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I was the April Fool once, about two years ago. I met a man I thought I liked, around April 1st. It soon turned out that he was one of the worst things that ever happened to me. Things happened because of knowing him, that ultimately led to my losing friends, my sense of being able to be a friend, any knowledge that I could care for another human being, and even my self-sense. I no longer knew who I was. I still don't, but things are getting better. I live, his stagnation as a person will be his undoing. Justified.
It's just struck me how odd it is to be engaged in a common goal with a group of strangers. We're all in the same place, doing the same thing, for ostensibly the same reasons. By and large, though, we don't know each other. As strangers we are glimpsing the life-snippets of other strangers. There are names, or at least labels, by which we can discern one stranger from another; but that is a surface label. All this surface, and all this intimacy, yet we're still unknown to each other, and likely to remain so. Tell me who you are.
People worry that acts of kindness will fall on deaf ears, or they will receive no "payback"; so they don't act kindly, and aren't charitable. Charity, to me, is the act of giving selflessly without expectation of payback in kind, because one can give, and because another is in need. If the thing given does not help, the act of giving - the energy one puts forth by giving, the vibe - might help. You give because it will make someone's world a better place; even if it's just you, and all you get is the knowledge that you've done something nice.
Do Not Ever expect me to be proud of "trying" that results in failure, when that failure means I am still without companionship, with company, without even sex, for fuck's sake. How in hell could anyone reasonably expect me to jump for fucking joy at some attempt that's got me, well, nothing? If it were some mundane thing, that might be different; but this is the game of human relations, and I find no personal satisfaction in the attempt. There isn't a noble fucking thing about it. There's no pride to be had from the continued hurt of being lonely.
Another one of those things one should never do to me: If I am obviously upset about something in that "I may cry any second" sort of way, don't make inane jokes, laugh, or be otherwise stupid. Your moronic humour and comments can make me feel worse; and even extremely angry. I find stupid remarks and laughter to be a degrading, demeaning, and dismissive, way, to treat anyone's anger or upset - regardless of how big or small it seems to you, it's big to that person. Have some respect. Would you want to be treated stupidly if you were upset?
This weather must be some sort of cosmic joke. It's often said that Canada has two seasons: winter and construction (or July, depending on who you ask); and if that's the case (considering they've just started some construction on the Don Valley Parkway; a highway just outside of Toronto) shouldn't the winter STOP? I want to go back to winter; it was warmer then; there was hardly any snow then; I could wear less sweaters then; I didn't have to wear socks inside the apartment then. I want to go outside without the necessary evil of my winter coat, damnit.
Someone I knew slightly via the internet, killed himself the other day, by jumping off the roof of Evans Hall at Berkeley University. The reports were gruesome; an eyewitness saying he screamed all the way down, and even hit the wall at least once. Evans Hall is a "bad luck" building; three or four suicides in just the past few years, and was where the Unabomber had his office. Being named after one of the people who discovered Vitamin E, hasn't helped it. Instead, being one of the tallest buildings on campus has given it a far more grim aura.
So I've been spending my time writing this goofy bible-like thing about myself. It's not totally serious, but no bible-spoof ever really is - and some is bland - but I'm fairly proud of it anyhow. It was fun to do, and seemed to amuse people - which is good. One person even wrote me a "gospel" of sorts. It's terribly cute. I don't know if I'll do much more with it; it's one of those things you do on the spur of the moment, but don't put a whole lot of energy into otherwise. What's done now, is on my website.
It took me two days to do three fairly simple math problems - one of them nearly grade school simple. I've always had trouble with maths. I simply couldn't comprehend the complicated formulae or strings of numbers. I've always loved maths, physics, sciences, that sort of thing; but being unable to do the equations, cut me off from a world of things I would have adored learning. So I had to stay on the fringe, and learn about things in my aesthetic way; learn what of science and math didn't require numbers, and become a maesthematician. I invented that word.
My next assignment for English requires that I write a how-to paper. I must, in detail and at some length, explain to my audience how to do something. The trouble with this is that I know how to do relatively few things that I could, should, or would want to, detail in essay format. Explaining the creation of websites is too easy an option, and would make for very dry reading, methinks. So I'm considering two other possibilities: "How To Keep A Journal" or "How To Start Your Own Religion". You bring the cross, I'll bring the kool-aid? I'm evil.
