2001-05-25 - 8:52 p.m. - quotidianus4

I've decided that I've read too much into what he says - hopeful lying to myself.

This is entirely true.

I've also decided that I'm going to stop hoping.

And that, dear friend, is bullshit.

I am falling into an abyss of possibility - falling deeper into the black waters within (me, the world, emotion...)

Catch me, if you please-

Liebchen.

Anyone.

Do you hear me?

Throw me a rope.

This isn't my idiom.

It isn't my language.

I fall fastest in his e-presence.

I find I rather like it.

But this has got to end.

I've no right.

I don't know him and he doesn't know me.

I think.

I think that he is, the more time I spend talking to him, what I think I want. I am rather sure that I am not what he wants or needs. But he puts up with me...

I began to call him liebchen before whatever happened in my brain happened and altered the way I felt about him. It's presumptuous to call him that, yes. It's presumptuous also to write a diary entry about him when I'm pretty sure he could care less. Still, I beat on: was calling him liebchen a rare example of effect preceding cause? Or do I feel the way I do because of the name I first gave him in a fit of fancy?

I wish I could make him pay attention to me but at the same time I know that this would lose him for me, that what must be must be by free will... and this is where I know it's hopeless.

Two ends: the fulfillment of or the death of hope, the latter more likely I think in this situation (and even more so if you read this without reading, liebchen) and. Help me be rescued. Either one is good but let it die with a whimper or explode like spring, it being hope, or what a young man's fancy turns to in the spring... help me determine the future, liebchen, Chloe, TiffAlFrannieColleen. I'm losing myself and losing myself quickly.

I might as well get to enjoy the abyss. I prophesy now that it will be the same, but the names will change, the names and dates and desperate longings... I can see enough of myself with enough clarity despite blind eyes that- white light and grace. That it will always be thus until I learn to break the cycle and no one can teach me except for experience and myself and perhaps another willing man who with him will bear me to the heights.

In other news. My sisters all have broken up with their boyfriends now. This is the shattering of the world and the loss of myself. Their pain to a lesser degree is my pain.

And my piano teacher. What of her? My parents tell me that she's doing fine, but the hospital seems to have lost her room number and telephone. An agony of bated breath awaits-

My mother was angry again because I couldn't memorize another Tang dynasty poem. She doesn't seem to get: I haven't made Chinese my own, it is one of the languages I grew up with but it is not mine. I cannot read it, I did not choose to study it out of love for the language and its thought as I did Latin, as I will Greek - I can speak it but not read it and this is why I have such difficulty in memorizing meanings, poems, words. With Latin I can at least read the word, even if it is unfamiliar.

It's my fault. My own mental block, my own emotion, that causes me to be the way I am. It must be ended. And the final battle is to come... soon. Very soon. And I shall emerge either ruined or smaller and better... no more of this excess, I warrant. Basta ya.

Gaaaaaaa...

"Since we had changed

rogered spun worked

wept and pissed together

I wake up in the morning

with a dream in my eyes

but you are gone in NY

remembering me Good

I love you I love you

& your brothers are crazy

I accept their drunk cases

It's too long that I have been alone

it's too long that I've sat up in bed

without anyone to touch on the knee, man

or woman I don't care what anymore, I

want love I was born for I want you with me now

Ocean liners boiling over the Atlantic

Delicate steelwork of unfinished skyscrapers

Back end of the dirigible roaring over Lakehurst

Six women dancing together on a red stage naked

The leaves are green on all the trees in Paris now

I will be home in two months and look you in the eyes"

"Message," Allen Ginsberg

And so.

J (:>

Will somebody please transplant me deep into reality? Or is it more pleasing for the world that I remain where I am, the colour of unreality and dreams tinging my every movement?