orig.copy.circa: spring2002
Dear Dark Blue,
I am officially stuck. Like a broken record or gum to the bottom of a shoe; like car tires with poor traction on the shoulder of a nowhere road. I am unsettled by the feeling of being spied on, tested, commissioned to create without the tools or the drive. My waking mind can not place names or faces, refuses to fix schedules or formulate strategies because of where my mind has been some half-remembered nights. tracing unfamiliar patterns across cracked earth, speaking in snapshots, and tracking sticky mocha onto the cream of foreign carpets. I am greatly troubled, of late, over the smallest details, both in the dreams and out. I've written what I can remember, sketching or painting the rest, just desperate to convey --however unskilled the work turns out to be, well, there it is. Although I feel and act the bafoon I haven't made my mind up to call on you to have a look. Help me, please. As you are the only one who can, I am trusting you.
So, I shut my eyes on logic. Ignoring the order of the cluttered world of unread books and knicknacks mossy with dust and there I am, stuck, vertical. A small child down a small man-made hole in the ground with no one to hear me calling. Pressed into myself, crushed in the cold metal hug of some forgotten tunnel; some abandoned secret. A bright patch of sun blooms warm across the nape of my bare neck and I start to wonder what time it is though I know I've nowhere to be. In the dark with me, awareness and a familiar fear, some haunt that distracts me from my wish to play. I am hurt that no one has come looking, that they don't even know I'm gone or don't really care. In shady pockets of unseen shifts I cry dry tears. Music. A line from a song Oh how I wish that it would rain travels in wistful cartoon lines. I cannot see it but I know it's there, something tells me it is so and I believe it. The spooky fear of an indistinct night, living and spying, carries over into suspicion; into the proper fear of change. A cloud passes overhead, I am cold, my eyes adjust to another deeper layer of night.
I seem to care very much, too much to move, so I don't and it's ok. The world comes to me. I am engulfed in the dim heart of an underground room, perhaps what is left of the world, a secret. No longer a child and no longer alone I recline on soft pillows and the warm arms of frail, human perfection. I am aquainted with his weakness in light of my own, but we're both cloaked in unfurling fog. I feel soft and taken care of. This time I think I'm safe because I think I'm in love with a dear friend who touches my hands saying, "You're diff'rent out there. You're something I don't know. Why are you?" I tell myself I should feel threatened by his presence. I want to say that I don't have to answer to him. This is my place, my comfort, my fog, my nighttime escapade. I am an answer and he is the question, the one person I shouldn't doubt but do. He is the threat, the reminder of dissonance. I should defend myself against his doubt of me but I can think of nothing to say. What should I do?
Still Myself,
J.
3:01 p.m. - 2003-08-08
Recent entries:
oday.html">the 3 month countdown begins - 05 May 2018
anothrburst.html">another burst - this used to be my playground
newlife.html">begin at the beginning. - 10 April 2008
moody.html">a blanket for a bad mood under the sun. - 25 March 2007
emilludwig.html">...kissing a fool... - 05 December 2006
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