My Journal, Part 3 1999)

10: Revitalization, for some reason, with the irony that it's Thanksgiving [11/25/1999]

I'm back to being very excited about the future. Having transitioned from a more melancholy attitude, I can't help but be happy about it. She's worried, but that's silly: doesn't she understand that if it's strong enough, it will survive? Maybe, or maybe she doesn't think it's strong enough-- maybe I don't know enough to say definitively, but it looks good from here. And there's some progress towards my twin quests, her with a him, him with a her. Not that that's the necessary outcome; people don't have to work in pairs, except in clase de espanol. Many people are quite fine all alone...or so they'd have you believe before they tear your heard out and stomp on it, when you see that they're not fine all alone, either. At least everyone's human, which is pretty reassuring. Flawed people are good people, and they're really real, too. I'm happy with them. While a recent theft from my car whittles down my Maslovian faith in human decency, I'm still on the positive side. I have to be.
Thanks for giving me a good time, everyone. Well, those of you who've contributed. Which are a few. And thanks for giving me some sense of satisfaction, whatever that means. Desperate no longer. Thanks for giving me a hope for the future; despite my past experiences, I still believe in it. Well, I guess it's worked out alright. I do alright. Now if only I can teach somebody else the same thing. They don't have to believe me, but how can't they? The virtue of my own opinions. How wonderful they are! and they're all correct.
Set the world on fire. What's the point if you don't? Goals? That's my goal. Staying elated. I think that's a good goal, obviously, and a noble one at that. Gone are the days of teenage angst, replaced with some kind of newfound optimism, but for a nearer future than usual. I just hope that our impending disasters, on the first of January, aren't too bad. I don't want a paradigm shift in my daily life, at least not like that one. Maslow enters the soliloquy again, but on the plus side of things. As bored as I am, I'm still happy. Funny, I think. Just two years ago, my soul was vacant. What'd I do? I hope it was all good. Well, most of it, at least. I just like things. I really do. It's a lot easier this way, and a whole lot less stressful. Maybe you're right. It's too difficult to actively dislike things. But you would never say that, would you? Ah, well, she understands...as always. You got to find someone like that. Good luck, I mean it. 9: What's this?

What's this about quiet desperation? I thought mine has been pretty vocal. She never lets me down, but why is she the only one? What have I done to get into this? She's the only one, really, it seems. And I don't even have to mean it that way. That way remains to be seen. But everyone else?
Desperate. Can I? Should I? Would I? Maybe, probably not, no. A scale of negatives from somewhat to very...the "no" rainbow. But in general, I'd hardly say that you could make a rainbow from "no"'s. I'm not a rainbow, and sometimes I think I'm made out of "no"'s.
And then there's the ride back up the rollercoaster, brought on by whatever it was this time. Remberances of times past? No, that rarely works. More, hopes for the future, that's what I always buy into. For me, the past isn't for emotional sale. Remember that I can borrow from the future. I'm the only awake one in the apartment as I have a drink. That's not allowed; I've decided, yet I continue. Allowance. Both ways of the word.
And I don't even need to go on about her. And warmth, as she's contented by little. Fortunately for me, that is, because that's what I have to offer in many senses. Maybe something. Probably, there must be something good in me, or maybe I'm a good actor. And if I were a good actor, then that'd be good enough. But I doubt it. I just have to remember when to stay quiet. No, start being quiet.
8: Reflections on Four Nines

I think this day, 9/9/99, is supposed to be significant. Some crazy things are supposed to happen today. I hope they don't; I'm pretty happy with the stability of the world in general. Not the stability of tyrrany, but maintaining my hopes, dreams, and chance of success. She's better now, and so we are. I'm still surprised from her psychological success. I don't want to attribute any of it to myself, but maybe she did some of it for me, too. Wow, that's pretty flattering. She always flatters me; her very mindset continuously does so. And I don't do that much for her, what did I do to get this? I need to take better notes. And when you look around, you'll see me. And I'm with her.

