an extremely covalent particle or maybe ionic
Sunday, October 20, 1996
10am, home
Good morning, good day, good girl, good to be here. Never want to leave here. Present moment, wonderful moment, exhilarating moment. Petunia’s purring is so loud, putting her paw on my shoulder as I write on the sofa, happy.
Started to skate this morning, but the streets were still wet with rain, so I came back. And it’s so peaceful, even with footsteps here and cars softly outside. It’s a beautiful day and I don’t have too many errands.
I’ve spent so much time lately nursing Hil of her heartache. She’s mopey and lugubrious. All she wants to do is smoke and be depressed over J. Yesterday she was so obviously in the dumps and wanted me to stick around for dinner, but I was supposed to have dinner at Jim Hall’s with Frank. I know she’s pissed that I haven’t been around more during her incredibly sad time, but work is insane and I’m trying not to smoke that much, and frankly I don’t want to be around more if she’s going to spend the whole time being sullen. She can’t even hear anything I say, everything turns into another rant about J, and even if I say something about him, she interrupts me.
She reminds me of me two years ago, unable to think or talk about anything but Jackson, and I’m afraid this is the way I looked to Ava. Who by the way I would still love to punch in the head.
Thinking now about smiling, like the meditation tape I did yesterday. Even if you don’t feel great, you can still smile at it. Makes me think of Ted’s angry friend, Abel, and how much I don’t want to cater to people. Last night I wanted to write about it. Never to cater to someone unless you are getting paid to do exactly that. Catering is a very highly-refined and personalized service when it’s done right. And must be compensated because it involves inequality of importance of needs. One does not gain anything from one’s self by catering to another. But what about a sense of personal accomplishment for doing such a good job?
And what’s up with last night’s dreams? Singing myself the attention song. Imagining all kinds of silly scenarios of me and Frank going public.
The problem is, I don’t want to get off the couch and start doing anything. Exercising, writing or doing errands. I just want to sit here and spin cycle, spinning off some ideas, not getting anywhere, just spinning like an electron. Then, when things change, I just go spin over there with both particles. I am an extremely covalent particle or maybe ionic.
Hil gave me a book on cultivating female sexual energy and already today, I spilled some more of my own. I churned it up out of all of my essences and then dumped it. Recycle, says the Tao. Which I used to hope said, do anything you feel like and don’t worry about it and chalk it up to the Tao. So, maybe I will skate. Or maybe I’ll just go straight back to bed.
Monday, October 21, 1996
10:30am, train
Terrific, another day. And truly exciting, but at the same time, terrifying, unknown. I can only believe that at the end, I’ll be happier. I have to remember who I’m writing for or I get stuck. Let’s see, what did I do yesterday? And why do I always want to record it? Think of how many days I’ve lost already. Days and days, months worth. Where I didn’t write it down and don’t remember.
Maybe if I had the ultimate possible mind, I would effortlessly remember everything. The necessary or desired info would float up to the surface, magic 8-ball style. I would be kind to my mind and it would be kind to me. I would not turn it against itself or be in an argument with it. I would be the teacher of a meditation course called It’s Really Okay.
I. Today, what I do, I do. Just float around. This mediation, I did it again yesterday plus a half hour of thoughtful yoga. And smoking, was it three or four joints? Just caught myself thinking. I can’t possibly publish anything while my mother’s alive. Been thinking about the PoemFone book, St. Mark’s, how I blew off New Year’s Day.
Later, work
Well, thank goodness I have me to turn to. Now, what am I going to do for me? How’s that lousy, edgy, like-hell feeling, right in the crotch, right in the seat of power? Yeah.
Funny, maybe it’s this outfit. I had almost the exact same thing on for the Plug In Festival and I felt exactly this way. Like I have a yeast infection, fucked and furious. Ted called yesterday at work to tell me he brought his bike back over to my place. I’m angry and that makes me feel guilty. I’m angry because I feel guilty. I’m angry because my long johns cut me in an uncomfortable place.
Makes me wonder if it all sucked, what was I doing for a year? Kidding myself the entire time? Selling me out to have sex with that asshole? Feels not so great referring to him as an asshole. I have to acknowledge or I can’t move on. I should have hid my last notebook better.
Oh, fuck him. I have to tell him he can’t keep the bike at my place anymore. Why bother being honest with him about my anger at him? And as I write this sentence, I know. I want to feel taken care of. The word “surrender” floats up. But surrender to fate, not to another person. Never.
My cunt is completely jumping because I haven’t been jerking off because I’ve been trying to conserve my sexual energy. And I want to grab Frank in the middle of the day, throw him in a cab back to his place and have him work on my itch. Have him pay attention to me, please. Enter my fear a little. Let’s mix. Have some of me. Take over while I rest. Comfort me. Remind me of things I want to do or at least want to get done and help me. Make love to me, make me feel loved. If he wants to be around, he’s got to earn it, that’s for sure.