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2001-06-07 / 6:46 p.m. ~This is killing me, but in the best way!~
I'm tired in the morning, I never want to get up, every morning it's a struggle, and I was really tired today, I'd been crying last night, yeah, crying, feeling pitiful, hating my life, really hating my job, hating racism, and pain, and the fact that I have to work so I can pay my rent, and my bills, and feed the cats.....and me. I was so tired, it was so hard to go there, but I sat in my cube and I finished Dave Eggers, and I still want to know him, he needs to know me, we are so alike, so, so alike. But Steve is at the forefront and this is what I wrote, as I sat hating my job, hating the racism, feeling alone, there, at work: Looking for Steve's old letters last night I came upon others, of course, so many letters, from people so long gone, dead people, well, dead now, and people who might as well be. There, I found the last two letters he sent me, in 1983, before there was email, when someone in California might still write a letter and send it through the postal service, to someone in Georgia. He'd tried, he thought, to reconnect with me, and thought he'd failed, and he'd moved on, was in love, firmly embroiled in the California love triangle. Then. I still lived with Arthur when he sent the one letter, and what kind of response could he expect? Then. This was before Arthur said he loved me but couldn't live with me, but he didn't "want" to live with me, it wasn't about "could". Steve wrote again, a few months later, and I had my own apartment, my first apartment ever, and I was reveling in this newfound freedom - it was so wonderful, doing just as I pleased, set something down somewhere and there it stays, want to hang that picture THERE? Sure. I love it there. Me, the cats, the cats who all died once I moved in with D., but there they were alive, the three of them and one of me. Us, just us. Unspoiled, alive, and free. Steve wrote then, but he was in love with someone else, and I hadn't responded as I should have, no, now he was surprised when he heard from me, didn't expect to hear from ME, no. That must have been the end, of our communication. I was free, and he was not. I was ready, then, but I was too late. Later there was D., and a year of wondering, of begging for feelings, then moving in, together, the cats, all three, dying, killed, failed kidneys, feline AIDS. And who knew? Who knew then there was an AIDS for felines? Years, years later, no longer then, but it's now, now. And I travel back, searching, and he asks if this is a mid-life crisis, because he's had one, he's had several, he says now, he knows, and he may be right, but I've always thought of him, always wondered, he's always been the one I wanted who wanted me too. Maybe it couldn't go anywhere, maybe I can't be with anyone, maybe no one can love me and live with me too, but I want to know. I want to want and be wanted at the same time, because that is the best feeling, better than sticking hot feet in cool water, or eating Garlic Pepper Tofu when I'm really hungry and crave it more than anything else, or getting a new tattoo, of feeling him put ink in between dermal layers with a needle, and it hurts in a good way, or having an orgasm alone, being slow with it, teasing, because I can, waiting, postponing, then exploding, because I can't wait, any longer. Being loved by the one I love, desired by the one I desire, this is an objective, a purpose of sorts, a reason for suffering life's bullshit. All I can remember, overall, is that we HAD that, once, we had it and it slipped away. That's what I wrote this morning in my cubicle. Since then I've gotten two email letters from him. He says he could easily fall in love with me again, he's looked at my online photo album, gotten lost in a picture I would never have expected him to get lost in....I was tired, coming down with a bad cold in that picture, but he felt something, looking into my eyes, in that picture, online. He wants me to call, and I will, and I'm not sure I can wait until 8:00, and what about Game 6 of the Stanley Cup? This is important to me too...... I can't stop thinking, I haven't been able to eat, this is serious. The women at work all heard about it, I exploded with it after I read his email at lunch. I burst, I couldn't hold it in. P. hugged me! She is so happy. And Lisa says this is it, he's the one, over and over. I'm so afraid it will fall through, nothing will happen and I've gotten so excited, so filled with emotion and I will hurt, later. A. and I "made up", though I told her there would be no makeup sex. She is a virgin still, 21 years old, and I always forget, but still I like to joke with her. She knew my cold shoulder, saw it a mile away, and it must have been freezing. I explained what L. did to me, the lynching photos, how sore I still am, emotionally, bruised, it hasn't healed, not all the way. Tender, sensitive, but that's not HER fault, no, I know that, I'm sorry too, a big hug. Hugs today. We're okay, she knows, she was the only black in an all white school, she's had the hair questions/issues. We're okay, we understand, she understands. Later, she engaged L. in a conversation on race, and I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and shout "Lalalalalalalalalalala", but I didn't. Still, I didn't listen. Then it was religion, and I told A. what agnosticism is, and how I want to be Buddhist. Then it was sex, and penises, and K. says when she was 21 she got tons of birth control from a clinic, sponges, foams, pills, condoms, the works, and had sex for the first time, and she said, "Dick is good!!!" to her cousin when she asked. Now, she says, she's a pro, multiple orgasms and all. Later, yet later, D. tells us the details of her son's birth, all natural, her first so far, and she's 25. So much detail, so much sharing, too much, religion, sex, racism, all of it. Could we be any more controversial? All this because work is SLOW. We have nothing to do and it's hell to just sit. I finish Dave Eggers, but then it's hell. I want to talk. I don't want to sit and ignore the woman there, or that one, all of us so different, so much to say, so much to learn. Roller coaster days. I am going to call Steve, I have one hour. It's killing me, all of this, I don't know where it will go, and he says he remembers hurting me and I say I remember hurting him, and how can I discuss it and watch the game at the same time? Cost of the War in Iraq
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