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Monday, May. 20, 2002 / 1:20 p.m. ~I Stay In and Look Out~ If I were a color right now, I think I'd be charcoal gray. Or if I were a pattern, I'd be vertical stripes, bold, but narrow, blinding. I feel tired and sore. Sore because my working out fervor is gone. It's dead. The desire to look good naked has left me completely and now I really don't care at all. Except I'm sore. And I know that if I start back in, resume the stretches, the crunches, the isometrics and weight lifting, the soreness will become something else. Now it's atrophy. I had an intense desire to not come to work today, but I have that every day lately, and it's only worse because I so enjoyed being alone this weekend. The weather was so perfect. Even the man standing in the parking lot looking up to the sky, watching the fighter jets, was perfect. Every moment was unconstructed and whatever I wanted it to be. And now that's over. Can every paragraph begin with "I"? I didn't want to come in, here, to work, and share my weekend, I didn't want to tell anyone what I did, how I cleaned my bathroom, all but the tub, and it sparkles and shines. I walk in there, turn on the light, just to look and admire. And I didn't want to tell anyone here about my takeout food, or the popcorn I popped again last night, how fun it is to pop popcorn on the stove, or about Moby, or about music and how it makes me feel, how important music is on a weekend. I am holding my weekend close to me, like a precious object. It's mine, and you don't get to know about it. This is one year today, one year writing on Diaryland. Happy Anniversary to me. It hasn't been especially easy. In fact, I noticed in my stats today that people still find me from a hate website. Still, all these months later, someone reads about my little diary on a hate site, because someone who doesn't even know me has decided she hates me. And someone linked to me from another site, from some archived messages. Still, months later, they come. If you write it, they will come. I imagine I'll stay, how long I don't know, but it's a habit now, like flossing. Occasionally, like flossing, I skip a day, but it's extremely rare. Especially after popcorn. I floss after popcorn, and I have a tendency to write after popcorn as well. I suppose it is interesting to think about where I was a year ago� in this exact same spot! But seriously, my object of affection/crush a year ago was Dave Eggers and I was obsessed with his book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (wishing I could call up Mark and tell him he HAS to read it too, he'd love it!), and this is how I got to Diaryland. I found a list of people who consider Dave Eggers a favorite author. I stumbled here, like so many people do. Stumbled on in, decided to stay, and the rest, as they say, is history. People have come and gone, Robert, Crystal, Joe, Steve, men mostly, some co-workers, temps, coming and going, as people perpetually do. Incessantly too. So, there you are. One year later and not much has changed. Same scenery, different people to come and go. Different TV shows, different crushes, unfulfillment of different kinds. New music, new books, new media. Same pitiful little computer at home. I'm not going back a year, I'm not further examining it, it's happened, it's over. I can read it here if I like. Right now I'd like to simply sit and stare, as I did yesterday for a time, just sit down low on the chair on my porch, look out at the Birch tree swaying in the breeze, hear the gentle, soft sound the leaves make. Hypnotized, totally content to sit and watch tree branches move with the wind. Listen to the calls of birds flying in and out of the trees. And yesterday, as I sat thinking I felt so totally content to watch those leaves, branches, birds, and listen, listen, listen, I realized I miss Nature. Being outdoors is really important to me, but I no longer make the effort to be in it. I stay in and look out. Hah! A metaphor for my entire life. Can you tell I'm feeling low? I just remembered I got email from signmyguestbook.com, but I also had visitors from the hate site. Now I'm afraid to look at my guestbook. How can strangers hate me? And why do they keep hating me? That all happened in December - how is it they are still clutching that hatred to their breasts? Let it go already. Cost of the War in Iraq
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