15.Dec.2003
my diary is starting to feel like an actual diary
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"between the woods and frozen lake ..."
Finish that line. No cheating. You'll just get a clothed picture if you cheat.
I have two and a half months left in this work-out program that I've been ignoring due to copious amounts of hard, ingested drugs over the last two days, which is kind of a shame. At the apex of my opium high, my eyes turn dark green. I prefer having green eyes versus the stark cyan they normally are.
Why?
I'm not fond of light-eyed individuals. I've never been able to place it. My eyes are moody, irascible and normal. Detached, distant, yellow-touched, encircled by a dark rim of blue, and I'm tired of that shade. If I could afford black contacts in Toric, I wouldn't be wearing these college-broad glasses.
Black eyes heat me. I find myself reduced to a tremulous stream of infatuated girl-juice when I encounter a man whose pupils match his irises. Volumes have been written on the dark-eyed males of my past. Tomes of nauseatingly redundant poetry. The absolute heart-annals of my untrammeled yearning. Hazel flames are also delicious. If you've been following me from my D-Land exordium, you already know this, and you know this, and you know this once more.
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The only love-letter I've ever written to anyone was presented to a dark-eyed man I never once took into the bedroom, and that was well over two years prior to this moment here in my javabox. He is hard and unique and scathing. He's a decade older than I am and immersed with a different life, hundreds of miles away from where I sit. I'm nostalgic for him today. His was the most ancient of awakenings. Though we don't communicate as we did in the past, I'm peaceful with the transitions we've made. He's content with his existence, and I'm content with his elation. He deserves happiness in every shifting layer.
He'll always mean something to me, however. On the surface, our dynamic was unconventional. He played an integral part to my musical and emotional maturity, unbeknownst to him, mayhap, and he was always there for me when I fell out with my sour-blooded ex-fucks that came as quickly as they went. I met him during a time I needed to meet someone whose tongue was that sharp and whose heart was that deep.
He was technologically accessible and came equipped with a radio stint; early in the gloaming, I'd slip on my headphones, raise the volume level just one more notch with each syllable, and listen to his skittish timber seethe from one ear to the next, soothed and enamored. Upon receiving the letter I sent him, pregnant with romance and affection I severely doubt I'll be able to recycle, he said, "I'm in awe of this."
Distance was never kind to me, despite the fact I serve it single-malt scotch on those hard, middle-class-working nights, and thus quandaries arose, we split apart, the same melody. You understand. I'm a bit older now, and I recognize the brash and puerile way I handled everything with him. I apologized, he felt strange talking to me about newer encounters in his life at first, but I made it clear it was no bother to me. I really wanted him to be set ablaze from the inside with true happiness, and he was, and I'm very grateful for this.
I believe in the rugged, abused aphorism "Everything happens for a reason." I'm frankly just glad I met him. There were many chords constructing a connection between us, and I relish all of those songs to this day, as whimsically as I can. I toast to the memory of him, as I leave this end as open as its beginning.
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Oftentimes, I forget this is my diary, as much as I forget I'm not the only one who lays eyes upon it. I want to believe I can trust all who peruse, but I'm well aware I can't. I'm reaching a point in my impassioned life that the public and private lines can easily be ignored in my favorite, textual demesne. I've re-adopted my usual, lackadaisical mentality when it comes to Diaryland. If I want it published, it will be so. Nothing dissuades me from writing, now that I'm detached from negative involvements.
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Payday. $490, which will go toward nothing but Christmas presents for everyone I love and love again. There are people in my life I wish to spoil this Christmas, and my most precious boy will be lavished with material adoration. There are so many ways I want to express my gratitude to him.
Becky, my figurative sister, boss, and mixed fruit concoction, gave me a present I placed under my newly-decorated Christmas tree, the first beneath the violet lights and silver tinsel. I read the Christmas card to my mother, in between her homecare nurses cleansing her various pancreal drains, and she grinned and "Aww."ed. I want to spoil Becky, too.
My brother will be moving in with me and my family to save money, which I think is the perfect ending to this chapter. He will be moving to Kansas next year as I will be moving all over the Eastern United States, and he was my first best crony, regardless that we were prone to incessant bouts of taking the piss out of one another in the most cruel of manners when younger.
David is an epic and tragic story in and of himself. He's a guitarist and loves music with the same force I do; sometimes, he'll bring his Gibson Dove over and we'll bounce chords off of one another. If it weren't for him, I never would have taken Led Zeppelin to sleep with me over a decade ago. And, I really don't know where I would be without "Friends", "In the Evening", "That's the Way", "Four Sticks", "The Battle of Evermore" and "Ramble On".
On top of this, he is also sardonic, pessimistic, and quite endearing. It's going to be an experience so reminiscent of the nights he would come home at three in the morning, and we would sit at our old kitchen table when I was barely a teenager and he barely going into his twenties. Despite age, we had several things in common. We were parents to one another when things began to fall, as things were often wont to do in our family.
I have also hooked him on Deine Lakaien, which appeases me to no end.
With all of the mushy, estrogenical feelings I have for everyone this month, I'm beginning to think there exists no one in my personal circle I don't love. I believe this to be without fault and mistruth. After all, they wouldn't still be in my life if they weren't so unconditionally adored.
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What a year 2003 has been. Had none of this entropy transpired, I certainly wouldn't be as quasi-complete, employed, satiated, musical, organized, and appreciative as I am now, resting on these afternoon minutes before I return to the numbers and personal projects, reflecting on the moments in my past, these preludes to my future, and eased.
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time & machine