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Sunday, May. 12, 2002 / 10:00 a.m. ~The Stirring, it's Out of My Control~ Did it make sense, any of it, yesterday's entry? I went out with Skipper, he proceeded to get wasted, told everyone how cute I am ("Isn't she cute?", etc.) and I met someone new. I met someone new. I won't name him yet. But I can't stop thinking of him. Was it clear that Skipper was all over me, that he threw his arm around me and I shrugged it off, that he got drunk, that I hate drunks, and he is a drunk, he doesn't just get drunk at parties, that's not it. He's lonely and sad and he wants me, he needs someone, he's fixated on me and I had to hurt him, I had to walk away because I'd just met someone. I met someone. I couldn't stop thinking of him, I can't still, and if I'd stayed with Skipper last night, watching a movie, eating dinner, I would've not been able to keep myself from saying things like, "Wow, so he's so attractive!", or "Did you like the furniture that he builds?", or maybe "My god, he's amazing, who is he, do you know him, can you get me his phone number, will you give him mine?", etc., and Skipper would have liked that less, yes? I had to leave. It was a party we went to, an Order of ______, and I can't write it here, it's too odd, it will be found out, by someone who shouldn't find out, I'm guessing here. I'm only guessing. But they choose a word and "pieces" are created based on the word. There was a presiding judge, and the pieces were presented, and we were mostly stoned, or drinking, or both, many of us, there was a DJ playing dance music, it was in a re-used space, what do you call it? Was it once a grocery store? A gas station? I don't know, something downtown, near some lofts, it was three concrete rooms, separated by a drape, two separated, the third was a large workspace with different woodworking saws, tables, tools. The middle room held books, a "kitchen", a sofa and coffee table, and I don't know what else, a "garage door" which we opened to see the cityscape beyond, the black men wandering around on a Saturday, us, white "kids" playing music, getting stoned. The first room, from the entrance, contained a bed, a toilet with a drape covering it, a freestanding sink, windows, not much else. Does he sleep there? Does he live there? There was a wooden ramp leading from the "living room" area to the workspace area and I joked with HIM that it was so nice he was accomodating the handicapped..... I pointed down to it, the ramp, as I said it and he nodded or something, I don't think he caught it. It was a joke. Do I always need to spell everything out? Of course it wasn't for the handicapped, it was to get his huge pieces of furniture in and out of that workspace, down that step up. There was a riser, so a piece of plywood over it. Oh, never mind. The "pieces" based on the word were creative, silly, presented to the presiding judge. But it was fun, it was entertaining, it was after we mingled, I shook so many hands and looked into so many eyes, and there were few women, five of us maybe amongst 10 to 15 men? I didn't count, though I thought of it, I wanted to, I wanted to take notes. Al, I think his name was Al, told me this was my "free ride", that next time I have to have my own "piece", but I'd said I had no idea what this was, Skipper's details were not too detailed. When I write that, when I picture it, this party, this space, the music, the women besides myself, the men I met, how friendly they all were, I see him, I can't stop seeing him. I think I need immediate reciprocation or I need to quickly forget and move on. "Shake, some action's what I need, so let me bust out at full speed" - do I have that right? Are those the lyrics? I haven't eaten. ! Isn't that wild? That's what this has done to me. Skipper wanted to leave. He was wasted, when he stood, outside by the street, reaching out for the cinder block wall, he could barely keep his balance. I was embarassed, did they think we were together? "Together"? He said we should go. In the car (don't worry, I insisted on driving, I knew this would happen) he said we should go eat, where should we go and I said, "Oh, no, I'm going home", I couldn't bear to be with him, not drunk, he was drunk. I took him home, he insisted I pull into the drive, he insisted I come in and hear him play one tune on his piano. One. When he stopped playing I was patting the cat, the best cat ever, and I wanted his cat, I wanted to take the cat with me, but I had to go, I had to. I wanted to tell him what happened to me, what I was feeling, how