Writing @ The Library

I think banana cream pie or banana cream cheesecakes are the tiny moments of happiness that blur out those other times of pain. So many people asking how I'm doing, but I really don't have an answer for them. I don't know the words to say. So I tell them the same. Then there's a strange silence and I feel their worry and I feel my anxiety at their worry and I think these are the moments that my doctor prescribed Klonopin for--Ha Ha--but I don't take one. Maybe I should just keep a slice of banana cream pie with me at all times so I can take a bite the next time one of those moments arises. (Or maybe someday I'll have an answer worth giving)

I didn't go to Thrust last night. Tonight, I tagged along with Art to Long Beach on an excursion to coffeehouses. We're at The Library now. It hasn't changed that much in ten years. I wonder how many of the books on the shelf are the same from the first time I came here. The conversations are the same. The laughter is the same. The horoscope at the cash register says that whatever I do tonight I should not be alone. So, I'm not. I'm surrounded by the bustle of life and I'm writing and this must be some fragment of what it is to be in touch with myself. This must be some string to hold on to and feel alive. Because if I know that nothing has changed here and I remember being happy in the space then I must be able to reach that space in my again. Yes? No?

What's different now? There are fewer friends in my life. Fewer support systems. I feel very much alone. I have felt like this state I'm in--or am still moving toward--has been steadily coming on for years. Maybe during the time that Randy and I were together, but definitely afterwards as I lost that closeness and intimacy. Nathan and I have distance. Cardwell and I have had each other and I"m thankful for that, but in the past we had each other in tandem with all that was around us and now I feel too much leaning on him or too much dependence. I know that I feel that all sides of me are not being accessed and/or utilized through a network of different friends.

I'm writing with a pen, been some time. Feels nice. The ink bleeds a little more than I'd like, but the glide is just perfect. The noise around me is dying and now I can hear the music that was obscured. There are vexing voices. There are meek mouths. There is a guitar strumming and I think about the infinite that I don't know and how I've always used knowledge. I was conditioned to know things for the sake of knowing it and not to apply it for any practical purpose. Thinking about thinking thoughts thought.

So can I do it? Can I write and finish this novel/book idea in the next month or so? I never actually do it when I start thinking or talking about doing it. I find a distraction. Look here, I've had a month and a half of free time and no turn-out of artistic expression. I know, I know...time to heal, to become whole again. It's the torture sometimes that reminds me of the artist inside. I think that there might be a lot I can say worth writing and worth others reading. Soaring there is air propelling thoughts out, down, around. I feel this yearning to be in an environment where I can be cultivated--or just grow.

My cell phone is logged into Mobile IM. Nothing too serious can be typed out, so I ask Martin what is going to fix this Middle East mess and he responds that the gays will save the day. Ha ha...that's funny. I'm seeing a whole pink & lavender brigade charging forward with Big Gay Al from Southpark leading them.

Drink more water. Walk more. Get up earlier. No more sleeping past 10am. Play. Be the me in time who was sublime.