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Wednesday, Jun. 05, 2002 / 7:50 p.m. ~Futility of Life as Giant Hammer - Entry Numero Deux~ I just re-read my latest email missive to Jon, and it's fantastic. Really. Damn, I'm good. I've had a Corona, sans lime, and I'm feeling less pain. A smoke of what was left in the bowl, a listen to "18", and now Me'shell Ndegeocello's "Bitter" (no, I have not the energy to go check to make sure I'm spelling her name correctly). But I feel fine. Powerful. Not dejected. Not ruined. Not hopeless, as before, a short time ago. It's hard to be so totally misunderstood. It's one thing to write something here and have someone totally not get it, who cares, really? But to write purposely to an individual, the words chosen so important to the overall meaning, of course, it's not a Mantra, it's a letter, and have that person skim and scroll, to know that he is not paying attention, not even trying. He's assuming, he's judging, he's purposely misinterpreting, making the meaning what he believes it should be. I don't even know what to add to that. I feel like I could drink another beer. I could smoke more, I could shoot something directly into my vein, I could lose consciousness, I could alter myself completely, for at least a bit, for at least the night. I'm waiting. Again. Waiting. Nothing is happening besides the waiting. It was so good when there was a plan, for something new, a plan to change things, to change me, my life, and now that it's gone, and everything is as it was, and there is still nothing left there but an empty space, anywhere really, I need the next thing. I need more. I don't want more, I need more. I think I could thrive on that charge, that excitement, that expectation, or hope of something grand and large and all encompassing. All the rest seems like nothing anymore. No desire to do anything I did before. No TV. It's Summer, reruns abound. No dishes. Who cares? They'll sit until I wash them. Until I choose to stand there with water pouring over my hands, shriveling with the constancy of it. It's all waiting now because I saw so much more, and now I'm back to this. Again. If I could get in a car and drive until I run out of gas, or walk through a woods, prod bugs down on the ground with an extended finger, listen to birds and frogs and sounds of life that's anything but human, or just lie by rushing water, just to hear the sound of it. Something to still what's going on inside. If. This album is about pain. "Bitter". I briefly forgot how much I love it. I don't want to regret anything I've done. But yes. I wish I'd never gone to the party with Skipper. Of course. I wish I'd never told Skipper I'd go out with him. I wish I'd never given Sandy my phone number. Or we could stretch it out: I wish I'd neve gone to D.C. That Demonstration was all about Israel vs. Palestinians, it lost its anti-war focus. I never would've met those people, I never would've gotten close to Skipper, never gotten my picture in the paper, along with that silly quote, I never would've gone to that party with Skipper, met James and Jon, written to Jon thinking he was James, tried to reach them both, I never would've gone out with Jon, never would've kissed him. I want to take it all back. Can I have a do-over? Please? I want to go away. Far, far, away. Thailand. China. Italy. France. I'm through here. I'm going to alter my conscious state further and go to bed. I think. This day has become something I'd prefer to forget. Bad work stuff. The futility of life has become like a giant hammer hitting me over the head, again and again. What is the point again? Is there one??? Cost of the War in Iraq
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