12 XI 2002 - 16:47 - trivialis53

Email annoys me these days.

On the subject of spam: If I'm going to look at porn, it might as well be porn that I want to look at. "Young teenage girls taking HUGE!!! Horse Cock!" does not fall under the category of things I want to see. Especially not in the morning. Nor am I particularly interested in seeing Britney Spears naked, no matter how many times she holds secret sapphic society meetings in her house. Here's another thing I don't get: volume. By which I mean that I open my inbox to find one message really intended for me and twenty-five others advertising the latest porn site. Really, if I'm not interested in horse cock the first time around, I'm not going to be interested in it the eleventh time around. Trust me on this one.

I finally resolved to talk to the Person today, except that he was nowhere to be found until the end of school (and he was so involved with, you know, his real friends that I didn't think it proper to interrupt.) Instead I went and sat in the computer lab and watched Elliot work on his essay. I'm thinking I need to reconsider my inconsistent use of disguises on this thing, but there you have it. I was not, however, entirely unproductive; my paper on Andrew Jackson and his time in office is even a little overwritten.

As is my paper on Travesties. As are my poems. As is everything I touch. This, the story of my life. Someone evidently told me as a younger to "say always in ten words what can be said in one." Periphrasis is useful at times, but when no one can hear you, no one understands you.

There are some days when I'm inclined to lash out at the world and say that people are stupid but then I remember that there are a lot of people I actually do like. I think I'm just being bitter about my own lack of social skills -- how I always seem to know the gist of what should be said, but never how to say it. How I am good for mutely feeling bad but bad at saying anything good. Also I recall my tendency to paralyzed inaction -- fewer results through indecision, ask me how to do it, ha ha isn't my life so cunning please go away now hold me close. I don't know what the hell I want except that I want to be better and I don't know how.

I am not as neat as even a poem passed down through the Latin and that says a lot considering what horrors scribal error is capable of. But I'm not that fixed and it is both my glory and my shame.

I would like to believe that I am capable both of being loved and of loving but there is such doubt for me when I prove myself so inept at even the simple business of living...

I think my life would be much better if I didn't have to talk, didn't have to stutter and lose words and interrupt my own flow to talk to myself and offer a running commentary on everything I do. In fact, it would be much better for all around me, I suspect, if I had only to write everything down. It would force a reflection on me, I think, and improve the general sound-world... people tell me I can sing, but I know better. I consider myself achingly so much more articulate in writing than in anything I could ever say, and I make the mistake that my problems, my doubts, my insecurities -- that any of these have a jot of meaning to any of you-all.

And the question I suppose becomes why you're still here, then. I love you for it; I simply cannot understand.

There are violences and there are attractions and there are moods in my life that I am incapable of understanding, and all of it makes me feel very small and generally insignificant.