Tuesday, December 4, 2001
3:30 PM | @ work
Who cares? I’ve been here before. These feelings of hopelessness and helplessness are still fresh in my memory. The want of someone, anyone to reassure me, to talk to, but the knowledge that those people don’t exist as readily as I’d like to think in my everyday life is still the same. Added helplessness. Communication breakdown.
Maybe these feelings reminiscent of those dark times come from too many moments spent navel-gazing; or is it that I went to bed later than usual last night? Maybe these flourescent lights are the cause. Teri’s probably right, the cause doesn’t matter… I’m here.
I ask myself why I bother writing this down. This white background is my only outlet for these thoughts and feelings.
I guess the hardest lesson I’ve learned over and over again — the most difficult piece of the puzzle for me to finally grasp and deal with — is just how out-of-control everything really is. How absurd and out of my control it all is. Peoples’ thoughts and feelings toward you, the ultimate outcome of your life, what else? So much more.
A common cause of tension in one’s inner-life, I’m sure. It’s not that I want to control everything around me–certainly not. I don’t want to be misunderstood, though. “I’m just a soul whose intentions are good/ Please, Lord, don’t let me be misunderstood…” I don’t want the responsibility of a God, nor do I want the detachment of one.
That’s the crux of the issue: How to force oneself into healthy detachment from the surrounding world. I understand that as an artist it probably can’t be done without forfeiting the title. I’m not sure I really want to rid myself of my intense ties to emotion and the world outside (and inside) myself in any case, but I see no real harm in exploring the possible causes and solutions anyway.
The Beatles sang to me one night from my car CD player as I drove away from Stephanie’s house, “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah… She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah…”
I looked them dead in the digital clock face and said, “Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me. Don’t you fucking lie to me.”
7:45-ish PM | @ Ruta Maya
“You waitin’ on her?”
“What?” I asked.
“You waitin’ on her?”
“Stephanie. Yeah,” John, my friend from New Orleans, replied.
She’d left about an hour before to go home and either write for her comedy show tomorrow or go to the Pflugerville open mike.
“No, she’s not comin’ back… in any sense.”
I go to the bar at Ruta Maya to purchase beers for John and myself.
Back outside, John says thank you, and I, in turn, thank him since he paid for the beers.
“To you,” he says.
“To you,” I say, and put my beer down on the table.
“We have to drin–… nevermind, if we can’t even agree on a toast.”
“If it’s to me, I ain’t drinkin’ to it,” I say.
“This is the first year,” John starts, “I’ve been without a woman in… since… I was a kid.”
“That’s funny. The first year I spend with a girl will be my first year with a woman. Not counting the ex-wife, which we can’t count anyway.”
“I’m kinda enjoying this,” he says, taking a sip from his beer, “drinking, writing, and playing music.”
“I know,” I say, “I’ve come to think that maybe living in this sort of forced loneliness again will be good for my writing.”
I take a sip of my Negra Modelo.
“Oh, you can be lonely with a girl,” he says, “you just can’t be left alone.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
[I should note that I’m feeling a bit better since yesterday. Not completely, but I’m gradually working my way back up.]