Where the words went.

Here's what I'm gonna post cuz here's where I've been writing. They're letters to. Obviously. But no-- it's not like that, because I haven't sent a single one... I think maybe... it's just easier writing to him because I know he rabidly reads and because I'm trying to seduce him or engage with him or whatever the hell I've been trying to do... But these are the words I want to put here... So... I'm gonna just post like, what I wrote him each day, starting the Saturday before last and... it'll just be like... it's my pretty much my damn journal anyway.

He told me I could write to him... He told me instead of thinking about the conversations we're not going to have, to think about the ones we've had... He told me I should take an hour out, twice a week, whenever we would and get away from everything and just think and write and he said I could probably imagine what he'd say anyway....


Conversations+Revelations with Julian

Day 2 of 20*: 'Nother No Good Horrible Very Bad Day

*the math genius here really could not understand how exactly 20 days apart could become exactly three weeks-- 21 days apart-- before realizing that, like with scales, the last note of a scale acts as the first note of the next. So that last Friday doesn't count.

So I was freaking out in the shower because I'd left the front door open a crack for ventilation and I couldn't see Madeline and I was thinking it's UNLIKELY but maybe she'd jumped out and I'd have to go looking for her and I was thinking I'd probably want to write you this because it would be an awful scare--

Ugh, Jare's coming over in a minute with vicodin-- but I'm gonna tell him I have to finish writing this first-- and I was just thinking, it's a damn shame I told him to come over before I started writing you and feeling better.

But anyway, I thought, I wouldnt wanna tell anyone else about the Madeline thing I mean why, why bother, I just don't care for anyone to know, but I'd wanna tell you, and I'd tell you, and youd probably tell me something funny, about what she was thinking when she ran out, and you'd PROBABLY, you'd probably CONNECT it to something we'd talked about before-- like I mentioned these neighbors now-- you'd probably make some joke connecting Madeline to the neighbors, that would simultaneously deflate the stress of both situations-- and make me feel understood, because you remember things, you remember people's things you remember everything. Is that a technique psychologists learn for therapy, or is that just how you talk?... If only everyone spoke like that, so sharp and quick and with it, obviously present and understanding and really hot and sexy and thoughtful and not just half asleep glancing over at the TV...

This is what you do, Jul, when you talk, when you talk to me, when we talk to each other, you make connections all the time. It's beautiful, it's structure... And you know, how my biggest fear in life, really, the biggest Issue, is that nothing is connected to anything else kinda... Nothing's really tied together... I mean, I know there aren't that many people walking around or into your office plagued with Fear and Trembling over Nothing is connected to anything else, so, this can be simplified, depersonalized, universalized, sophomoricated, for psychological and sociological consistency, we're all in the same boat like, to the existential crisis of Meaning and Why Am I Here and even just plain old Fear of Mortality. Does it every time. I mean, I'm like, WHY do that, what's the purpose, it's like Freudian dream analysis, ok, nothing's special we all just wish we had a dick, right?

But if we're gonna simplify, then this is MY simplification: You connect everything when we talk, when I don't talk to you I sometimes feel disconnected, this connection thing boils down to meaning, which boils down to value, in this big ol bunsen burner you science people use, so, my equation becomes, therefore, ergo: With you life has meaning--> Life has no meaning without you.

sik poetix

I know the first step is to Close All Tabs.

I know the second is to Exit Aim.

I know the third is turn off all the lights and the fourth is to lie down. Comfortably.

There's mud in my brain and chocolate cake in my belly, and 150 ccs of cerebrospinal fluid in my brain and 1500 extra kcals in my belly.

I'm so sick and antsy, I want to go running, I wanted to go to work, Vinnie called me, but I'm SICK. I really am, I have like, swollen glands...

I'm so sad and antsy, I want to write Julian because he inspired my thoughts but it just seems such a stupid thing to do, and I'm SICK and full and antsy.

I took a sleeping pill, I hope it works when it kicks in.


I'm worried about the truth and I hope it soon sinks in.

I'm feeling uninspired and I'm feeling kinda dim, and I want to watch a movie but my legs won't stop kicking.

The only way to get these legs to stop is to tire them out, but the rest of my body is tired as it is. I feel really sick and kinda like I'm gonna throw up and I want this person to help me I want to talk to him this person who I want to help me but I have to cut that tie, when I see him tomorrow, if I can refrain from writing him tonight.

I know he'll miss me, I know he'll miss me, I know he'll miss me when I'm gone.

More Weird Writing and Magic Stuff...

I wrote A------ the author I love who I met a little while ago at the reading just now. Cuz it's his book that made my life go like it did. The one of his I read about, well it was this totally similar situation to what I've been going through.