When I was a much younger person than I am now, I think my ambition in life was to be a prodigy. This term usually has the word "child" saddled in front, which shouldn't happen, as the word prodigy implies child within its definition. Anyhow, my ambition was going well until the day I realised I was no longer a child. This fact, as you'll note, was a major stumbling block. Having no other choice but to alter my future plans, I decided to be come prodigious; at least textually speaking. I think I'm doing well. Thankfully, quality doesn't count.
I've finally got the scientific proof for my theory that the meaning of my name and clan's motto, have had more than a superficial effect on me. Linguists and philosophers have been asserting that the existance of militaristic metaphors in our language has influenced our thinking and behaviour patterns in more than superficial ways. I, for example, can be a right bitch. Is it my fault? Not anymore! Blame my first name (Lonita) which derives from the Spanish male name Alonso and translates to "ready for battle", and my clan's motto, Je suis pret, which translates to "I am ready".
There is "something" in my kitchen. I don't know what that something is, but every few minutes I'll hear a noise. I doubt it's a mouse, it's not making normal mousie noises and movements. I am hoping like hell it's not another bat, but if it is, I hope it makes some sort of overt appearances before the sun goes down. While trapping a bat is hard enough during daylight hours, it's even more difficult at night. They like that dark stuff, y'know. I shall have to put on my "lion tamer" hat, and brave the wilds eventually, I suppose.
I was encouraged by a friend to join a dating service, as my social life is non-existant. So far I've learned: People are rife with cliches - yes, everyone loves a glass of wine and a walk on a moonlit beach. People don't read your ad before they contact you - no, I'm not interested in a Christian in Malta - I'm an atheist in Canada. People don't understand the value of good grammar and spelling - no, I don't think yur sexie. Never forget: a personal ad is just that, an ad. You're trying to sell yourself, so at least make some effort.
You worry and complain so much about the little things, that you fail to see the riches. There are those who have very little, and are agog with wonder at how you could be so trivial. Moses says to his lady love in "The Ten Commandments": "How can one so rich in love be so poor in pity?" I ask: "How can one so rich in life be so poor in vision?" There is always room for more, but take stock of what you have, and consider that there are those who wish they had even a tenth of it.
It's warm weather finally; the sort of warm weather that puts winter coats in the back closet, and shorts on the dresser-edge waiting for wearing. My pasty white legs might see the light of day, and turn an even pastier shade of white. I don't tan, I never have, and never will. Well, I tanned once, but Vichy tanning cream doesn't count. It'll turn anything a tan colour, including places on your body that look stupid if you miss main spots... like between your fingers when you're not trying to tan your hands. Oh well, at least it smelled nice.
After midnight... I wish I could be walking by the bay, all the little lights twinkling through the warm air onto the little, wavey waters. I like to go for walks very late at night when the world is nearly silent; when you are alone with yourself, or with a friend. It's a good time to sit together on a park bench and breathe the breeze, to kick off your shoes and walk barefoot through the grass, to play on the swings, to sit silent, enjoying the company you're keeping, with nothing more than the touch of hands and laughter.
"Be the change you want to see in the world." Mahatma Gandhi. How hard it is to be the proof, instead of looking for proofs. How hard it is to rise above the need to win out in comparison. How hard it is to know that your place is significant. How hard it is to be sure of anything, or anyone. How hard it is to rise above the knotted fist in your stomach that's telling you you've lost, and shall never win again. How hard it is to be positive, sensible, and trusting. How hard it is to be.
If only I were younger,
before the time began,
when I had hope,
and not hopelessness;
when I had wonder,
instead of worry;
when I had love,
instead of loneliness;
when I had giving,
instead of grieving;
when I had peace,
instead of pining;
when I had joy,
instead of jading;
when I had smiles,
instead of frowns;
when my face turned upwards,
instead of looking down;
when I greeted,
instead of hid;
when I was fearless,
instead of frightened;
when I laughed,
instead of cried;
when I believed,
when I believed,
when I believed,
when I believed in me.
I haven't felt quite this bereft in... years? I don't know. I feel lost, edgey, alternately sick and teary, nervous, wasted, hopeless, lifeless, meaningless, and a whole host of other adjectives that are, I'm certain, making me sound like an inexperienced teenager. I'm not either. The trouble is, I'm not certain *what* I am anymore. I look for importance, I don't find it, and as a result I fail to believe that I am. I have no choice but to write about it, at least stiltingly, because I have run out of ears that I can comfortably trust to listen.
