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Saturday, Apr. 13, 2002 / 1:04 p.m. ~Sensitivity, Learning Who and What, and Last Night~ Admittedly, yesterday freaked me out. I do not like the feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I am not an "adrenaline junkie", and yes, I'm spelling it wrong, I think, but certain words I prefer to spell the way I want, like "theatre" instead of "theater". I only ate once yesterday, a delicious bacon/swiss/chicken filet sandwich from Hardee's, which on top of an already bloated stomach filled me so completely I was not hungry again until 2:00 this morning, at which time I decided it would not be wise to eat. It's 1:06 p.m. and I still have not eaten. I'm stressed, I'm tense, I'm nervous, and I can't relax, and isn't this a song by Talking Heads? Psycho Killer, qu'est-ce que c'est? Fa, fa, fa, fa, fa fa fa fa fa fa, better, run, run, run, run, run, run, run AWAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY..... I don't know. I should be listening to music, but it's hard to hear the stereo in this room, I'd have to crank it and I don't feel good cranking it, I feel it's rude to my neighbors. See how considerate I am? Speaking of how wonderful I am, I have to say something, about me, and what better place? Despite my gruff exterior, which is sometimes not gruff at all, I am one of the most sensitive people in the world today. I remember the time I was awakened from a sound sleep by a woman's screams. I was 11 years old, sleeping in bed with my mom, as I did, often, and especially after my sister was killed and my brother was... er, away... and I told my mom we had to do something, and I called the police while she yelled out the window for this man to leave this woman alone. We thought he was raping her, killing her, something, and this was right under our window in the parking lot at our apartment complex. I was scared, I was worried, I was feeling the fear I imagined the woman was feeling. And she assured us she was fine. It was a domestic disturbance of some kind, but see how I've never forgotten it. I'm especially sensitive to vibes around me, to the feel of a room, a home, an event, a group of people, to violence, to discord, I pick up on it like some sort of sponge, and absorb it, and I am prone to great stress, adrenaline fueled upsets, anger, frustration and intense reactions in the worst of these situations. I feel an intense rush to action, I say things I shouldn't, or sometimes should. I feel, far too strongly, most emotions, and when I'm dead inside there's something wrong, I'm not me. My reaction to what happened yesterday was severe, and it is still severe, and not knowing what's going to happen next is consuming me. I keep recounting it, aloud, silently, to myself, to no one in particular, it's just me, then I try to blow it off, but I can't. I stood up with a headache when I left my bed, and I wondered why, for only a moment, then I knew. I do want peace, I do want harmony, contrary to any popularly held beliefs, I am not Mars, the Warrior, I will champion my beliefs, but I will back down before you, because I don't want to argue with you. I am a diplomat, I want to bring the two opposing sides together, I do not want to fight with you, I do want to love, I want to give and be appreciated in return, that is all. I want to love and be loved, to express love, I want to be with people who debate quietly, who agree to disagree, but always want to hear opposing viewpoints, and are always open to new ideas, to changing their minds. Because I change my mind all the time, but certain ideals I hold to fast. I have morals, scruples, and they are rock solid within me. Variety is the spice of life, moderation in all things, treat others as you yourself would want to be treated, say please and thank you, try not to interrupt, be conscious of personal space, don't touch, keep your hands in your lap, don't chew with your mouth full, dammit I had this crap drilled into me as a child, and a teen, and I'm glad. I'm glad I am who I am, I am. In this moment I am happy to be me, but this doesn't mean I accept anyone else, and I will never think Listerine is anything other than what she is, evil. I know I used her real name in earlier entries in this diary, she is Linda. I went back and read some of it yesterday, seeing what Mark had been reading, and he is reading a good bit of this diary, which makes me feel good in a way, like there is someone there, now, finally, like I'm not so alone anymore. Isn't that odd? But I wrote an entry about this rendering of Jesus she had on her cubicle wall, hanging crooked, and you know it hasn't been there for months, I don't even know when it disappeared, I think I've learned not to look at her cubicle when I pass by, I only hear her behind me. It's Saturday, and I'm thinking of her, I'm writing about her, and I was affected by her, I continually am affected by her, by everyone around me. I do not take anything lightly, do I? This sponge absorbing all around me, hearing it all too loudly, smelling it all too strongly, touching it and recoiling, retracting my hand, tasting the bitterness exuded by the situations, wanting to wear a mask, like Michael Jackson, to wear a bandanna over my face, and sunglasses and a hat to obscure the light from above. Seeing a fight break out right next to me on the ground, at the Iggy Pop outdoor concert, and I simply step aside as S. is intrigued and moves closer and I know he wants to be in it, do some kicking with his Doc Maartens. I shut it off, decide not to