21.Mar.2001
hey do you do judo
--
doing judo in our finery
'Purple People' by Tori Amos always reminds me of Jim Rose. Not the Jim Rose, but another Jim Rose. I met him while doing a short stint on the WildSide back in 1998, and I only knew his voice. We traded phone numbers from there. He said I was very intense, and that I somehow managed to knock him, a 6-foot-7 Judo Master, off of his feet. He lived in California, and professed his fervent lure to my "soft" speaking voice.
A devestating instance with my mother broke us apart, and he moved from his previous address. I never heard from him again.
We shared a telephonic passion for the darkly erotic. He slept in a loft, all 6-foot-7 of his blonde Californian agility crammed into a tiny space, and perhaps that thought excited me.
I am too tired to find that song in the immense piles of CDs, so my brainsong will have to do.
I am awake because the beast woke me up. Her skin is itchy, and she couldn't find a comfortable spot squished between my body and Joe's body on the bed. I think she gave up and went back to sleep upon my rising. I have yet to submit myself to dreaming. I was afraid I would dream about Jim Rose lest I write it down.
A part of me wants to obliterate 'the past' link from the "rave" image-map up top, only because it is, in fact, the past, and as I am still very young, my transitions are still frequent.
So what might seem just two years ago is in fact two life-times ago.
I have accepted this fate of existence in me, and I no longer question it, but that isn't to say I appreciate it.
So many things are lost.
I want to do those things I never quite got the chance to do in my formative years.
But I am still forming.
It has come to my attention that Hardy, a Shunt comrade, has recently signed up with Diaryland; his lay-out was sparsely created by me, because that delightful bastard appreciates minimalism, and that's exactly what I did for him.
I urge all of you to abandom Netscape 4.7+, and move onto Netscape 6.
It is breaking dark cyan over me, that dawn. The snow is a translucent blue, and Duluth is eerily quiet; you can almost hear the waves of Lake Superior from here, even though my duplex is seated on the top of the hill. Looking down, I am reminded of how minuscule I am, and that slight, hurried intake of breath, that exhilaration to the fact, is gently appeasing.
Some days, I don't know what to do with myself. At all.
--
time & machine