The first "she" and the second "she" are different "she"s.
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7 April 2006
"Rock and Roll will never die. That's what Neil says." He's right, dearie.
My oldest friend is in trouble and I can't do anything about it. I can't support her because I can barely support myself and my own. I can't see her because she lives in a blue-collar armpit city, which I also love, but is far away. I can't hug her and tell her how I miss her wit, her humor, her endless compassion.
She is a brilliant, beautiful, proud woman whom I have never properly known. We meet in tangents of our lives during special events, then we once again part ways. Her life and her passions are a mystery to me, as mine no doubt are to her. My relationship with this friend is a perfect example of how many of my friendships conduct themselves. Fortunately, I am intimately connected with this woman, and she will not fade away like others have. Still, although she is always somewhere on this earth, and I take great comfort in that, she will not always be here, and our time together should be appreciated. I need to show my love more.
She was adamant last night, and I reluctantly accepted. I regret this. Despite my body's participation, my head was somewhere else. It was behind the wall. What shape would I be if I were 2-dimensional? Circular (but not a perfectly round one; more like the one Spongebob drew after Squidward berated him in art class), with my heart somewhere in the center, separatred from everyone else. My life cycle keeps on repeating, always following the same familiar contours. I occasionally hammer out a new niche, but then I come to rely on it so much that it becomes part of the same daily business. So that's where I was. And she said she had a good time, and that's great, I really truly am happy about that part, but I never got mine. I never got mine.
Out of the blue and into the black.
I have so many thoughts to uncollect and drudgingly express to no one. An hundred indecisions, Visions and revisions. What a train wreck. I may be a bit fustian but my point stands: I have not taken care of myself these last several days, and I have not taken the time to properly address it.
I'm not being completely fair. I did start something I needed to do. I did make that appointment. I have kept the kitchen counter clean, and the office. Posts are up to date. I am not a train wreck. But it's just me that isn't. Outside my circle, my perception fades. Maybe "wreck" is just the wrong word.
I read about Hawking's brane theory last night. I wonder how much work I really have to do. I thought I knew once; I didn't really, but I could get my head around the kinds of things I needed to accomplish, and had faith that once I did them, I'd be ready for what's next...but now I can't say either is the case. Maybe it's the antibiotics. On top of heartburn and that yucky taste in my mouth, I have felt energetically odd since I started on them. Maybe it was the bite, though I doubt it because trust was retored almost immediately. Maybe it's sex, but again I doubt this because I've learned to cope well without jeopardizing outside issues. But I always suspect sex anyway, because it's a natural enemy.
I am rambling with thoughts of Prufock, monomer injections, and strawberry summers. I am not safe from myself today. A pot of tea, flannel pants, Harry Potter, and my fuzzy blanket are a perfect prescription, with intermittent naps and ball-tossings with the dog. I should have taken the rain as my first clue. Take two o' dese and call me in da mo'nin.