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Friday, Jan. 18, 2002 / 11:30 p.m. ~Releasing Some Steam~ I'm writing more because I'm feeling more. There's something going on and I can't quite put my proverbial finger on it. Maybe it's a bit of angst, unlocking the diary after some six weeks or so, or longer, maybe it's fear, maybe it's intense longing, lust, desire, for something intangible, something foggy and distant. I wouldn't know if Nelson tried to call, I've been online all night since I got home, I turned off the CallWave answering machine, I didn't want him to have to leave a message if he called again. I didn't want to be sitting here, wondering if he'd call, waiting, I'd rather the line be busy, if he tries. Then he can redial, frustrated, over and over again. I think it's a game we play anyway. A game of manipulation. A fight for control. I've been at Moby's message boards all night. Not that they're his, exactly, but the message boards on his site. I jumped right in and wrote several posts. All designed to grab his attention. All in the hopes that he'd read, wonder who I am, want to know more. Me, trying to pique Moby's interest. Yes, oh yes, he reads the boards, he writes about them in his diary updates, his journal, he mentions them, the posts, all the time. I picture him sitting at some point every night, in front of his PC, reading, writing, then composing music, drinking his soy milk, eating his veggie meatballs, looking out his Manhattan windows, then walking his Manhattan streets. I have such a strong desire to know him it's somewhat consuming. But it's futile, so how consuming is that? Crushes on celebs go nowhere, fast. I know that, and I'm not the stalker/groupie type, so for now I'll be content to post here and there, hope he reads my posts, hope he wonders. Leave it at that. Meanwhile, I ate my chicken soup, and fruit, more Publix "fruit salad", but not really salad. Now, my orange/tangerine juice is coming to room temp so I can drink it with my vitamins and not be too cold. I drink cold liquids and I freeze. At least I'm not hot anymore. The fever seems to have subsided. Not the fever from this afternoon when I took my temp and my talking thermometer said, "Your body temperature is 97.1 degrees Farenheit", and why does she say "farenheit" anyway, but the fever I had while I was sitting in my cube this afternoon, listening to Jeff Buckley, the ghost it does no good to love, croon in my ears. That fever is gone. And it was funny to hear Jeff Buckley sing about how he wasn't afraid to die. Did he know? Did he feel he would die young? Did he want to die? Did he jump in the water that day thinking it would be the day he would die? No answers. I'll be okay. Tomorrow will be a fresh day. I'll sleep though, I know it, I'm exhausted from this week. This week that seemed like several rolled into one. The Lulu/Laverne saga, the training of the temps, the slow down, the reading, the long days, the extra bit of light at the end of each day, and Lulu questioning it, constantly, it shouldn't be this light this early, she keeps saying, but it should, Lulu, the Earth keeps spinning, keeps rotating, around the Sun, this is what happens, the days grow longer after the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, it's all downhill from here. She is so ignorant. I guess I've finally worn myself out. I think I need an orgasm though. WHAT?! Yeah, you read it right. Okay, look, I can deny my sexuality all I want, I can pretend my life is over because I'm 40, because I had sex, oh, I had LOTS of sex, I've been with quite a few men, yeppers, and it's all over now because I don't want JUST sex, but let's face it, I need to have sex, even if it's by myself. And I'm not just talking about this here, now, for any reason in particular, other than the fact that it is heavy on my mind. I allowed myself to fantasize about sex today for the first time in months. Yeah, months, really thought about it, imagined it, could taste it. With Nelson, with Moby, with the dead Jeff Buckley, but not with him as a dead person.....you know what I mean. I do believe in mind over matter, to a certain degree. I do believe that human beings do not need to succumb to every corporeal desire. Nor to any desire. To be truly free is to be without desire. But to deny a basic bodily function, a basic human need, of sorts, is unhealthy, I know that. Especially when it's so important to one's happiness. What am I saying? I'm saying, I guess, that if things were different, in certain and definite ways, I would be fucking my brains out regularly. There. I said it. For me to have consciously turned off this part of myself, as if flipping some sort of switch, I've denied myself a happiness that I perhaps should not have denied at all. Self-analyis. Most enlightening. I'll say it again, I'll be okay. It's a little realization hitting me over the head, or maybe hitting me deeper inside myself, it's like a big hole that I tried to fill with outer stimuli, but I failed, it's like a pothole that's been filled with that crappy asphalt that crumbles and falls apart again soon after and the hole is back, gaping and rough around the edges. My sexuality is like that poorly filled pothole. Bad analogy or not. Mind over matter, telling myself I don't want it, I don't need it, no one would want me, I'm not desirable, then seeing me as I am, and realizing that's not necessarily the case. Shaking that off, repressing, constantly repressing, denying, ignoring, trying so hard to not want, to live a life free of desire, and not believing that desire could be fulfilled anyway. I'm just releasing some steam. I'll be okay. Yeah, I'll be fine. I have no clue what will happen next. This is me being here, now, remember? Cost of the War in Iraq
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