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2001-09-08 / 3:02 p.m. ~Obsession, and not the perfume~ I keep my cheesy little American Heritage mass market dictionary right by my computer, just in case I'm not sure I'm using a word correctly, or need to be sure of proper spelling, and don't want to go into the living room to consult the huge unabridged, the one the cats like to sit on, and I always like to joke that when they do sit on it they are absorbing knowledge, through osmosis. So "obsession" in this little dictionary means: Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or unwanted feeling. An idea or emotion causing such preoccupation. Hmmmm...'unwanted feeling'. Interesting. I thought obsessions could be with wanted feelings. Perhaps I was wrong? I have to have an obsession, it would seem. In summer it's "Big Brother", although this summer's didn't grab me like last summer's. Maybe because last summer I would sit for hours watching the housemates interact live, on the 'net, and this summer they wanted to charge me for the pleasure, so I declined. During the fall/winter/spring, of course, it's HOCKEY. Right up through the playoffs and Lord Stanley's Cup finals. And the fall TV schedule, new cool shows like "CSI", or new seasons of "Felicity", or something. Maybe hobbies, and surely I have them. Maybe cooking jags. Yeah, actual jags wherein I buy all kinds of fresh stuff, and become consumed with cooking it all in creative and tasty ways. I can't think of any others right now, any other obsessions, but it's enough of me to recognize I have them, and I replace them constantly, well, every so often, and now it's Diaryland. And yeah, I think this time it is an unwanted feeling. I think I want to stop. I think I might be tired of reading other diaries, of obsessing about the people whose lives I've entered, people I will never know, and some whom I desperately want to know. It's that feeling, reading someone's life, wanting to know him/her, like when I read Dave Eggers and felt this mad compulsion to communicate with him, to say, Hey, Dave, me too, my parents died of cancer too, and you are as crazy and neurotic as I am, but in different ways, and you think like I do, all rambly and constantly changing subjectsly, and if we met I don't think I'd find you attractive, but I'd dig your mind. There's someone else I want to know now, and it's a little compulsion now, it's more like I wish I could grab this person's attention, and in that egotistical way I have of wanting, I know I don't want to pursue, I want to be pursued. But I feel it won't happen and that makes me feel unattractive somehow, or stupid, like I just don't have the right words after all, do I? Like I am not the high IQ incredibly smart and literate and well educated and superior person I think I am, like I'm just one of those superior people with an inferiority complex, who is paranoid when in a depressive state. And sure I can analyze all of this, so don't bother doing it for me. Don't think I don't see it all spelled out for me, don't think I don't know me much better than you think you do. Wha...? Nothing. I know what I'm talking about, it doesn't matter if anyone else does. Maybe it's just a feeling of realizing that I'm not what I think I am, that I can build myself up, I can ooze confidence, but when it's all oozed out there I am, just a little vulnerable heap of insecurity lying in a puddle on the floor. Oh, I'll be okay, once I stop reading all these damned diaries, once I stop with the stupid unfulfilled crushes, the stupid desiring of those who in reality are very undesirable. Maybe this is even one of those moments in which I fantasize about my adobe house in New Mexico, the house in Taos, and I like the way that sounds when said aloud, where I have a whole room that is a library, and another room that is a darkroom, and one that has northern exposure, where I learn to paint, and one that has a big TV, and I have satellite access, but I have no computer, because I've given it up, and I write instead, I write volumes, and I paint clouds in the daytime, take flash pictures of startled wildlife at night, sleep during the day, except to paint the clouds, and I can breathe because the air is clean. And there, in that fantasy, the only obsession is with me, with my life, and no one else can get in the way of me being just me, with animals around me, and nothing but creative outlets to pass the time... Cost of the War in Iraq
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