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Friday, March 28, 2003  

War in Iraq. I'm not for it. I'm looking into re-patriating Ireland via my ability to gain Irish citizenship by descent. Saddam Hussien is all bad, and I would be glad never to hear another story of his feeding human beings into industrial shredders, or torturing children to make their parents talk; but I also can't stand the thought of all that death, and am sickened by the way we can watch the war on TV 24 hours per day, and the way that our super hi-tech military equipment is shown on CNN as if it's a hotrod that shoots laser beams, and oh, isn't that cool? Meanwhile, we sit here in our comfortable world, basically untouched by the conflict and bitching pathetically like I am doing right now. The whole thing fills me with shame, really, in addition to a full view of my ignorance of what is actually going on.

Meanwhile, everything here carries on apace. My son is at a track meet today. My friend's movie showed successfully in a public theater to a crowd of about 300 last night, and I had a lovely time laughing at his jokes and fixing my lipstick.

posted by ~ | 12:05 PM


Tuesday, March 18, 2003  

Here's the thing: there are some people who just keep saying the things I want to hear. I don't mean that they do it in a pandering kind of way, but that they keep challenging, and keep making me think I have to re-examine my processes, and be more exact, more active and more responsible.

Last night I went out to see a lecture by Dr. Oliver Sacks with just such a person, and felt singularly delighted with the richness of my life. I have been sinking lately. Dr. Sacks said that creative people experience periods of fermentation during which the well seems to have run dry, and that they often mistake it for a depression. On the other hand, my friend tells me that I don't have enough drama in my life, and it strikes me as true that I am firmly ensconced in the safe zone, and lately, in the silent zone. It's time to change that by any means necessary.

posted by ~ | 11:48 AM


Tuesday, March 04, 2003  

An old friend told me not long ago that of all my verbiage, of all my ways of thinking and talking about things, the one he hates the most is the way I talk about my interest in other people as "science." He says only say I'm interested in other people, when in fact, I'm only interested in myself, and in my own reactions... other people are not the science project, I am.

Once I got over the feeling of being insulted by the notion that there are many things about my verbiage and ways of thinking that he hates, and that is only the one he hates the most; and after feeling a keen sense of unhappiness about the sense that my friend knows something true about me, and hates it, I started thinking about the truth of it. I am immersed in an absolute subjectivity, and all the feelings and perceptions I have take place in the vault of my head.

The feeling that it's all in my head is either very comforting, or very depressing. I can't really decide which.

posted by ~ | 9:37 PM
 



Ran across Me Head today... liked it.

I am overworked and somewhat stressed out right now. There's a lot of things that I am treating like a job in the sense that my committment to it must be absolute, and that my work must be such that I am proud to be associated with it; in other words, in a way that I don't actually treat my actual job. The thing of it is, I need to feel the love a little bit more, and I need to be shown the money a little bit more, or I need to cut back. The dilemma is that the things that don't show me the money do make me happy, and the things that do show me the money are nothing but a nuisance.

Furthermore, the thought crossed my mind that all I really want is to be able to stop the pursuits altogether and be boring. It strikes me that in many ways, I am supremely unambitious, and that all of my real ambitions are so gigantic, and so not public. I am reminded of Madame Merle: "My ambitions were so great... It would only make me look foolish to speak of them."

I have enthusiasms for things that take place on this planet, but they are just that: enthusiasms, and often, they pass. It's the same with my loves, though usually a more painful process than simply a wearing out of interest. It's harder to admit that you've actually simply wearied of your love. It's not really love if you weary of it... or so the poets would have us believe.

I am appalled by my complete lack of romanticism. I envy those people who still know how to believe like that; whose souls still drink up the nectar of faith in the ideal. Me? I can't relinquish the ideal, the romantic; but I can't swim in it, as I could when I was younger, and before I read years worth of aesthetic theory and literary criticism. It's my worst fear that I am heartless and that I can't give myself - that love would be too great a surrender.

There's a man I love, who, whenever he hugs me, I feel it in every cell, and the place where his stubbly chin rested briefly on my forehead, or where my hand felt the indentation of his spine bears the sense memory of the contact for hours. When I touch him, I feel him as an animal - alive and warm under my hands. I always feel silenced by him, and the brief moment of those embraces feels infinite. I feel the animal under my hands and I feel my own blood in my veins, but at the same time I feel completely at peace, and satisfied: that moment is completely adequate reason for any number of things I've done.

The trick is to keep from getting greedy, or hungry.



posted by ~ | 6:57 PM


Monday, March 03, 2003  

Sonnet #116, by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

posted by ~ | 11:27 PM
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