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Saturday, Jan. 17, 2004 / 8:12 p.m. ~Embracing it All~ I have honestly been forgetting to write here, so this I do now. I hear a train outside, the rumbling and the long low whistle, yet there is no track nearby. I've heard it before and find it endlessly confusing. When I was a teenager we lived in a house with property abutting a track, just beyond a forested piece of land owned by the railroad. Sometimes the rumbling was so loud it rattled windows, made it hard to hear our own internal sounds, the television, or voices over the telephone. Right now I can see that house, I dream of it all the time, it haunts me like some specter from my past. I feel sad and lost suddenly. I was on the phone with the guy who found me on Friendster, the artist, for nearly four hours, or maybe more, I'm not sure, and I felt so comfortable with him, we said so much, but he angered me at one point, was denouncing the whole act of antiwar protesting, and I was trying to explain the value of what we experience, what we try to bring back to our local communities, and how we try to make a difference in our own small ways after we've gotten together in D.C. But he's jaded and he compares it too much to the Sixties, and is too aware of what differences we're not making. I got angry, I retorted and I felt him withdraw, he got so quiet suddenly and all I could hear was my own passionate voice. We disagree, that's okay. He is active, he has a lot of friends, I don't know I'd fit. Last night I met the one from Salon.com/Nerve.com and I had no expectations, just expected him to look like his picture, but the picture is distorted anyway, and he looked different. I had no judgments, but all he wanted to discuss was relationships, and how to relate, and how not to feel negatively after rejection, how not to take away the bad from any situation, and I appreciate his views, but there is more to life. I want passion, I want argument, I want agreement, I want ideas and youth. He's 39, the one from the lengthy phone call today is 30. The differences go far beyond age, but I see age is evident. Yesterday was my mother's 78th birthday. Of course she's been dead for almost 26 years (wow), but I took some photos in to work to use the scanner there, yesterday, and here is one I particularly like - it's her with a paramour, a serviceman obviously, and he loves her, obviously, and I think she cared for him as well. She must've been 19 or 20, maybe 21, I'm not sure, would be 1946 or so. And she smokes, and she wears a glove on one hand, and she holds a whiskey, and look at her fingers, and her neck, and those lips, those eyes that refuse to acknowledge the photographer. She had 'it'. She was amazing. I love her so much. I wonder if she knew, or if I love her more now, now that I know so much she never shared.  Last night, after eating a bit, and drinking three pints of ale, after a bistro, then a pub, and saying goodnight to the rather party pooperish Salon.com gent, I drove to find a pay phone and make a booty call to the boy. He finally answered after three tries, and after waking up. It was later than I thought, and I'd pictured him out and about, as I picture him, man about town, out drinking, out cavorting, and he was asleep instead. He seemed irritated, as one might be, and there was no cuddling, no invitation to join, this was no New Year's Eve, that is gone. That was one night, that is a distant memory I will never forget. That was emotion and sweetness and giving and taking and total pleasure and good. Hard not to want more pleasure, more good, more emotion, more "I'm sorry"s, hard not to want, hard not to want anything, but I cannot. No longer. Now is post ale drinking post long long phone call sadness, now is post-connecting letdown and time to be alone and be happy alone, to try to release all the desire, to know I'm not desired, and to desire only myself, to accept, to embrace. To be sad with all of it. I love this litte picture of her too, but it didn't scan terribly well. She was so beautiful:  Cost of the War in Iraq
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