At the reading he told me he'd considered different endings... So I just wrote him to see if he still has them if he could send me one cuz my life needs to imitate it... So's he said he's gonna look for them though they're not good, which is why he didn't choose them, and I said I know the shape he chose was the most beautiful and it might be the most beautiful lifeshape for me too but there are some differences that change some things... but yeah... hopefully he can help me.

Writing as changing the course...

Writing as magic... as the power to manifest destiny.

I've had some great suggestions from many of you to make this into a book, and one offered the added bonus that I can have it end how I like. And I've realized, that everything I wrote became something real, and everything real became something I wrote, and that, I've always been able to MANIFEST... when I dream of things happening they do... that's how I've done all this stuff... but I'm not... I'm a mess and I'm spacey and flighty and have in the past wanted some pretty dark things, and to be in some pretty bad situations, and with the good things I only wanted a taste... not to follow through and do the work... so... you know it doesn't become... but... that's the thing...

The wise thing to do right now, would be to write this blog, as if it's really happening, but to write what I want to happen instead. And then it will. Then I'll do it.

I just... I don't know what I want... I don't like to plan and... I don't know if it's the right time-- as I'm composing this symphony, for triumphant horns, cymbals, strings, for clearly the last movement, or for the diminuendo, the flutes, the quiet, relaxing pastoral movement.

So I just don't know???

On Writing.

To change it up, introspection:

I started doing this, this writing business, a few years ago, when I was 19, at the behest of my then-boyfriend. He was a writer. Is a writer still, I suppose, of plays and films and that was how I met him, I was in his thesis film for college, about junkies. It was fun, and kind of beautiful, and kind of incredibly self-indulgent. But I was really in love with him, and he was really... troubled... naturally, and jealous, and alcoholic, and depressed, and he projected, and decided I had issues and encouraged me to write. And he used to drink and moan about how difficult it was to write "the truth" and all his writing was alternately "shit" and then so brave, the tortured artist and his terrible, terrible adolescence in a typical WASP well-to-do Midwest household with a LOVELY mom who drank a little and a rebellious, charismatic, LOVELY older brother who dabbled in the punk scene, and a downright Leave it to Beaver dad. (They were all sincerely lovely people. I'm saying this to undermine his suffering. Hah.) Anyway, he encouraged me to "write it all down," "the truth," "dig deeper." "Dig deeper," he always said, always warning me about the tendency to shy from the truth and just write "bullshit." It was a condition of our relationship, that I wrote this hideous truth and bare my soul thus ridding myself of all the demons that were dragging us down.

Ironically, or maybe not, he would barely let me stay alone in his apartment for fear that I'd read his crap, about which I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck. He did it a few times, reluctantly, and I had no impulse. It didn't really interest me too much, and I'd read his plays, and it was private to him, and I respected that.

And the one time he stayed at my place when I went to work, I had a pit in my stomach a few hours after leaving. I called him and he told me, in a thick strange voice that he'd been sat there the whole time, reading my shit. I'd left my e-mail open. He read it all. Everything. My personal letters to everyone. To John. My doubts about him. Everything. There wasn't anything to really hide... it was just my thoughts, my voice, my SOUL that freaked him out. He left. I came home and my room reeked of smoke and I was just grossed out by everything about him, but I tend to cling onto people, and, I clung onto him, and we reconciled, on this condition that I "dig deeper" and write the truth. That he was always struggling to write, that ached him and scared him too much to confront...

And I wrote it, boy. No. Fucking. Problem. It was cathartic and exhilarating and put a Devil-may-care spring in my stride for a while, and I gave it to him to read, at his crappy day-job as a doorman downtown, and of course he didn't call me as I white-knuckled waited for him to do, and so I called him and he said--

"Well. It's not bullshit."

"No." I said. "And?"

And I don't remember what he said. He was probably silent for a while. We dissolved after that. I don't know where the hell he is.

COWARD.

COWARD. COWARD.

My writing has always gotten me into trouble. Okay, I'm an exhibitionist. And obviously it's not just the writing, it's dancing, it's across the board, it's music, it's my face on some screen, lighting someone's face at 3 a.m looking at some screen, warm in the glow of radiation.

But it's the writing that freaks people out. I think every boyfriend I've had, except Sean, has read it, my private correspondences, scoured the internet for old blogs, sat at my computer and opened up My Documents and helped them-goddamn-selves. And freaked out, and obsessed, and couldn't stop, and looked at me when I got home like "Who are you. Who are you. WHAT are you." And left, afraid of their shadows and out the door.

And not just boyfriends. Family members. Old classmates.

And it's flattering, huh. And it makes me nauseous.

And I'm driven, my whole existence, is driven by these conflicting impulses to lay it all out and spread it all out on a giant screen, and to guard my privacy at all costs.

And none of them could handle it. And none of them can handle me. And nobody ever can.