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Saturday, July 30, 2005


I went to a party tonight.

I was a stranger there. My skin and hair and eyes stood out; my accent was odd.
But they welcomed me, smiled and laughed and piled my plate high with food I'd never seen before.

It was warm and lovely and delicious.

Friday, July 29, 2005


It's a nothing day today. The sun is shining; the air is clear.
It's a Friday and after years on the outside,
I'm finally part of the TGIF crowd.

No plans for the weekend, nowhere I have to be.
No commitments and no responsibilities.

I am shallow, but happy.

Thursday, July 28, 2005


What do you do when the experts don't have the answers? When you've asked all the right questions and leapt through all the proper hoops, but the resolution is nowhere in sight...?

I want to cry to my imaginary gamekeeper. 'Okay, I give up; please, give me a way out of this situation. I've tried, but I can't find the answer on my own.'

But unfortunately or not, there is no walkthrough for my life. All there is: a tunnel that I'll continue to walk, dragging one foot in front of the other, still hoping that I'll come round a bend to see light ahead. Hanging on to hope, because it's the only tool I've got.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


He is many things - strong, handsome, intelligent, kind. His eyes can be as grey and level as the sea; his hands are safe and gentle. At a party he can make the humblest guest feel like the most interesting, important person in the room. I love him for these things.

But I love him as much for these strengths as I do for his shortcomings. He is impatient, moody, frustratingly singleminded, sometimes inflexible. There are times he makes me want to weep with frustration; when I'm convinced that others must see the steam coming from my ears in short cartoonish bursts.

At the heights of my anger I somehow always soften. I know he is real, and I know he is mine. And I love him even more for letting me see that he is imperfect.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005


We wander through life gathering things to fill us up, to define us.
I measure myself by the job I do, by the entertainment I consume, by the clothes I choose each morning, by my favorite music. This is how I create my identity; this is how I explain myself to others.

I can't help but wish I was defined instead by something that came from inside - something that I brought to the world instead of taking from it. I wish that the inherent emptiness could be filled from within and not from outside. I wish I had that strength.

Monday, July 25, 2005


In the morning darkness - standing squinting outside the shower -
I still do not feel as naked as I did after the few, well-chosen words he said to me last night.

As raw and stinging as if my skin had abandoned me altogether.

Good intentions

I wonder what happens to all those good intentions - the ones that drop in from time to time. To be thinner, smarter, more polished, more articulate...

They stay long enough to stir things up, but when the dust settles my fickle brain has always moved on to thoughts of more immediate gratification.

Sunday, July 24, 2005


In the morning, things make sense. My arm over him, face against his cool shoulder, silence as the dusty sun streams in.

A refuge from the things we want, but cannot have.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

The man outside

The man outside sat there every morning and every night. Every day, for weeks now, as I passed out of arm's reach, I smiled cautiously.

We had an understanding. He was filthy, he reeked of last night's urine, but I attributed to him a sort of nobility. I knew he had a story, a great tragedy, something I could never understand.

Last night as I ran through the pretense of checking my cellphone messages, he lunged at me. I stumbled out of step and he broke into rasping laughter, doused me with chills. He laughed at me as I righted myself, and laughed at me as I hurried to my car.

I wonder if you can feel the loss of a relationship that never existed. Or perhaps it's the end of my naivete. Though jadedly enough I thought it had died long ago.

Friday, July 22, 2005


I protested that I liked the window down, the rush of the humid air on my forehead, but my stepmother's finger was already on the control and with her steady silent suction the wind was gone.

Exactly then the violins paused in their scrambling and for one suspended moment it seemed that she had sealed even the music outside, leaving me with only the smell of stale pine and old cigarettes.