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Sunday, Jan. 20, 2002 / 2:54 a.m. ~I Only Want to Figure This Out~ I'm still here, and I'm beginning to think I should just get myself a blog. Then I can write at 1:00 in the morning, and at 2:00, again at 2:30, and now, at almost 3:00, and it will just appear as paragraphs on one page, one long, scrolly page. Truth is I haven't gone anywhere. I've been reading my diary. I know I'm not the only one who does this, I've read some of Bathsheba's entries in which she writes of going back through years of her paper journals, even quotes from them, always searching not just through the pages, but through herself. I've done that too. I've sat on the floor, old journals all around me, sifting through my life, all of it recorded, so many feelings long gone, and suddenly they're back again, right in front of me. Reading this diary is like that too, and this stage in my life, these past 7 or 8 months haven't been pretty. I'm clearly stagnating, but some interesting things have happened. I reconnected with my boyfriend from almost 22 years ago. I found him online, found his email address and wrote to him, we wrote back and forth, talked on the phone, I wrote about it, and it's intense to read it now. It was crazy, very crazy. I went to Area:One, by myself, and Fatboy Slim too, dancing, alone in a crowd, it was a spiritual experience. And work, work has been one long roller coaster ride and I can't seem to get off. We get so close, the women there and myself, sharing the most intensely personal experiences, telling each other everything, then something snaps, there's a break in our connection, we can't talk at all, trust is gone, the openness closes, I feel so far away, and maybe this is when I need someone else, I reach out to find a replacement, but right now there is no one. It's a lonely feeling, the lack of intimacy in my life. This entry, Adrift, is pretty good, I think, just at conveying how lost I've felt in the past few months, especially during that whole Steve episode. Reading it, just now, I wanted to write to him, to simply ask how he is, if he's found someone yet, if he took that job in whatever state that was, I don't remember, but it was far away. I was the last one to write, the last of us to try. And he ignored me. So much has happened. Being attacked for my political views, being shredded in a gossip/rumor mill for what happened with the design auction, locking my diary because I thought my uncle had the url, then locking it to keep out assholes, unlocking it because I wanted attention. I feel like a freak. A quasi-exhibitionistic freak. But all in all it's always just been my diary, always, and if I go back and read it now I see that. I need to stop, I need to call it a night, nothing's going to happen here, nothing but perusing the past, and what's the point of that for me now? At this hour? This has been a strange day, it feels different, and still I can't put my finger on it, like last night....it's not just one strange day, it's one strange period. It feels creative, and introspective, and it feels like me searching, whether it's looking for someone to talk to online, looking for a response, somewhere, anywhere, or looking through my own recent past, I'm feeling a strong need to find an answer, but I'm not finding it. It feels like if I keep writing I'll work it out, if I just keep it going it will be right in front of me, whatever "it" is. I only want to figure this out. I imagine I'll be back if I can't stand it again, if I feel I have to write it, whatever is going on with me. If not, I'll go to bed, warm, cozy, down comfortered bed, me and the girls. Cost of the War in Iraq
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