last glass...dusty buckets...parched e-lips...sponge...drip...drop

2001-12-01 - 12:02 a.m.: nightcap

I decided to indulge in an entry today because, for some freak reason, I really feel like writing -- feel like exploding, actually -- and for the first time in about two weeks I don't have a paper to work on.

Well.... if I'm honest, I do. A long, tedious one. But I really don't want to begin. So.

I had a job interview today in EL.... went to it.... dressed up a bit for the occasion and felt stuffed into my clothes all day. It went well, though... I have the job and am going to be, starting in January, a "writing consultant" for the university. I had to "observe" some consulting sessions to get a sense of the philosophy behind the position, and I'm a little surprised about the number and variety of helpful things I'm NOT supposed to do. It will be quite interesting to start working. Painful, too.... probably.

Then I visited Lush.... it's strange to see, in the flesh, someone you've been corresponding with, predominantly, through words. It's almost magical, like seeing notes transformed into music. They're the same... but then they're completely different. There's really nothing to connect the voice "Luscious" to the body "Luscious..." but something makes me love both of them. What if they weren't the same? What if what I heard and read was a voice-over? Would it even make a difference? Is my love associative or do I differentiate?

Which brings me to another concern that I have. I'm a little bit afraid that I'm emotionally warped. Because.... I don't think I ever really *believe* that I'm loved by someone until I become aware that I possess the power to hurt them. Is this mad, or what? "If I can't make you cry, you must not love me." I would never admit this out loud (which I suppose validates this as a REAL diary) and I don't even know if it's really true. It's just this thought that I had. And it scares me a little. Do I only love people who can make me cry? Or is it that I believe that loving someone GIVES them the power to hurt you?

Is this why I'm so afraid of intimacy?

Why would I want to make anyone cry, anyway? Why would I be happy if I did? Do I really think love is rooted in pain and misery? What the hell?!

Probably tomorrow I'll wake up grinning, sing in the shower and laugh at myself for writing these things. Maybe I'm just being affected by the lazy mist that just will NOT move, but lies there in the air like a discarded towel, that doesn't smell fresh or moldy, just damp.

(Or I could say the air is moist with a pleasant molecular dew that diffuses the streetlights "just so"... giving a soft glow to every corner... making the world look just a little smudged... like a painting lacking detail... impressionistic... romantic....lovely.)

Or I could say that I've been up for nearly 48 hours writing papers and fretting over job interviews and wondering about the confused nature of my emotions -- spanking my inner child -- and feeling just a little odd, tonight.

How does one close a diary entry? Goodnight?