stinks of the time

Friday, November 15, 1996
10am, train

Had an up and down day yesterday. Got in early and stopped to see Frank. Then Tony came in and asked, How are the brains of the corporation doing today? So, we start with all that, and then as soon as I get upstairs Mat is puffing, pacing, and basically driving me nuts. Then we do the show, and then I went out to lunch with Mat, though I knew I should’ve been alone.

Then, blah, blah, blah. Went home with Frank, making food. Then he starts hugging and making out with me. Then we go to bed, feeling and kissing and touching. Then he stops and says he’s not sure what it is, but something has changed, and he doesn’t want to make love to me the way he did. I try to be patient for about, oh, five full minutes.

Then I hop off the bed and say, You know what? You’re not ready for this. This is a responsibility you can’t handle. You’re so trapped in your act and your fears. I told him, This is a power play. This stinks of the time you said you couldn’t see me because you had a date. My teeth were chattering.

I was afraid and mad, and I told him so. I said if after all the fucking ‘let’s get it on’ of the last two months, you’re going to tell me you want to be my friend? I am going to be disappointed and annoyed. It’s always some redemption drama/catharsis scene. So then he starts leaking tears. Not crying, just sort of nonchalantly rolling out of his eyes and down his face.

He says he doesn’t have to go away to figure out what he wants. He knows what he wants. Since I can’t paraphrase his meaning, I’ll quote. “I want your clarity, your vision, your level of awareness, your attention,” and he’s afraid he doesn’t have it. So then I comforted him. We finished cooking, ate and went to bed, which was pretty gratifying all around. Then I came home and I was wired so I called Harriet and smoked a bunch. Didn’t read or do anything else instead.

So I still have these fucking annoying administrative things on my mind. Spent the 40 minutes I did yoga thinking about work and jerked off twice. Frank is like Jackson the Ambivalent. Going over the bridge, I like to forget about me and my imagined situation. Nope, thinking about work.

I’m waiting to understand something, something I hope will or won’t come. I’m fucking off into nonsense and I can’t deal with either parent, nor anything else, even my friendships. Not even my self-awareness campaign, nothing. Don’t feel like running to see Judith in the middle of a work day. Have to try to put off an appointment with someone else tomorrow. Oh, well. It’s all started already so I’ll join it.

Monday, November 18, 1996
10:50am, train

Sometimes I wish it would not so consistently be this way, that I could put off spinning my wheels for a few hours or forever just to delay the “me” part of the experience. I’m locked in like anyone, like Judith is locked fastly into being her, so judgmental. And me? Once again acting afraid that it’s her who’s mad at me when it’s me, and I keep telling myself, shh. I know. But can’t I put off acknowledging it a little longer?

Why am I trapped by the situation with my father? Why is he always correct and I’m always wrong? Why do I wish I could be closer to him, tell him more the truth? I hate him. I hate myself for selling out to him, for getting him a copy of my chapbook, and my nose sometimes wrinkles as I’m writing.

I’ve trusted way more people than I should have in the past. People aren’t evil, but neither are they capable. Now I’ve noticed lately how during the day I flash on weird things and how I just remembered walking into the Sloan’s supermarket on Roosevelt Island by the parking lot. But I sort of remember it from the side view, which I guess you got when you were leaving with the groceries.

Led to thinking how me and Nora tried to cash a traveler’s check there, then thinking about Frank trying to read these books, and how much consistent success one can have with my writing. When I tried to snoop on Jackson I gave up after a while because it was too laborious and slow, and everything I read distressed me.

Haven’t called Gale, either. It’s been a tough month, and the holidays to come. God, I hate them. I think I want to go home right after the macromedia class. Is it time for the bridge yet? Do I have to write down my dream?

A young woman with heavy eyebrows and long, thick hair mouthing aloud from the Torah. The man next to me reads a hardcover book in Russian. A Filipino woman reading a romance novel. A man listening to a morning show on his headphones, yawning, smiling, totally caught up. Another man slouched forward with his plastic bag from Conway on the floor by his crossed feet.

God, my love for you increases the more I observe you, which is an optimistic and frightening thing. A handbook of inspirational poetry, a multicolored newspaper in Chinese. More Torah, the text broken elegantly into blocks and sub-blocks. I have to go. Okay.