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Monday, Jan. 10, 2005 / 10:05 p.m. ~Enigmatic Like Abstract Art~ I feel compelled to note that 'chicken pot pie-style' soup tastes disappointingly nothing like chicken pot pie, nothing at all. But then would I really want liquefied chicken pot pie? Soupefied? Possibly not. However, I have eaten aforementioned soup, and full I am. Spiced rooibos (have I spelled that correctly?) tea, and I'm now warm inside. I've watched my suspenseful two hours (including plenty of car commercials) of "24", and now we end our broadcast day. Or so we should. I'd like to write what I'm thinking right now, but this would not be a good idea. Instead, let me just think it really hard, and we'll see if you can pick up on it. Here: Whoo, did you get it? Yeah, I know, there is a bit of anger there, isn't there? I have every right to be angry, and bitter. People suck, some more than others, and I cannot believe where my head was at last week, more so the week before, and what I've forced upon myself the past few days. Could I BE more enigmatic? Probably not, but I know what eyes see this. I'd like to tell you what I know, and I do know, and it's not nice, I don't deserve it, but this is the way it's turned out, now isn't it? I like diary entries that mean nothing to anyone but me. It's like looking at a painting, something abstract, and envisioning your own interpretation, subscribing to your own beliefs, attaching your own meaning, knowing you cannot possibly know the intent of the artist. Not that this is art, not by any means, but in the realm of supposed performance art, sure. We made progress, headway, we broke ground, we did, and now it feels as if it never happened, which sucks, I can tell you it sucks, and this 'you' is a collective unseen 'you' not meant to understand, but I want to tell it anyway. I am sorely disappointed, yet I feel so strong now. This reminds me of the French lover, when I told him, "I give up, I can't do this anymore", and later he said to me, "But you gave up on me", as if it were something to hold against me, as if it had all been my fault. I've given up, I've held fast, I've given up and held fast, I've been the only one 'not to let go', because I am special, and because I believed I was in love, or was on my way, falling, and as Loudon Wainwright III says, "...love's a very deep hole". Where am I now? Shut out again. It's not fun, it doesn't suit me, but in my mind I'm in New Mexico, and Julia Roberts had best save some land there for me - Taos was supposed to be mine. I can't help that she has all the money, and all I've got is a dream. My hair is growing longer, and I can see the braids, long and white wrapped around my head, the big sky, lizards in the hot sun, canvas erected on easel, set to take the paint, the colors of the big sky. Ah, we shall see. One will find, at some point, that one shuts out the wrong people, that the people who should be welcomed in have been locked outside, and when they finally give up and leave, walk away after tiring of going around to all the doors and windows trying to get inside, they're wanted back. Their presence is now desired, but they're gone. Best be careful what one wishes for, best be careful. Loss can be great, especially when one is not aware of what one has given up. This is an unknown loss which can eat away at one's soul. I need to find a way to alter my writing style. I intend to work on that. I'll come up with something soon, if time and energy permit. Cost of the War in Iraq
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Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
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