o.k. It's time to write. I've been spending the whole day in html-land, and in one particular garden there—javascript, which has become my favorite little cozy space to waste lots of hours. Haven't even gotten dressed and I just ate supper.
I'm anxious. I revamp this site when I'm anxious; you might notice the extra little frame down on the right. Once or twice, when looking for something here, like a turn of phrase I can't quite recall, or a link I know I posted, I've gotten lost amidst the frames, and annoyed I could not tell just where I was. But figuring out a solution for such minor irritations is always too much bother for not enough gain—until I'm anxious.
I suspect there's a lot not working since my 'improvements'; an anxious state of mind makes for sloppy work. I keep wondering if those random strings of script I barfed onto the screen are right or wrong. I mean, what's the difference between document.location.href, self.location.href, this.location.href and top.location.href, or between (!document.body) and (document.body == null)? The doubts keep repeating like Chinese water torture even though I don't care right now which is right and which is wrong. If I were focused and calm I could persue such details productively, but these questions are merely the product of an anxious mind, pacing its cage.
Is there a me in you? An identity I might earn, or take? I'm willing to barter for the gift of who am I from you. And I'll pretend, I'll be grateful like it really was a gift. What can I do? How can I make you give me who I am? Because the closer I get to you, the more I need to know.
the northwestern sky is dark—thick clouds and cold shadows—and closing in as though night is a storm that blows in from Canada. The day's been cold and gray. My coffee's hot and strong. My mind wants to run, tries to sleep; fights to avoid this annoyance of reality. "Leave me alone! No! ..no, don't." Fierce ambivalance and java.
It's always been easier to be alone. No shit. Well, perhaps what I mean is it's always been impossible to be not alone. I try, I get hurt. I let him try, and I hurt him. So I try a different way... It always comes out the same. I was built to be alone. And it's not the injuries that make me reluctant. For me, the potential for injury is what marks an experience as rewarding; it flags love rich. And that makes it worse. I've seen the signs and run to them, casting myself foolish and exuberant into great loves and delicious liasons. But their taste evades my tongue.
if life were blood—that flowed not from me or you alone, but only from the love between us—then we would be vampires drinking deeply the rich warm metallic-tasting flow, and together we would prosper in our love for all eternity. Often I've had all the parts in place, myself included, and inundations of the juice did flow. I felt it on my face, around my mouth, right to the edge of my pink lips—and even touched it with extended tongue. But never once could I make love's lifeblood cross these lips; it just wouldn't go.
I'm sure it's fear; everything comes down to fear. And it must be my fault. Indeed, it is; I am responsible for everything, in the Buddhist way. But I can't make it change. It's not that I'm afraid; I just don't know how. I will try to come to it again, I have no choice. (How could I ever stay away?) But please understand what torture it is for me to paint my face with love and, for some fiendish fucking reason, taste not one single drop.
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