry, Matty.
I wish I could write like that.
My Matty isn't doing so well either.
I used to talk with him about everything. There was one summer when the two of us were riding the same wave and we talked for hours in the pool, in the pool room, in his bedroom, in the car, in the anime store. We had always been buddies, you know, but when you're kids that's real easy to do. But that summer I thought we'd be buddies for good, buddies for keeps, because our interests and thoughts seemed so perfectly aligned...
But there's more to it than just that summer. I've seen the picture of me running through the leaves to greet him as he got off the bus, back when he still went to school. I remember playing Crash Bandicoot and Sonic the Hedgehog together in the rec room. I remember Parks and the mayonaisse and the fucked up drawing and toe soup and all that stuff that came before. That summer just sticks with me because I think it was the last time...christ, I don't know. The last time he left the door open for me, I guess. I think he always tried to hold it open, but after that summer, whether he meant to or not, he started slamming it in my face.
That's not quite right, that isn't everything. I started to get scared of him, too. I didn't want to be, but there were times when it was just me and Jeff and he was taking us somewhere, and I'd start thinking about him channeling some of that irritation into his driving. All that irritation that he tries to keep underwraps but can never quite manage because he's been bottling it up too long, and it's always spilling over the top, just to relieve the pressure. I start thinking about that, and I'd realize that it was on me. All on me. I had to make sure nothing crazy happened, because he could propose anything and Jeff would just go right along with it, maybe not now, but then, and that was pretty scary. It was scary because I knew there was nothing I could really do.
But I'm being selfish here. This isn't just about me and him. That's really just peripheral. I'm not there, I'm not under the same roof with him. I just meant to write about the airport here. The oneway ticket. You know what I thought when mom told me that? I thought, God, that would look great in a story. I feel guilty about that, and it's hard to articulate why. I think it's because...it's like taking advantage of him. I don't know. And there was this part of me that sort of cheered him on, too. Testing the world. But he didn't get any results. Not a goddamn thing. Christ, would if he had gotten on the plane? MIA, like Scott? I don't think he meant to do it though. I think he was just...
This has taken all my steam. More later.
March 23.
That was a lie.
This is not:
That oneway street I talked about some time ago? Well, that was a very, very wrong turn.
Good. An answer. But an answer with even more questions tacked to its tail. And those tagalong question marks are, in word, absolutely terrifying.
Maybe it's a phase. Maybe I'll get over it. But I think he's winning. I think if you took a scoreboard and tallied the days, it'd be a landslide in his favor.
At least there's a theme song in the works.
I need to write poetry.
July...no, jesus, it's August. August 12.
Oh yeah. He's definitely winning. These little fantasies of mine? These delightful, personal entertainments? They just might make me crazy. Yeah, I'd say this monster lives.
I go so out of my way to sound nuts.
Anyways, the real reason I'm here
(besides the fact that I'm avoiding writing, even though that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Writing to avoid writing. Yes, that makes perfect sense. Christ...)
is to say that they're shutting this place down, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it. I hate the idea moving to livejournal or blogspot or any of those other ridiculous spaces. They're too public. They aren't tucked away like this place. No one really knows about this place, except the people who care to remember how to get here, and those are the only people that I'd want hanging around anyways. I suppose I should hunt around for another little nook in hyperspace where I can keep these little upchucks of thought...
Gotta go.