2002-11-11 - 2:22 p.m.: purified drinking water

I�m a little uncomfortable about writing again because this diary isn�t quite as private as it used to be. I�d feel bad abandoning it, but I�d feel even worse knowing that every word I wrote was sub-consciously tailored to fit someone else�s expectation of who I was or should be. I�m going to try it anyway. Maybe it�ll work. Maybe not. �It�s all in my head.� I know this.

I�ve been thinking more and more, lately, about writing. About what I could do. What I need to do. It�s the whole idea of DOING, in fact, that�s been driving me crazy. Because I�ve always considered myself to be an idealist... a dreamer... all the while (of course) thinking that this is a good thing, that I�m a good person for having such wonderful ideas about the world and the way it�s supposed to be. Ignoring (of course) the fact that I�m failing (miserably) to 1) do anything about it, 2) communicate my ideas to someone who WOULD do something about it, or 3) contemplate the moral or ethical implications of my NOT doing anything about it.

I feel, right now, like I�m witnessing the graduated torture of a small child and doing nothing to stop it. Just, basically, scripting an internal dialogue on the finer elements of pain. �Rising above it all.� Broadening my perspective until the details are no longer clear, until the individual is indistinguishable from the birth and sex and death surrounding and supporting its being. Until �humanity� is a fixed relationship of chemicals and events instead of a question that needs to be asked out loud before it can be answered.

The problem, of course, lies in taking a stand. I have never been able to take a stand�on any issue. Issues themselves seem so watery... so changeable. How do I know what�s right or wrong? �Do unto others as you would have done unto you.� The �golden rule.� This is such a lame-ass moral code. I don�t KNOW what I want from others. I have no fucking clue. I want to be surprised. I want to learn. I want to see the world differently, through someone else�s eyes. I want to feel my own skin�my own self�turn inside-out at those places where I�m touched. I want, basically, those things that happen, automatically, when I meet someone who delights me, read an especially provocative book, or make some charged contact that reminds me of the perks of owning and occupying physical space. I can�t give those kinds of things away intentionally. They just have to happen. So how do I treat others? How am I �good�? I resort to little things, small things that have nothing to do with anything. Domestic chores. Birthday cards. Little presents and notes. These are not things that I regret doing.... but they�re things that take me away from what I should or could be doing. Things that, in all likelihood, estrange me from myself to the point at which *I* am no longer interacting with ANYONE. �It�s all in my head.� I do know this.

And I don�t know how to change.

I just know that I have to.

What next?

Hmm.

inward...outward