I knew I wouldn't even be able to eat, how horrible it was, but I couldn't hurt him like that, I wasn't sure if it would hurt him, hell, I told him I was already dating someone, did he forget that lie already??? I had to simply leave. And I still haven't eaten. I should. I will. I have things to do, normal and usual things, other than fixating on someone new, I can vacuum and do some laundry, watch my soaps on tape, that's always fun on a Sunday, and I can send Hermione an electronic Mother's Day card, I owe her that. I can stop waiting to see if I'll get a response to the email I sent out last night. Email to a strange address, I don't know if it's his, it was with the email invitation Skipper had forwarded to me. The invitation to yesterday, with yesterday's word on it. A rhyme, a convuluted piece of writing, so intriguing, with an email address equally intriguing and I wrote to it, to whoever it was, asking for a way to communicate with HIM, and that, friends, is why I'm logged onto the Interweb at 10:00 on a Sunday morning. Not to write this. I lay in bed with my paper journal, writing, writing to him, trying to think of what to say, asking my own questions, feeling, emoting, too much, it's all too much. I want to write to Skipper too, I feel I need to explain, and it was hard not to do it last night. No drunk wants to hear he's a drunk though. I can't say, "Skipper, you're great, you're so funny and fun, I enjoy your company... when you're sober. When you've been drinking I don't want to be around you. And you said maybe 'Mr. Wright' would be at that party and it was a joke, but there was someone who set me on fire, and now he is consuming me. That is why I couldn't stay with you last night." See? I can't tell him that. Like I could barely tell Sandy (remember Sandy?) that he came on too strong. I think of calling him every day, but I can't. I don't know what to say. Sandy and Skipper both wanted me, without any provocation on my part. Is it possible that HE would want me too? Do I have any hope at all? Will I ever see HIM again? What did I write in my paper journal? "Electricty is running through my veins, no longer blood. I didn't eat, I don't want to. I only want to be here wanting, I can think of little besides the wanting, the wondering, the remembering." Know what? Yesterday was really intense. I have to chuckle as I write that. Sometimes things turn upside down, and it is beyond us, beyond our control. Is there such a thing as destiny, or fate? We can only control our responses to stimuli, to situations, we can't control the situations that are presented. They are there. We simply react, or choose not to. Mostly we react. I could stay here in this apartment forever, and still there would be things happening to me, and I could leave every day, experience all of life at once, and one would produce more than the next, but what would I choose? What situations would have an effect on me? What percentage in daily life would be of things beyond my control, things which move me to incapacity? Incapacitation? Inability to function. I'm thinking of my journal from 1985 again, the time I was in Italy on my own, away from my uncle and his family. I'd traveled to Brussels, then Paris, then Verona on my own. My uncle lives in Verona so I'd stayed with him there, he'd taken me to Venice, and Vicenza, we'd done day trips, I'd spent nights in his apartment, eaten his cooking, regrouped after my travels. Then I was on my own again, Rome, Florence. And in Rome I met Pino. We had a mad affair, I was convinced I was in love. No one could make love like that and not be in love. But in that journal I wrote of men following me, the one on the Metro in Paris, Mamoun was his name, and he scared me. Pino in Rome. The Frenchman in Florence, grabbing my arm to take me to some cafe, me pulling away. The off duty cop in Florence, the one who spoke no English and was so forward, did he think all American women are fast and easy? And I have pictures Pino took of me, I was beautiful, I was swept away, I was lost much like I am now. Not beautiful now, but the same sweeping effect. Men wanted me then. They followed me, they expressed desire for me. I've known that. I've forgotten it. I've been in my own world, so alone, so wanting to be, so shut off from feeling, anything other than the daily grind, the daily upheavals on the job I hate with such passion. But love? Men? Men wanting me? Me wanting a man? I don't know what to do with it. It stirs up too much inside me. Cost of the War in Iraq
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