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Tuesday, Jun. 25, 2002 / 8:57 p.m. ~Ceaseless Consumption - Perhaps We All Long For Love~ I've wanted to write so much lately. Two and three diary entries a day. Pulling my notebook from my backpack at work, writing furiously, illegibly with pen. Writing letters to send via email, discussing higher powers, religion, destiny and fate, and what it's like when we die. Wondering and thinking and unable to shut it all off, and lacking human interaction, not socializing at work as I was accustomed. Everything feels different. And everything is sliding. I'm shirking responsibilities, realizing all that must be done, all that I am avoiding, sitting here instead, or at work, where I go every day, writing instead of talking. Turning my back and telling it to paper instead. Seeking refuge in words. And music. Listening to Moby's "18" over and over. Posting to the boards, after I decided I would not. Pouring it out there, assuming it will be well received, admitting to my groupie persona, my new attitude, then looking through my own archives here, in this diary, seeing how long this obsession has lasted. Feeling it's love. Again. Again wondering if that is even possible. The more I read, the more I listen to him, read him, listen, music, words, all of it, I am pulled deep inside some vortex, spinning, losing all track of time and space, and anything which matters, but surely doing what does matter, only that. A chance at real life love, a chance with a real man, and that was blown, that is long gone, he ran from me, and I'm lost in fantasy because it's better, but there is no kiss at the end of the evening, no real chance at becoming enveloped in long arms wrapped around me, feeling skin sticking to skin, and wetness spreading everywhere. I'm falling in love with so many words, not just his, but women's words. Falling in love with poets and goddesses, earthy and warm, hot and lusting, confessing and not regretting it for a moment. Going back to read more. Wanting, longing, all of it a fantasy, not one real moment in anything. Playing "Another Woman" over and over, lost inside. And I know I'm trying to find the ground, just not hard. Not trying hard. I flip through my notebook, my paper journal and I am startled by what I read, when I can make it out through the scrawling. What poetry, what feeling, what fierceness, what soul-searching and sadness. Where is it coming from and why is it all changing whilst it stays exactly the same? My dreams are too vivid. They're the separate reality. And when I awake I catalog each one, every detail held onto for as long as possible. Strong, deep sleeping. This is all I want to do. This is the only place I feel comfortable, right here typing in this little box. Seeing the letters appear as my fingers hit the keys on the keyboard, easier now, harder often than not. And then the silence. As it stops. And I wait for it to resume, the flow. I don't have the answers. I don't know any of it, nor do I understand, nor do I think I ever will, and I find it's getting harder. Every day. Physically, mentally, and today I wondered if I should be medicated. I wrote in my journal, What is wrong with me? So very many things. So very many. What does Moby's journal entry today mean? Not the one about loving "18", or is it that one? He says "Extreme Ways" is an understated allegory. What does he mean? He says people are mocking his innocence. He says, If they only knew. He refers to 'shattered'. What 'shattered'? The song by the Stones? What 'shattered'? I want to ask him. It's like reading a poem and it makes no sense, you feel its beauty, but you have no idea what the poet meant. You want to know. Or the painting. It obviously had tremendous meaning to the painter, but you only appreciate the use of color, you want to know what it means, but the artist is far removed, you cannot ask. Staring, analyzing each portion of the canvas, none of it connects to you, and you want to know. He sings he's "seen so many dirty things you couldn't believe". Is he mocked for saying that? I want to know more. My obsession is taking over, again. It comes and goes, it waxes and wanes, I deny it, I fear how I'm perceived, yes, I am self conscious, I need to know, but then I don't care, I stop caring, I am consumed because I want to be, because it feels right. I was with him in my dream, only this morning, or last night, it was real then, and he chose me..... Forget he's Moby. What if he were someone I met at a bar? Would that make it more acceptable? I met William at a bar. In a club. He crossed to talk to me. He got water and smiled at me, went back to his seat, came to me later, trying not to be obvious. Asked how tall I am. He rode a bike, a bike messenger. Wore a messenger's bag across his chest, one shoulder, and too many clothes to guard against the wind, in Winter. He felt my legs when I told him I didn't shave, and I wanted to feel his shaved head. He spoke softly. He was an artist, he taught art. A painter. And his penis was huge. The biggest I've ever seen. It was frightening. So was my passion mingling with his. Yes, mingling. I was consumed then. I don't hold back those feelings when they're there. They're worth letting out. As is the breath I keep holding in. I let it out in grand sighs throughout the day. Sometimes alone in the car, sometimes in my cubicle, sitting at my desk, headphones on, and I wonder how loud I am, because I can't hear my own breath sounds. I don't even know I've been holding my breath until I get that urge to let it out in a big heaving sigh. And then I wonder again, What is wrong with me? This is where I tell me I'll be okay. I'm actually going to see Moby perform in just a few short weeks. By then it will all be over, yes? The consumption? No longer consumed, yes? Resolution. Rectified. Absolved. Atoned. Over. Or just beginning. I should read more diaries now. Try not to fall in love with anyone else. So much falling in love can only hurt in the end. Falling. Pain. Isn't that why it's called falling? Or is it best to love as many and as often? Love, go forth and love the world. Spread the love. Love makes the world go around. Lulu's birthday was sad. They did so little for her. And I didn't. Not even a little. Said it, the happy part, told her, she thanked me, but she was sullen, she was disappointed, and I knew if she'd been kinder to me, to us all, we could've loved her as she wants to be loved. Cost of the War in Iraq
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