03.06.01 11:27 p.m. -W.H. Auden
"The stars are not wanted now
Put out every one
Pack up the moon
And dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
For nothing now can ever come to any good"
03.06.01 11:27 p.m. -W.H. Auden
I need to talk to someone, but I feel there is no one that really understands. They cannot possibly. So I will talk to you and maybe you will. If you do not, then you do not. This isn't for you, it never was.
For the past several days, I have been trapped within my house owing to a much hyped snow storm. Rather than tunneling through this winter wonderland (which is still as late and as white as the March Hare), I have been attempting to write one of the eight papers that are due. This is not crucial information, however it adds undue stress to my already shaking frame. In fact, I should be writing one right now on the Melian Dialogues, but I needed to talk far more than I needed to be a good student.
Every morning, I awaken to find this statically charged emptiness lying next to me. Before I could make it dissipate by filling it with images of likely femmes.
The vacuum has triumphed. It knows as well as I do, there is no one I am willing to let myself be with.
Worse, the hot spring of my psyche has chosen know to burble up the memory of the unbridled connection I shared with Kate over winter break. She was to me what no other could have been, could be. She filled a role that exists only for her, a vacancy that can never be filled. Since she does not behave as she did even then (which isn't to say she is anything other than she is and is thus not a negative statement), the room is boarded up.
This isn't romantic, though at the time it was for me. It was merely that she became again this person I was in heaven to be around. The interplay existed on all levels and we could barely stand not to be within inches of each other, if but for two precious nights.
That certainly adds to this lecherous void. It does not compose it, however.
I was speaking with Eileen tonight, lamenting that which I have described to you above, how I tried to make amends with Jen over winter break and failed, how she (Eileen) and I will not be together (she told me that I had a great chance with her until I introduced Erikson's stages of psychosocial development, specifically identity versus identity confusion coming before intimacy versus isolation. For two points, guess which stage she and I were at, respectively), and so on. I was opening up/bitching. She seemed to briefly and occasionally understand, despite her different life experiences, which is more than I can expect or ask of others. Then I came to the real crux. Call it an epiphany. Call it well covered in this journal.
No one finds me amazing. Well, that isn't exactly true. People tell me they think I am amazing. But they know that is what I want to hear and are telling me it to get into my good graces. I can tell and it means less than nothing to me. Eileen understood and said she couldn't tell me that she found me amazing. I respected that. I would rather respect someone and be hurt by him or her than have them pour sugar water into my ear until I go into a diabetic coma. I am not Hamlet's father, please pour it in my glass and give me a choice to drink. You'll earn Denmark with less death and fewer psychotic diatribes about flowers that way.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
I find few people amazing. And I let them know once I do. I refuse to say it if I do not mean it, so when I say it, it is the most sincere form of truth of which I am capable. But it is not enough. It seems once one knows that I find them completely different from every other person on earth, that I could sit on a grassy knoll and study them for weeks, they have no more interest in me. In confessing they have so affected me, I give away my intrigue. Perhaps they feel they have won me and I can henceforth be neglected as a former prize. This irks me to no end.
Obviously the words "You are amazing to me" are nearly synonymous with "I love you."
Who do I truly love, outside familial bonds?
I made a list. I deleted it. It was cruel and unfair. If you think you make the list, you may indeed. If you think you do not, you are probably right. Ask yourself, when is the last time I prostrated myself and bled love before you?
This, too, is not the issue. Merely an article.
My issue is that the world, at least the world I am exposed to, views professions of love as signs of weakness and folly. Do you have any idea how utterly sick that sounds? It grates my ears and heart. (Well, what did you think hot dogs were made from?)
I'll level with you. I don't often feel loved or amazing. I feel lonely and wearisome. (Big shock.)
The last time someone that truly mattered to me told me I was amazing was about three months ago. Conor and I were talking at Kendall's house. It was very laidback, but I was happy to be with someone I so loved (Yup, Conor, I love you. You are like a brother to me. So now you don't have to guess).
The conversation turned to computers or e-mail, I forget exactly. Conor confessed that he had only spoken to one person on-line lately, but it was the most wonderful boy he knew. I began to say in earnest, "But, Conor, you talked to me last..." and it hit me. I think I must have glowed and I thanked him for the great compliment.
That did mean an immense amount to me. But I see people I love frequently. Aside from the startlingly incapacitating hugs of Kei (Uh oh! I admitted someone else!), I get very little positive feedback.
Maybe my love does make me weak. I'm not about to say something to saccharine trite as "but it is a great strength." Give me some credit. I admit to people that they have a modicum of power over me. They have succeeded in earning my bedazzlement (sadly, this word makes me picture late night commercials for a useless product) and respect. Maybe they cease to try because they feel there is no other point; they have gotten all they can. But each moment is new, each time I profess love and amazement, it is a first time.
I guess I am saccharine after all.
reading: textbooks and little more
listening: the hum of my mother's air purifier, though it is too little, too late
wanting: A grain of sand to wish Fantastica back into existence; to chase away the Nothing.
interesting thought: Not everyone lusts for power. Some just lust. Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. Double Dragon publishes four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, and Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings. He likes when you comment.