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Friday, Mar. 15, 2002 / 10:54 p.m. ~What I Feel Now, Sitting Here, Remembering - A Feeble Attempt to Communicate With Someone I Shut Out~ Earlier, I was sitting here, as I have been sitting here, in front of my PC, for hours, since I got home from work, well, after I vacuumed the entire apartment, and you know what?, freshly vacuumed carpet feels great beneath my feet!, but after I vacuumed, yes, taking time out to get something to eat, come back, eat it, etc., but sitting here, all evening, and earlier, there was a man sitting on the porch downstairs, I'm not sure if he lives with the woman who lives there, or what, but she has a man there sometimes, if not all the time, I really don't know, but he was laughing, every so often: "Ha HAAAAAA!" Then nothing. A little bit later... "Ha HAAAAAA!" I don't know that I'm spelling it right. It kind of reminded me of Bill Cosby. Picture Bill Cosby, laughing. Maybe that's it. And it conjured all sorts of images, memories, porches, Summer, open windows, hearing sounds outside, through open windows, sitting outside, the smell of warm weather. And I heard cicadas singing earlier..... in March. Cicadas. And there was/is a band called Cicada Sings. I wrote to Mark. And I really, really, wanted to link to some old diary entry in which I mention him, but I did a search through my entries, a search using the word "Mark" and there were a lot. I don't know if I really used the word "Mark" in all those entries, and if I did, if I was talking about him, and I did find one that mentioned him pretty well, summed him up in a little nutshell of a sentence or two, but it seemed wrong. Truth is, I want him to read my diary. That is blowing me away. There isn't anyone I actually "know" who I would want to read this. I usually freak out if someone says he wants to. Like Hermione's father at Lilly's birthday party. "Come on, let me read it. What's the address?", pen in hand. Pen in hand. "Come on, so what's the address? Why can't I read it?". He was flirting with me. And I liked it. I actually liked it. I figured, okay, fine, so older men dig me, my friends' fathers dig me. Hermione's father, he's single again, S.'s father, who is NOT single, but he is attractive in a salty sailor kind of way. No, I don't think he sails, but he reminds me of my Pop, and I should NOT be attracted to him for that reason, but it's always seemed like he's flirted with me too. He even wrote me a couple email notes one time.... But I have this mad urge to write Mark, to say, "Mark, read my diary, tell me what you think." or "Mark, would you like to read my diary? I wrote about you in it, don't be offended, it's nothing you don't already know". I wrote to Mark because I was reading Moby's diary last night and there was some tone to what he was saying, talking about calling people "dimwit" or "halfwit" and how funny it is, and I thought about Mark, and how he and Moby both love "The Simpsons" and The Onion and their sense of humor is the same, and I could see Mark reading Moby's diary and laughing, if he only knew it existed. I wrote to Mark to tell him, to say, Hey, read Moby's diary, it will make you laugh. And it was me breaking ice that had formed into a glacier. And suddenly I'd crossed a line, I'd braved an impasse, I'd scaled a crevasse, I'd extended my hand, I'd said, Mark, I miss you. Dammit. Even I see through me. Why do so few others? I think, in a way, I did love Mark, I just couldn't get past the lack of chemistry. And when I told him we should go make out during that awful movie, "The Patriot", at the beautiful FOX Theatre, it was partly because of the two Bass Ales I'd downed, it was partly because Nelson wasn't coming here to meet me, it was partly because I was devastated, I was filled with longing for someone I couldn't have, someone I'd never even meet, and partly because I wanted to make out with someone in that beautiful theatre, in one of those lounge-y areas, in those plush velvet throne chairs, in the dim romantic light, while everyone else was busy watching the movie. If only he'd been more confident, kissed me with more passion, more desire instead of trepidation, uncertainty, repressed longing bubbling up to the surface. And I made light, as I do, I'd abused him, it was so wrong, and he held on to it. He used it against me, "But you kissed me, you wanted to kiss me", No, I wanted to kiss 'someone' and I was with you, my good friend. Nelson is the one I wanted to kiss, my telephone lover, the one I met on ICQ, the one who'd never actually come to meet me, after we planned it, and planned it..... I can't forget any of the details, the selective details I choose to remember. And now, after all this time, and how much time? Months? A year? I write, so casually, You should see Moby's site, read his diary, it will make you laugh! And you write back (we've gone from first to second person somewhere along the way), you miss me too, you remember all the things we said and did too, the leaning out the car window, shouting, "Gore and Lieberman, they'll get you the settlement you deserve!", and do you remember the fireworks? And how cranky I was, the heat, the crowd, waiting for a train to come that could hold two more people, and the wait was long. I bitched and moaned, convinced I'd make you hate me. But you never did, did you? I can't be in love with someone just because he puts up with my shit. He has to have something more than that. I don't even know what I wanted, why I did it. Why do I make these feeble attempts at communication with people I shut out of my life? It's not the first time. I even thought I should contact Crystal, and I wrote about her here in my second entry ever, how pissed I was at her for trying to call me when I preferred email. It's no wonder I'm alone in my life. I challenge everyone I meet. Get close, I'll challenge you not to leave. I'll force you to leave, you'll feel bad, you'll try to come back and I'll say, Nope, you left. Fuck you. Or if you never leave I will leave you. Such a game I play. It's too warm. Fookin' warm. The fan is in the window, I have on too many clothes, long pants when I should be wearing shorts. My hands are hot and vein-y. The TV is on, but I haven't watched it all night. It's just there, background noise, Oscar winning movies on Turner Classic Movies. At midnight is "Senor Moby's House of Music" on MTV. That I will watch, and I'll wonder if I'd challenge him too, Moby, if we knew each other. Since he is my fantasy man of late... I don't even know, I just don't. I love that FOX Theatre memory though. Why, you ask? Why did I enjoy abusing Mark? It wasn't that, it was the wickedness. It was us, with Lynn and her son, the 17 year old she was always trying to fix me up with, fucking Mormon. So, we left them, said we'd be right back, got me a second beer, or did he go get it for me? I think so, "Hey, Mark, be a sport, will you get me another Bass?" and he did. I laughed at everything, I HATED the movie, hated Mel Gibson's furrowed brow, his hair extensions and artificial ponytail, I hated the too bright sunlight in every scene, like they were all filmed at mid day, I hated the story of vengeance. Hated it. It was the FOX though, my favorite place, one of them anyway, and it has all those levels, all those nooks and crannies, that Ladies Lounge with all the chaises, all those places to lounge, or as I always see it....to make out. I'm dying to have sex there. Mark must've flipped when I suggested we go make out, but it didn't mean I wanted to plan it, like two teenagers having sex for the first time, "I'll go in the bathroom to take off my clothes, use a towel to cover myself when I come out", "Okay, and I'll take my clothes off and wait for you under the covers in bed" (Yes, folks, that was my first time, age 14). I wanted a wicked good time, but it was wrong to take advantage of someone who actually felt something for me, a bit too much perhaps. Now, it's nice that he wrote back to me, it's nice that we might at least write, at least. I don't think I'd want him to read this though, but if he did, well, it's honest, if nothing else, it's what I feel, here and now, remembering. Cost of the War in Iraq
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