Too Much

I'm feeling sorry for myself and taking pity upon myself. It's not like I did or didn't do anything to deserve it. Deserve isn't the right word. It's more like a set up-- a sabotage? Perpetrated by myself. Which is self-reinforcing.

There's a blackness encroaching. I distract myself to avoid it. Constantly. And so I don't think about that part. It's because I've progressed farther towards the paradox of having versus wanting than ever before. I've achieved all the expectations. Most of them, at least. I've caught up to the number in my head, along all the dimensions I'm supposed to excel. And it scares me.

It's going to sound ridiculous, and if there's something that you (yes, you) can do about it, resist. But how do I restrain myself? But how I do restrain myself! This question and statement are true simultaneously. Why aren't I the kind of person I think I am? Or am I totally mistaken, and I'm the person I think I am and the problem is that's not the right kind of person to be. And anyway, what is it "to be" "right?" Is that even the question I'm asking?

What is it that I don't do to cement solid relationships? Save one, now two. One is because I'm her father; the other because maybe she reciprocates that trust, that "faith," that notion that I'm going to be what I'm supposed to be. Probably what keeps me going is that same idea, that I'm going to be what I'm supposed to be. I hope my supposition is right.

2. All the words

All the words

I owned all their albums
I knew all the words
When their songs came on the radio
I sang along so loud.

We went to their shows, and
we screamed all the words.
I told you they were my favorite band, ever.
I never really liked them.
I just wanted you to think I did.

1. The taste of whiskey

The taste of whiskey

The taste of whiskey in my mouth reminds me of
the taste of whiskey on your lips which reminds me of
those so many nights of-- did we drink that much then-- did we
really do all that?

Are those memories of the taste of whiskey mine,
or did I make them up drinking whiskey some night?

Painting the wall

I'm looking at the painted sample color on the wall of the nursery. The nursery! The paint sample! But it looks good. Very good.

About Posting Journals, Part 2

Without being ironic, I can say that what's interesting about my journals--at least to me-- is that my "angst" or general continuous existential "issues" (crisis seems to imply a singularity which I just never had) became increasingly focused. As I solved my biggest problem, loneliness, it was replaced immediately by the sense of not having accomplished what I should [have]. And often times I still feel that way. Perhaps the daughter due in a few months will change that, too.

Oh yeah, and my parents read them at some point. What they must have thought!

About Posting Journals

I had the opportunity to read the blog of a friend, and reading her cryptic descriptions of her life reminded me so much of how valuable it was to express myself in a public place without being so public. We all share the same angst, it's just different forms. But I decided to find my old works and put them up on display. At this point, it doesn't really matter. They used to be a way for me to:
* Track who exactly was interested in my life (regular readers of my proto-blog included a now-unsurprising list headed by my wife)
* Collect my thoughts
* Be utterly incoherent and yet weave it all back together somehow
* Remind me that I wasn't the only one

I expect they can still be used for this.

My Journal, Part 6 (2002)

Having squandered much of my life on these accursed machines,
I'm left without mem'ries: I have only dreams.
(Too many days of video games and black-and-white friends)

"Cruising though a big city in a convertible on a hot summer night."

I spent my time wanting to be something I wasn't,
I try to make my mind follow and it doesn't.
(Long have I wanted to be that guy, I just can't)

"Spinning and spinning in a hazy subconscious euphoria to the
thumping bass."

Too much wasted [o]pining,
Way too much refining.
(I have cried too much and as a result tried too much)

"Those halcyon afternoons of cool swimming pools and warm sunsets."

What have I done?
Little have I won.
(I have seen a lot, sure, but to show for it?)

"Thinking about girls, the way they smile and smell and walk and talk."

Whither do I wither?
And why the hell dither?

"The way music sounds. That perfect song. The feeling in your stomach
and heart, and you know it's just right."

Crying from happiness,
Crying from sadness.
There's no dying from happiness,
Only dying from sadness.

Explosions and delusions of rapture aren't that different, are they?
They must be.

"The pure thrill of chase."

It's time to find that fun again: it's almost springtime for me.
And then there's summer!
Another chance for "almost." Is that my middle name?
"Action must be taken."
Isn't it about time that I did something about it?
Yes, yes it is, but what to do?