embarrassing

i found a diary entry i wrote when i was 24. when i was finally at the end of my longest relationship but not quite ready to let go. both loving and needing somebody and wanting something more. living with somebody who had become my friend and not my lover.

i was manipulative and self-obsessed and unsure what the hell i wanted. I had been intellectually but not physically involved with somebody in san diego. we never did sleep together. barely got physical on any level. we wrote long emails to each other. he thought he loved me. i loved that he loved me. he didn't. i didn't. i was getting my self-confidence from external attention, and i learned a lot from that part of my life. i'm not saying i dont' still get a boost from external attention, but i'd like to think it's different.

anyway. the whole diary is written to other people. to him. to my ex. the only way i could ever write was to others, much like this public diary. when i write to myself i lose my oomph.

I was stupid. confused. lonely. yearning for something. and even more self-involved than i am now. it's mildly embarrassing, but hey. fuck it, i'll share anyway:

august, 1995.

'The power of words is a cyclical push and pull with me. half the time i just want to shut them off, but they are that which inspires excess of emotion.

The push and pull game between us. you think i pull you back to get emotional responses from you, but you are actually the most passionate when you are cold. it is when you give into the mundane of one emotion, love and happiness, that i find myself repelled. When i feel you drawing off I recognize it for an actual excess of emotion. we become more literate the more we pull or push. who knows. maybe we can't stand to see it become comonplace so we purposefully repel and attract.

the alienness must be preserved. sometimes, wheni wake up in the morning, V and i roll to each other. bellies pressed together, faces fitted to necks. sliding together. so familiar. cool skin, soft indentations. warm smells.

and the skin of you - with its unfamiliar salt. its brown taut wiriness. the smell that doesn't fit. the roughness where he is smooth. the hard where he is soft. the unfamiliar spots and touches and blemishes.

where he is gentle, you delve in with force. an exuberance of mental exploration and passion. yet coldly calculated.

I want to lick away all of the salt of your body, i want to gnaw at your sinew. i want to give into the tenderness of desire. and yet it feels unnatural. no comfort. nothing soothing.

I want someone to keep me company in the vortex. selfishly i have this idea that once somebody else sees it all, all the problems are answered. somebody in the tornado. the jelly that cups itself around every cell of me.

9/1/95

last night you tried to reach me about five times and i ignoredyou. wanting to be left alone with my anonymity. enjoying the quiet exploration of another person without the obligations and emotion.

kat bought me a lotto ticket and i imagined all the ways in which i could spend it. i went on trips in my mind. i decorated the inner houses and caverns.

How do you decorate the rooms in your mind? are they stark..bare...simple in their complexity/ kitsch? crowded with color and bric-a-brac?

I want to stand naked before myself - stroke every pocket and curve. taste myself. revel in myself. i want to fall in love with my own body - i wnt to fall in love with someone else's desire for my body.

were i to be writing to a future you, wouldn't i speak as though you were someone i knew in the past? what a strange context. speaking to a familiar now. or if i were to write to who i could have been or even who i could still be - there are so many of those . so many potential me's just beneath the sugarcrust of my being. murky in the green poison and brown sweetness - afloat in red seepage.

tying all my cells together is the fabric of my potentiality. potential energy is half of what we are, if not more.

there is something in the vulnerability of the sleeping form. you want to run the back of one finger from forehead to thigh or quickly and violently throw a pillow over the soft drizzling twitchiness of a sleepslack face.

I've often felt depressed. (no, really?) and i wonder how, in my selfishness, i can see a reason for death yet never ever contemplate it. I do not believe in suicide,. but i often wonder how one thrives for the cold remnants of leftovers. these following blank pages say so much more than these words do.

i love you. yet i feel nothing.

9/5/95:

want. sometimes i feel so overpowered by want. sometimes i feel a long ing foryou, but its usually more cerebral. sometimes i feel an overwheleming lust. my hands clench, my jaw tightens. aimed nowhere. just an invasion.

i'm going back to feeling very physical.yet not with the person i should. disconnected. i'm having my party this weekend and now i'm back to living a sedate couple-linked life - i have to temper a side of me that got to run rampant while in san diego. no more erotic dancing with boys or girls . no more attacking, kissing. taking baths with acquaintances.

I dreamed i had extremely ong messy white feathered wings. - feathers kept falling out all over the ground. i was moulting.

i want to slug my friend for wasting an adventure and coming home. i want to stand in darkness and feel adored. i am self-obsessed. why am i so detached from the the deepest connection i have.

9/7/95:

i think i'm an immature spoiled brat. i'm sure ifyou thought about it you'd agree with me. i dont' not like getting what i want. if i am this restless and half-unhapyp now. what will i be like if i let go of self-doubt. it's my 25th birthday. i can't decide ...

i thin kin general, i'm being an idiot. i don't mean to sound as angry as i do lately. i mean, i'm angry at myself, but i know myself. i don't know why the want foryou was able to fade so quickly. maybe because of the cerebral aspect. this is such bullshit. i never advanced beyond teen maturity. i don't even know who "you" is anymore that i'm writing to. an amalgamation of people i've wanted to love or be lovedby. people i've used. people i've hoped. the funny thing is, i don't even slightly loveyou. i'm just so restless that i love thatyou are fucked up over me.

the diary ends and there are no more entries for 5 years.

except a string of words:

breath, fant smell. sweet decay.

pigeon toes.

bow legged

tongue in my cheek.

my temper licking your lips.

skin of my own anger shed on the floor at my feet

shivering and naked. glass is liquid, you say.

i slip.

god. pretentious.

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