7: A Different Era (July 19)

I haven't written in this little file in months. I've done a lot since then, you know, I can't really describe it all. Just more of the same, taken in just a little different light. Maybe a brighter beam.

6: Restored, Etc.

So now I have a job that is the epitome of "the game," but do I want to get into that? She's better, we're better. I'm lonely, but not sad. It's funny, isn't it! And she's so nice to me.

5: A Plunge

And then I jumped off that cliff. I still haven't decided if I'm right to fall, nose dive into the pavement or maybe an abyss that I've already visited. Probably neither, hopefully the world is round. I've lived the past year with her, and I don't want to stop. Distance forces it, but do I have to let that affect me psychologically the same way? She says she's OK-- how's that? I'm not. I live lonely but for her, for the most part. I'm sure I'll never find her equal. There really can't be such a person. Somber, you know I can't help it. Unfair, to both of us. I don't think I can do this. Maybe I don't need her, but, oh, do I want her. I just hope my gamble doesn't leave me in a heap on that aforementioned pavement. As much as I want to fall right back into her arms. "I'll only be gone for a month or two [now three?]" Is that right? What am I thinking? Though I can't ask her to wait for me, the same way she couldn't ask me to wait for her. It's a bit different. Do I really have to do this?

4:
I'm home, well, the place where I live in the off-season. There's not too much off-season anymore, I guess, and this is almost the last of it. After this summer, it's off to the real world, none of this school stuff. I look around and remember where I got all this stuff, books, music, papers, everything. Who was I with? Who was obsessed with? One of the few traceable patterns in my life is that one of obsession, and maybe my last experience with it tainted it for me, yet I can still love. I know what I did wrong, I think, and I think I know how to do it right.

One of my regrets in life would be to not share with people. I don't think what I think is for everyone, but maybe someone out there needs to know someone thinks like they do, or maybe someone should [or shouldn't]. My problem is total cerebral overload. I'm thinking about everything, and I mean it. I can't start because there's too much. Should I sit down and write the prototypical autobiographical first novel, or is that more pretentious than I want? If I thought it would be valuable to anyone, then I think I'd do it. I'm almost more worried about what it'd do to me-- we had to write that "I remember" piece, and I remember a lot. That was the old she of course, and I saw the most sentimental thing she ever gave me, a drawing of a photograph of us. But we didn't need to be there. Well, I guess we both needed to get past that first hurdle, and all in all, she made a good first real [reciprocating] girlfriend. Perhaps setting me up for my current state, a higher level than I knew existed. It's that grand interconnectedness of being that I love to be scared to think about. "Do you think that kind of thing happens?" I've seen a lot of weird things in my life, so I'm not as skeptical as I once was. Or as cynical. At least, as blatantly and wholeheartedly cynical. I'm about to accept a job with a respected company in New York City. In other words, materialize a dream. Though, will it lead in the direction I hope? What a cliche worry. I'm twenty and one-half years old, I don't need to worry about that. I'm remembering that song from Cat Stevens that my dad played for me on a 33. Didn't Katie play it on the way to school a few years ago? I can't remember, she played some similar things.

