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11:06 am - Weds 12/10/03
Sometimes The Hardest Part Is The Title

Sometimes The Hardest Part Is The Title
Weds 12/10/03 (9:55 a.m.)

Feel like I've been up for days...went to bed probably close to 4 a.m. this morning, and woke up around quarter-after-seven.

I chatted with Kevin earlier, ending the conversation by telling him I was going back to bed, because that was, in fact, what I thought I was going to do. But I ended up finishing Crooked Little Heart (Another Anne Lamott novel. More on her later), and was so moved by the experience, I had to call Jennifer, if that makes any sense (Even if she doesn't feel the same way about me, she's the person I think of first when I'm moved by a book or movie or what-have-you. Anyway, got her machine. She probably won't call me back–She's either mad at me, or I'm just way down her "To Do" list–but it kinda/sorta doesn't matter).

Thinking about a lot of things, and I'm feeling that fear that it's all going to just moosh together in my mind, and I won't be able to figure out what I want to say first. So I'm just typing fast as I can, hoping that I can outrace that frustration, the inner censor that goes a little nuts sometimes, and just get stuff O-U-T.

I'm thinking a lot about the things I think about a lot, but never say in here...

Like how I often think of my bike as providing this or that "life lesson". For example, I think about how at the end of a work day, I'm often dog-tired, and think there's no way I'm going to be able to get home, but of course, I do get home (Cause what else am I going to do, after all? Sleep at the bookstore?). But it makes me think about how, tired or not, you can do whatever you really need to do (That reminds me of something Chris said to me, early on in my time here, back when it seemed like we were going to be friends–You have to put yourself in situations where there's basically no choice but to work things out. Or something to that effect).

I think a lot about my stuff. I don't have a lot of stuff, relatively speaking, but I do have stuff. And some time back, I thought about how much of my stuff comes from other people (Some examples-- the monitor in front of me was John O's., the computer was Cary's, the scanner was Kevin's, and the phone off to my right was Chris's). There's the futon frame (From Mark and Jane and company), the bike (From Cary and Kay), not to mention various household furnishings, which were purchased, in large part, from the money raised at my going-away party. Much of what I have are either other people's castoffs, or out-and-out gifts. And it hit me some time back that I could go either way with that knowledge–I could choose to be sad (That I'm a middle aged guy who can't really "float his own boat" and thus needs all this charity), or I could choose to be grateful (That I've been the recipient of a lot of kindness and generosity, without being particularly deserving. Considering no one has to give me anything, I have a lot of examples of how much people have given me, how much people think about me).

Day before yesterday, Ian was giving me a ride home, and I said something I've said–to myself, and to other people–a number of times before, to the effect that "I don't want to work. I just want to be auditioning for things during the day and doing plays at night. But I don't feel like I have to feel guilty about that, because it's not like I don't want to do anything". And Ian cut straight to the heart of one of my biggest fears when he said "Admit it-- Sometimes you don't want to do anything". And he's right–sometimes I don't. And that scares me, because you can't just not do anything. Whether I feel motivated or not, whether I know what I'm doing or not, life seems to require that I do something, when sometimes, a lot of the time, all I want to do is sit in my filthy apartment and watch television.

A couple months ago, I bought my first DVD porn. And I've been embarrassed to mention it in here, which I think is interesting and kind of funny. Just another example of how society is moving past me and my hang-ups; porn is more mainstream than ever in our society, and a multi-billion dollar industry, and I'm still acting as if masturbating over dirty pictures is my own shameful little secret...Two of the dvds are particularly embarrassing for me to write about. They aren't anything disgusting or shocking or anything like that; they're "interactive" dvds in a series called Virtual Sex. Basically, they're videos featuring porn actresses, where the viewer is the "leading man" (With a click of the remote, you can change positions, camera angles, etc. There's even a "naughty/nice" feature, where you can have the actress act like the porn star she is, or the girlfriend you never had; for more insight into me than you probably want to have, I usually opt for the nice, "girlfriend" mode). I've not mentioned it in here, because it seems particularly pathetic and sad–Like owning a sex doll or something-- but you know what? It is what it is. It's part of my life–Good, bad, or indifferent (There will be more on the subject of porn in future entries, but don't worry–While I'm not going to duck the issue, neither do I plan to obsess over it).

 

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