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2001-06-10 / 5:00 p.m. ~Can one say too much, really?~
Colors have shifted, changed again, this time to cool blues, pearly blues, soft greens and silvers. He is so filled with regret, never should have told me, he thinks, never should have answered me when I wanted to know. But I wanted to know, I knew you were silent, I knew you were holding back, because you are not shy, I remember that much at least. If you're quiet it's because you're afraid to say, whatever it is, you fear my reaction. But then you're not being real, are you? You're omitting, you're not saying what's there, what I want to know. Where do you/I draw the line? It was a part of your life, I understand, a part of your sexual experience, and no, it's not what I wanted, but I wanted to know what turns you on, it's what you've done, where you've been. Now, if you'd said sex with sheep or small children, okay, we would have nothing to talk about, and I would consider reporting you. It's going to be okay, I feel badly now, like I was the one who judged, and I hate being judged, how is it that I did it now? Maybe it's the old cycle, maybe this is us again, and this is what we did to each other, "Sure, tell me, you can tell me anything", then, "Okay, well, I did this once....", "No! How horrible, how could you? You are a sick pervert!", but "You wanted to know, why did I tell you?".....did we do this, then? I don't remember. And the one who is reading, you want to know if I consider you when I write. No, I do not. Only now do I even acknowledge you here, because you want me to think about it, you ask questions. I don't know why I'm here, except I found it, I found diaryland and it seemed like a great replacement for Themestream, something for me, really, but others may find it, dig it, tell me, and then there would be the little ego boost any artist secretly craves. Oh, does this mean I am an artist? I'm eccentric, I write, I HAVE to write, I realize it all the time. I can write here every day and there's a place for it, and yes, maybe someone else will like it, and then I've pleased us both. I feel so badly now, I am filled with regret. One tells, the other reacts, the reaction is not good, not anticipated, the teller regrets telling, the tellee regrets reacting, and where does it stop? Do we stop communicating? Can't we remain open and share all of it? Are there things which need to be left unsaid? I don't live my life like that. Honesty is SO important to me, it's everything, I have a bullshit detector, I can tell if you're lying, I will know if you leave it out, any more of it, I'll be expecting it now. I don't know how to proceed. I am going to babysit today, shortly, in an hour or so, and then it will be little human things, little human feelings, emotions, needs, wants, I'll kneel when I talk, I'll sit on the floor, I'll hold her, I'll love the feel of her hair, the sound of her voice, when she tries to say my name, I'll correct her, but I'll love the way she's twisted it around to her liking. We'll watch a movie, I'm bringing most of my Disney Classics animated collection on video, I don't know what she's seen. Maybe she'll want to see "Dumbo", because I love that one. Or maybe "Cinderella", though I don't want to corrupt her into believing in some patriarchal fantasy of what women should strive for, but what a great movie. The mice, the dress, bippity, boppity, boo! I don't know, but I know she'll exhaust me, and I'll worry she's going to hurt the dog, or pick the cat up the wrong way, or that I'll have to change a poopy diaper for the first time. I still don't know how to care for a little one, but she amazes me and I wish she were my own. He, on the other hand, is wounded now, is feeling so much there, on his own, and if I could just be with him, and we could hold on to each other, just lie down and sleep together, look into each other's eyes and know that it's all okay, it's a bizarre twist in the road, and how could we ever expect this, and we both have skeletons, and it's nothing to be ashamed of.....if only we could do that. I'm listening to what he wanted me to hear, "That Voice Again" by Peter Gabriel. And he wrote his own words too, or song, for me, and it was beautiful and this is a delicate, sensitive man, one I know I can hurt, and I want to end his pain. Cost of the War in Iraq
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