I missed a lot growing up, most of it important social developments, maybe that's why I can't deal. Well, I can, maybe I do it too well. An art, a la Plath, but her treatment is impossible for me. Is this even worthwhile, to turn all the thinking on, to consider everything? I don't have enough time to consider everything, that's too bad. I won't lapse into my typical mortality mode, since I'm not in that mood. I just can't get over -something-, what is it? I know what it's not, and too bad I'm so paranoid. That's ok, it's usually not turned on. But that's enough delving into that area. I think I'll debate writing a book more and then end up stirring up too much confusion in my mind to not do so. I'll enjoy it at least. You might, but you'll be so bored if you did. 3:
For some reason, I'm thinking about the excitement of first love, and that of first kiss. The total emotional overload. I wrote pages in my diary about it, though perhaps I had played it up so much it just had to be such a big deal. So maybe it's the thrill of the chase. The other best feeling I've had is that once the chase is totally over. You just look at her and you know. Easy enough to understand. I'm impressed. 2 (2/7/99): And so there you thought this was just a one time thing, like so much else that I've done. Incomplete, unfinished, regrettable. But who can avoid that? There's that guy who could never quite admit to himself what he wanted, and maybe that's me, too. He did, and look where that got him! (You know who you are, I hope you had fun tonight -there-). That makes sense, though, I mean, how else could it work out? I was thinking of some things, but they're mostly repetitive and the ideas are posthumous. A beautiful girl. The imagery suggested by that kind of thing. It's always that kind of thing. She told me, probably, because I wouldn't have figure it out by myself. I did, I though, but not the same way. You can't figure that kind of thing out. Well, I can't, and in my experience, it seems a person can't. I just didn't understand. I probably don't, now. Uncertainty. Losslessness. Now look what you've done, you've gone and created something. Dare it. I just want to remember to be the way I want to be. I have this plan, see, and it's a good plan, for me, but I can't bring it to fruition. That's not surprising, what is? She said it's all new to her, but you must know it isn't. 1 (2/99): It was more of an attention-getter than an explanation of the subject. You can blame me for that, and I know I could be offering my predictions on the subject. Instead, more random musings, as usual, and if I strike a chord or cliche any more, you can regard it as the oh-so-great interconnectedness of everything, if you believe in that stuff. I do, but only in a way that I can't explain. Not like you might think. Not at all.

The burden that comes from the power of writing. A computer keyboard makes me an author, perhaps undeservedly, perhaps blindly, definitely pretentiously, but that's already been established. The converstaion we're having without even thinking about it. Maybe it's not just with me. The epiphany. Of being, sure, but who can comment on that? On connecting. Establishing that aforementioned wonder, that's important. To me, at least. I'm scared of dieing. You know I am, and I can't bring myself to the total hedonism that my fear might require. I think it might be fun, but I couldn't live with myself. The irony of it all, you see. It's something to think about once in a while, but I can't dwell on it, or I can't dwell on the "bad things." Does everyone have that, too? A group of things that are deep down that surface every so often and sadden you, scare you, generally make you uncomfortable. Mine includes dieing. At my age, I can't handle my own mortality. Perhaps it'd be scary if I could, or so people tell me. Maybe I'll forget to breathe. Or maybe I'll forget to care. I have to do everything right, this is my one shot at it all. It's crazy to say that, sure, but examine it. I digress. As usual. Maybe I was telling you a story of me, I probably do, I always seem to come back to myself, relate things to myself. I can't help it. I can't help me. Cliche again, and I sigh. Can I handle all the meta's I try? Overanalysis. A bird's eye view of a bird's eye view. And so on, for me ad nauseam. Comes before a few times. It has to, or else I'll just confuse myself. The random directions a mind goes. Is it just my following the unchosen leads through my thoughts? That's ridiculous. I'm always ridiculus. Well, that's not -so- true, as sometimes I dabble in the real. The conscious is the tip of the iceberg into which the Titanic of real ran. Another pseudo-intellectualism and I sigh. I'm full of those, I can wax metaphoric and be ambiguous all day. And you still won't understand what I mean, and you might think you might, and maybe you do, but maybe I try to make them unintelligible. I can't tell. Not that I don't want to tell, but I really don't know. Saying I don't know often. Those are some things, you know. Maybe I'll write some more later, maybe I won't ever look at this again. But it's 1999. That's ridiculous. The arbitrarity of numbers. I think it's supposed to be, what, 1995? Purists can cry, I won't, I'm not a purist about subjectives. I try not to be at least, maybe there're some elegances left that I can want pure. I think there are, they're special if they are. Elegant. Slick, I might say, if I were sure of the degree of elegance. But maybe you disagree, and that's right, too.