I was digging through a journal recently, and if I am completely honest, it was to find out when I had sex with someone that year. I didn’t find that, but I came across some extraordinary notes.
May 11, 1998…
“I’m tied of ice chest boyfriends.” ~Lisa, who was hitting on me at the time.
The most suffocating fantasy of all: the white picket fence.
The biggest imagination gap: self image. Look at yourself!
May 12, 1998…
What makes greatness? Only the struggle of the human spirit against nature, against each other, against ourselves, can make us great. Let greatness come about on its own. Yet I yearn to capture it!
May 18, 1998…
I must remember to keep expanding. My diet can always be better. I can always take better pictures. My words can always say more. I can always fly better. I can make more friends. I can forgive you.
Where are you tonight? … not in my arms.
May 19, 1998…
(In the margin) All this waits inside me. Some day we will take hold of each other and this will all come pouring out.
Does she have any idea of the depth and complexity that resides behind these oddly innocent blue eyes?
I am emptied by my honesty.
Alarming similarities between Anaîs Nin and me:
“I am unable to move from journal to fiction,” and, “I copy the pithiest aphorisms into the diary.”
June 5, 1998…
Her shallow indifference to my life was never enough to separate my quixotic fantasies from her real self.
Last night was a parade of stereotyping and sexism. Donna was our master of ceremonies.
I don’t despise who you are. I despise who you think you are.
“That was very sexy.” ~woman who watched me lick the salt off a margarita glass.
Your lies are of no interest to me, even if they are just lies to yourself.
June 10, 1998…
Mary drew the dull-orange rag from the pocket of her filthy blue overalls to wipe the mist of sweat from her forehead. The rag was dirty from engine grease, and made a black steak across her brow. Her face had been pale years ago, framed by almost-black shoulder-length hair, but the sun and age and violent unhappiness had all taken their toll, mixing her coloring to a greyish tan, peppered by by grey hair pulled back onto a pony tail.
Who is she? What does she fear?