puttered around the cell all day. Moved the stereo, which required rewiring all the speakers that are strategically mounted from one end of my three little rooms to the other. It also necessitated cleaning lots of spots that seldom see light of day; behind radiators, under the bed. Got hooked on a radio station in San Jose, courtesy of DSL. It grows on you, all this bandwidth. It really is only limited at the other end, at the various servers I seek to suck bytes from.
Spent a large part of the afternoon making a desktop for myself, an HTML document with all manner of things I like on it (but, of course, without some things I like). I finally settled on embedding an iframe into which I can put things like the current satellite image from GOES8, GOES9, or a full disc view of either the Eastern or Western hemisphere. Right now I have 289 square inches of Provincetown Harbor displayed, refreshing every 30 seconds. The servers at CapeCod.net are just mahhhvelus; they let me suck lots and lots of bytes out of them, and the image pops up just as fast coming from the top of the Whydah Museum on MacMillan Wharf as it would coming from my hard-drive.
I really, really, need a life.
sometimes I just want to cry. Well, actually, I often want to cry, only I'm not always aware of it. Sometimes, I am. I don't know how to do this stuff I'm always pretending to do, anymore. Maybe I never really knew how to fake living, but I thought I did. Maybe everybody could tell I was dead, really, like everybody knew I was gay while I thought I was hiding it real well. Like those several boys who I have loved this lifetime; they could plainly see how easy I would be, and I thought no one knew. Got away with murder, they did. It's not their fault, though. That's what I wanted them for.
Kill me. Put me out of my misery. Or try, at least, 'cuz what I really want is the chance to fight this dying I've always been doing, and it doesn't really matter which one of us wins. It's like a scene in Saving Private Ryan. Near the end there's a fight in the church steeple between one German and one American. It is violent and brutal, but as the ordeal approaches conclusion, there is no distance between the combatants, and except for the small sounds of exertion, there is quiet. They wrestle entwined, struggling for the same blade, and the death of one seems to be an intimacy they both share. As the American's life dissipates, the German hushes him as one might hush a crying child. "Shh, shh, shhh, shhhh," until, in his arms, his opponent is dead.
I want to be one of them, not for the dying, but for the intimacy which precedes it. It was not complex and confounding like all the intimacies I have attempted in the past. I know I could achieve the soldiers' intimacy. It only requires a desire to live, or a fear of death; it doesn't really matter which. And I have at least one of those.
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