12.Dec.2001

sprung like a mofo

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lean into it

Talking to Jason a good portion of the afternoon yesterday, the topic of writing was broached. He said his existence was his music, I said I almost felt like my existence was my writing. I feel selfy unappreciated.

It's admirable to define yourself on something as important as music and writing; there is a part of me deathly disappointed that I've lost almost complete touch with that in myself.

It was more than excellent to talk to Jason again. He rocks my kitchen.

Jay constantly made it a point to mention I was like an open book.

Yeah, baby, but you'd need a dictionary in order to understand it.

Jay, while amazingly beautiful, has a tendency to let my prosaic madness slip his perception. The words volley back and slap him in the face. And then we wrestle, and he pins my body against a door-frame and his elbows brush against my breasts, and suddenly I've forgotten what we were arguing in the first place.

It comes with being hormonal. It also comes with the fact he is quite possibly one of the most sexually repressed individuals on the planet.

He crashed over at Terry's this weekend and made dinner for everyone. I watched him in my drug-induced state of infatuation in the living room mirrors, as he solemnly and boredly mouthed the words to a terribly despondent song, the ceiling fan tossing his defiant pony-tail in a circle around his narrow face. He fell asleep on the infamous leather divan in the back bedroom; when I awoke, I went to see if he were still there, and I cracked the door open, peering inside. I think I exhaled when I saw him curled in an agonizing ball on the couch.

We have the weirdest relationship. We can spend hours on opposite sides of the room until Fate makes it such a way we have to speak to each other, and the lines around his eyes deepen when he smiles.

One day I'll introduce him to the universe in which he's my muse, and perhaps one day he'll understand it.

He'd still need a dictionary, though.

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time & machine