The day did not improve. I see this as a fault of my own, not of the world’s, regardless of what I might say sometimes. The day did not improve because I did not improve it. I waited for more bad things to happen to me, and indeed they did.
The day did not improve, and instead of bolstering myself with some good writing time, I am wallowing, stepping inch by inch into that fond quagmire of regret.
I do have to thank certain people for making valiant efforts to cheer me tonight: Heath, Jim, Lara, Brina, David, Tyee. I feel like I have an entire cheerleading squad and I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve them.
I despise regret. I see it as some failing on my part that I cannot find the goodness in the past, even though it’s there, as if I am not looking hard enough.
My interface is broken. I endeavor to be WYSIWYG, but there’s too much going on underneath for that always to be true. Sometimes things happen inside me and I don’t know why they happen, and I have to take time to understand why they’ve happened. Time passes so quickly outside myself. I feel as if I am constantly translating from pure emotion and communion with experience to words and logic in order to communicate with others, and then to process what is being given back, I have to translate again. Something is always lost in the translation.
Last night, over sushi with Artless, we discussed the externalization of the internal process that is so commonplace, especially on this coast. It is trendy and cool to talk about one’s issues and how one is tackling them. I am keenly aware that I do just that, in this forum, and I keep wondering what I am getting out of it other than a great deal of public support. The support is appreciated, to be sure, but I am quickly moving away from the feedback loop of needing others to approve of my behavior.
My general mood these days is a thin veneer of optimism over a core of anger. I am angry at certain people whose behavior is upsetting to me, and I am angry at myself. I hide things in friends-only entries because I feel some responsibility to hide this dark anger that seethes underneath from people who don’t have enough context to understand. But is it merely a selfish wish to keep myself out of confrontations, because I abhor them so? Is the greater responsibility to confront what angers me? Can I then let it all go?
I am tired of the same thing that keeps me in love with life: its chaos, its randomness, its serendipity and its inconsistency. I love being surprised by not knowing what will happen next, and in the same heartbeat I hate it, I hate it with my whole fist and my whole snarl and my whole mouth full of bile.
I can’t remember just living. Can I get back to just living? Every time I send something out over the wires, I reconnect myself with what I dislike. And every time you read me, you think I am so articulate, and so you think you must understand. You are smart, and you are insightful; it’s certainly no failing on your part. And so it must be mine. And so it is.
Current mood: Current music: