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Sunday, Mar. 21, 2004 / 11:54 p.m. ~Shake, Some Action's What I Need~ I hahd a fahm in Ahhhhhfreeeeka. No, no, no, but I did say that's what I'm always tempted to use for an opening line. Today was a windy day. I lay in bed, body well rested, mind wanting to sleep and dream forever, and woke repeatedly to hear it, the creaking sound of it in the building, and again was reminded of the ten days I slept on that sailboat in St John. I always expect to hear the mainsail sheet thwapping inside the mast, the clanking of the hardware. I kept waiting for it to stop, the wind today, but slept instead, dreaming and dreaming and dreaming and now I can't possibly remember what it was all about. I would look at that clock and say to myself that I never wanted to get up, never. Not depressed, just happy to be sleeping, just loving the act of sleeping, the closing of the eyes, the waiting for it, then waking from it, knowing I'd been doing it. And the luxury of being able to do it all fucking day long if I so chose. So I did. Choose. At one point I was certain it was actually Monday, and I'd missed work, and no one had called to see where I was, and why was that? Didn't they need to know? Didn't anyone care? They wouldn't. I accomplished nothing, I don't even have clean 'work' clothes to wear tomorrow. I'll have to scrounge, raid the dirty clothes in the basket, and I really don't care. I'm so tired of working. I don't want to work anymore, I don't want to have to keep doing it. All added up, it hasn't been that long, but it's been long enough, the working thing. I had a long chat with a young man on the instant messenger thing last night, and he was telling me his opinions on people my age. Of course he has no idea who I am, and how I don't fit into that mold, I am not typical of any age, I never have been. When I was 17, I was like no other 17 year old. When I was 10, I was like no other 10 year old, and when I was 35, I was only me as well. At 43, in a matter of weeks, I shall be only me still. No, not settled in some career, not working in suits, not planning my retirement, this is insane to box people up this way. I am seen as an age. And all the people who say that's ridiculous, age is a number, are saying that to please themselves. A 43 year old women is attached myriad connotations. And they're not pretty, none of them. I am so unhappy to be ageing, it's not me at all. It's a broken record at this point, but it's coming, again, as every year, the day I flip the page and change that last digit, but there are people in their late 20s, early 30s who have this idea of me, and what I am, and what I am not, and it's disturbing to me. The artist, the painter, had no such qualms. This was a plus, a perk, and if all other conditions had been complementary, he could have been perfect in that, because of that and the rest, but he is rare. Older men will always be paired with young women, but as women age we are put to pasture, expected to stay there, and remain single or find men 'suitably' close to our ages. Fuck that. As much as I feel, I have to get back to my own personal goal, to be happy alone. I think I was, for a while, I do, but I get so sidetracked when I meet someone new. I get hopeful, but hope is for losers. Yes, you can quote that if you like. I hurt the painter, I know I did, and I am sorry, but he should have known, we talked so many times and it just got worse and worse and worse, I was mean to him on the phone, and in email, it wasn't working, the physical meeting was the end, it was the cap, it wasn't the beginning. I gave no signals I wanted more, quite the contrary. He is silent now, resolved, and I am sorry, I didn't want to do any of that. I think it's been another very lonely weekend, but I did manage to sleep in my bed, not the sofa, which was nice. And tomorrow? I ask for vacation time. I am seriously in need. I need more than two days attached to the end of every five. I am so wasting my life doing all of this. And I would love to change it, but I have no idea how. I want to do something totally different. I want to weld metal sculptures, I want to write essays for publication, I want to produce photographic displays, I want to combine writing and photography in a book, a memoir. I want to compile things, articles, artifacts, I want to dig for treasure, I want to eat my way around the world, like Anthony Bourdain, in search of food as sensual pleasure. I want pleasure, sensual and otherwise. I want to sit in French cafes and listen to people I can't understand, and eat real pizza in Naples. I don't want to work in that stale and stuffy office with all those hypocritical Southern Baptist Christian Racist Ignorant Black Women and wish I had earmuffs so I didn't have to hear it all, all day long, and come home to a messy apartment I never want to clean, and two cats who beg for my attention. I want to get away, far away. I think it's getting worse, the dissatisfaction. It must be from imagining more, from thinking about what could be, where I could go, what I could do, what life could be like, or reading what other people's lives are like, wanting, desiring, feeling stuck. Ah well, sleep, per chance to dream, once again, and another week of doing it all the same. It's the sameness. I want it to be all shaken up. Cost of the War in Iraq
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