When you say that you're glad that Person X won't be present, because Person X is the sort that makes everyone else in the room disappear, and someone says in response, "Who the hell would talk to you anyways?" it doesn't do much to help an already bleak mood. I'm not sure what's worse; that, or when you need comfort and all you get is psych-babble. Sometimes you don't want to be strong. Sometimes you just want to curl up in a little ball, cry, and have someone hold you. You don't need your brain picked apart and combed through.
I got a prayer answered today, one I wasn't entirely aware I needed answered as badly as I did, until I got it. My friend is coming. Oh gawd. There are some things people look forward to in life, that are more meaningful than you could possibly imagine; and for good, bad, or whatever may happen, I want this. I need this. There will be nothing more important to me than getting a hug from this person. Nothing. To see his face, and hear his voice, and feel him close to me. My friend, my friend, finally I'll see you.
The chore of cleaning. I hate cleaning. I know there aren't many who like it, unless they're the "clean to release anger and agression" types, but then it is a tool. For me, though, housework is a hatred. I want to wake up one morning wealthy enough to be able to hire someone to do the big shit for me. I'll do dishes, wash windows, and stack things in the right places, but I loathe the laundry, wall-washing, carpet-cleaning, and anything else that requires constant, repeat attention. All that niggling shit that needs doing over and over. Ugh. It's endless.
I'm not nervous yet, but fuck am I wiped out. I'm so tired I could scream, and I can't clean when this tired. It's not laziness or lack of energy, it's the cleaning supplies I have to use. I'm chemically sensitive, and when I'm tired, over-tired, my ability to tolerate them plummets. They can aggravate nausea migraines like you wouldn't believe. There are days the migraines are so bad that I can't even shower, because the soap and shampoo can make me ill. I've discovered that salt, white vinegar, and bicarbonate soda, are your friends when it comes to cleaning.
Two more days, so much to do. I hate this apartment. It's the most disgusting thing on the planet. I gave up on some things ages ago, because no matter what I did, they never looked like I cleaned them at all. Someone painted some of the trim and moldings with gloss paint which seems to stain something fierce. It's grotesque. It's gross because I got depressed, and the first victims of depression are household and personal hygiene. I am determined to fix the first, the second was never an issue; though I seriously need a haircut. I look horrid.
Oh gawd, tomorrow, and I feel like nothing's going to get done on time. I keep saying it will, "toughest up the back stretch" and all that, but I'm so tired and so deflated and discouraged. I'll get as much done as I can, I just wish the clog in the bathroom sink would sod off, and that the fridge wasn't a total disaster. I think the sink pipes in the bathroom have developed a leak, too. Oh goodie. Can't describe how jovial I am about that one. This place is such a bloody disaster. I should just move out.
Here, oh gawd. I paced up and down at the airport avoiding looking at the gate, waiting for him to come through. Then I catch him out of the corner of my eye, and I leapt at him. My warms around his neck, I tried to crush him with a hug. There was no better moment than that. No better moment than finally being able to touch my friend. I was so nervous, I had no idea how the weekend was going to go, but I have a very good feeling about it. We appear so comfortable already, so warm.
Last night I took him out to see one of my favourite bands, and he liked it. All night we touched each other, holding hands, touching each other's backs. There is nothing sexual about it, but it felt like a need, we needed to do it, we needed the confirmation, the warmth, the comfort, the ease. All night afterwards, too, and all day today. We touch. It feels so wonderful. I don't want it to stop. I need it so much, so badly. I felt peaceful there, so at home. I'll miss him terribly. I don't want him to go.
We had some trouble over the last day or so, because of old issues and old insecurities. I hate this, hate being envious of something that I could have done better about controlling, but didn't. I didn't work hard enough, and was too selfish, but there's nothing to be done for it now, except to make the future better. It will take a lot of hard, hard work, but I need him too badly to just let it go. Life's an unfair bastard. I want him close by, because we need each other. I need his presence. Oh my friend.
He's gone. I am a wreck, and he's gone. I cried all through the airport after he went through the gate. I had a bad feeling about going home alone, about being alone, about an empty home. I found bad news when I got home, that increased my paranoia by enormous bounds, but I kept saying that regardless of other things and people, I have my own importance, I have my own place, and that place is special. I need him around longer, I want him around. His presence, despite some problems, is a healer for me, it's a peace.
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