i picked up the song

Sunday, August 20, 2000
@ home        1330 hrs

    It becomes a real issue for me each time I sit down to write here now.  In the beginning, I spent all my time sitting in front of the computer anyway, had few friends, and only published thoughts and criticisms.  Now my wish to be candid has the want of justice with which to contend.  I’d feel bad to put something here which might hurt my newfound friends out in the “real world.”  Especially since I’ve given them each the URL and even encouraged them to take a look if they like.  Anyhow… it’s something I’ll have to wrestle with for a bit until I find the right balance. 

   I’ve been asked a few times this week whether or not Wendi and I are boyfriend-girlfriend.  Each time I, of course, answered in the negative.  Even close mutual friends have questioned me about the status of our relationship.  Honestly, the state of our relationship is really sketchy to me… like a bad Dawson’s Creek episode (which is apt–there’s a street near Wendi’s new house named Dawson Lane or something and we both said we always think of that television show when we pass).  Our relationship is rather weird, though, I think. 

   We sleep (sleep) together, we embrace in bed, we share massages, we kiss (rarely on the lips), we hold hands, we hug, we touch…

   The other night after a particularly relatively steamy episode (relatively steamy meaning, for me, any time I don’t have to pull out a magazine to see some skin) we decided it best to talk about how this might change the dynamic of our friendship.  Mutual assurances were made that neither of us would get weird about it.  Honestly, it hasn’t been all that weird between us.  I like the idea of being able to touch her and not think that she’s thinking I’m only doing it out of purely sexual interest–I’m not (although Schopenhauer would disagree). 

   Which brings me to another thing:  Yesterday, I spent most of the day at Wendi’s house with her, helping her roommate move in, cuddling in bed with her, smoking cigarettes on her porch, talking, listening to music, the usual, you know.  Wendi wasn’t feeling too great, so while she lay in bed or talked on the phone I read this philosophy book she owns.  Later, when she came back out to where I sit on the porch and put her legs across my own, I finished the passage I was on and began thinking about it. 

   Her beautiful face floated to my periphery as I tried to reconcile the idea of viewing everything in life as only something to be understood and the beauty/misery of loving a girl.  To truly understand anything one must view it objectively, but if you view a person you feel yourself attracted to objectively you can no longer be attracted to that person.   I don’t know a better way to explain this, really.  When you break “love” into a science (an attempt to understand) and no longer let it thrive as an art (reflection), you destroy the concept of love. 

   Aside from these thoughts, I also wondered which exact qualities there are in Wendi that attract me.  Being as it is that, as the some philosophers posit, all life is an effort at immortality, and the only way to achieve immortality is through reproduction.  Therefore, we spend our entire lives searching for a mate who minimizes our defects in the gene pool.  I haven’t decided just yet what it is about her.  Hopefully I have time to figure that out.  Although, the other night, lying in bed with her, I kept having dreams where she’d leave a room and wouldn’t return.  I’d become worried as to where she’d gone, and then wake up and see her still lying next to me.  The dream happened over and over again in different settings. 

   In the same vein, yesterday, with both of our heads under the covers, I told her that the only reason she feels safe with me is because she’s not attracted to me.  She doesn’t have to worry about losing control.  She instantly replied that I was being overly self-deprecating and stupid, and she kept asking if I really believed that.  I don’t know.  It seems perfectly possible. 

so if I seem a little out of it, sorry
but why should I lie?
everything reminds me of her
–Elliott Smith

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