No way.
15 July 1998
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No way.
15 July 1998
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Bag of donuts, it's for me. This is the way, oh yes.
There's some fine line between having a lot to do and too much to do, and I think its visible trace is emotional weight. A lot to do is goading, frantic, energizing. Too much to do is soporific, paralyzing, depressing. In either case you might in fact not be able to do everything you're supposed to do in theory, but when you have too much to do it is absolutely clear going in that you have no chance.
I'm very glad I figured this out because now I understand why I feel like shit about work: why I'm not getting here until 2 pm even when I'm awake at 8 AM; why I'm spending so much time doing things like, er, this journal; where these sudden decompressive blues attacks are coming from. Not sure what to do about it, but diagnosis is the first step, nu?
Later:
We'll say it's over, but won't feel relieved.
My musical crush of the moment is retreat from the sun by That Dog. Love songs, sucker am I, perhaps you know the feeling. Particularly this song, "Being With You" - it's got just that right kind of coincidental familiarity to slip in and short out my heart monitor. You can say, "OK, we have to stop this now, it's not working, it's not good for anybody," etc. etc. whatever, but guess what? YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT. Somewhere inside you, someone is going "Fuck, this is not how it is supposed to be, put it back the way I want it!"
Naturally, the scar the song slides through right now is labeled "Anna." I wasn't even seeing her, really. It'd be more accurate to say that we met on occasion. And then stopped meeting. Not that any of that arrangement was by my design, only my acquiescence. This is when I first started hearing this song - paying attention to it, I should say, I'd been playing the CD for a while and one night paused to ask myself, "Why are my eyes wet?" Then listened. "Oh."
A little later, she said she was sorry she hadn't been talking to me lately, but if it was any consolation, she wasn't having a great time. Not that that meant any plans for a change in, oh, WHO she was talking to. But, "I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry." I don't think this had the desired effect. That was the night I went home and sent one of Those Emails, saying ... "OK, we have to stop this now, it's not working, it's not good for anybody," etc. etc. whatever.
Now we wave hello from time to time but no speaking. And I miss her - idiot! that I am. What I'm missing is what that voice inside wants; I'm missing something that never existed, the way it was supposed to have turned out to be. To walk away from something bad you have to surrender the dream of it ever being good, and when that dream was all you ever really had, well. Well.
And you know what you need to do, and I know what's right for me.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
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