feel, it's only a show, it's only testosterone and I can handle that. 9/11, and picturing the faces filled with horror, watching the video footage over and over again, feeling it, holding back tears. Or Columbine, or Oklahoma City, or the OJ trial, the coroner's drawings of Nicole's throat slit and I have to be careful or I can feel all of it. But my own family, my own mother, I can't feel it, I can't muster any of what she felt, there is a shutoff valve and thank god for that or I'd be dead. And I used to picture my sister lying on the forest floor, gashes in her head where she'd been hit, I'd try to imagine her calling out to me, or try to see what happened, in my mind's eye, but there was a blank space there, and there will always be. It wasn't until my cat Steve was murdered by D's dogs that I could SEE it, and as I write it I can see it again, any time I even think of him, at all, I see it, I see fear in his eyes as he's running, chased, as his neck is grabbed by the larger dog and is snapped. But before, I see the blood spatter across the room onto the walls, and I'll never forget going down to that room to clean it all the next day. That event had me reeling, had me crashing to the floor in an agony I've never known before, nor since, and I have to ask myself why I could feel that, feel what I'd not even seen, but the others are this blankness, and I think it's that valve, and I wonder if the valve is missing now, for the current situations, or does it appear and disappear, and what will be next that I will witness, what scream will I hear next, or what fight will break out beside me, who will be wrestled to the ground next and how will I feel then? How will I react, will I be cool, can I think clearly, will I go down too? There's an evenness inside of me, a balancing mechanism, something which won't let me sink too low, or rise up too high, something that keeps the adrenaline from killing me with its biliousness. I'm not poisoned by it, I come down, I balance, I have an internal keel and I'm always kept afloat and I should be glad, shouldn't I? Have I learned anything in this life? I'm learning who I am, what I am, never why, but who and what are good for now. Aside from all of that............ I saw Carlos last night, handing out flyers. He's cut his hair, short, and he seemed so uncomfortable when I tried to ease the situation with humor and talking about going to D.C. I could only wonder if he remembers the email I wrote him after the march, if remembers me saying how attracted I was to him, how he never responded to that, only appeared uncomfortable around me ever after. And still. He doesn't know if he's going this time, not yet. So, I walked away, I wasn't going to pursue anything, I know a lost cause, I do. That's in the past. I also chatted up the guy who sold me the Noam Chomsky book, telling him I just like to say the name, "Noam Chomsky", it's fun. I told him I have a cat named Norma and I call her Noam Chomsky from time to time and he asked if she minds, and I said, no, she doesn't seem to notice really. Doesn't mind at all. I admitted that I must seem crazy, my alcohol fueled banter was wild and funny, but only depending on your sense of humor and he admitted to sharing my sense of humor. I think he just didn't know what to do with me. So he mentioned his wife and kids, especially when I tried to get him to join us on the bus to D.C. Did he think I was hitting on him? Do men perceive my silliness as flirtation? I think they do. And fine for them, go ahead, flatter yourself. But last night there were men everywhere, older men with long gray ponytails and beards, younger men with piercings and dyed hair, bright red or blue or black. There were young men gathering literature, pamphlets, taking time to learn, to sign petitions, and some who lingered next to me, close, as we looked at the contents on various tables, and I did want to touch one, to casually brush my finger on the back of his neck, just below his hairline, or make long eye contact with the doctor manning the doctors for universal health care booth, and he looked at me while he was talking to someone else, turned his head to follow me as I strolled away. Little encounters, or near encounters, and chatting up the man at the Communist booth, asking him to explain to me why I should support the Palestinians, what's really going on, and scoffing when he told me we're just trying to drum up Arab support to invade Iraq, and the French man with the gray hair who joined us, and me thinking...... mmmmmmmm..... he's French. Feeling like we were all together this night so I could approach anyone, even the Lesbian Avengers who grew quiet as I approached. Their gaydar told them I was straight and they seemed uncomfortable as I took their little cartoons, something about how amazing it is what one finger can do.... but I laughed and said, "This is great!". I'm rambling, I hardly want to stop writing, because maybe once I stop writing I'll start thinking again, and as I write that I think I need external stimulus, I will listen to music, maybe I'll put on some Talking Heads vinyl, maybe I'll go listen to Dolly Parton singing "Jolene", in honor of Judas who signed my guestbook (who is Judas?).... And then, at some point, I want to get out, to see "Y Tu Mama Tambien" at the art cinema. I've got to shut this all off, and I should really eat. Food will help, I know. Stress is bad, I don't recommend it. Fine, I'll move along now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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