forgive me, father, for i have sinned. it has been seven months since my last confession. wow. i suppose i really ought to start from the beginning. but that's too predictable a place to start, isn't it? i mean, isn't that how some of the worst books in history have been written? you don't see homer sitting down with his lyre and saying (or singing, i guess) "let's start at the very beginning" in greek but still managing inexplicably to sound like julie andrews, do you? no, instead the bastard cuts right to the last year of the bloody war! i mean, really. what if i wanted to know what happened before that? who's gonna tell me?
truth be told, though, the reason i'm not going to start at the beginning is because i don't really remember it. there are highlights, sure. sure enough. i can remember a couple of instances of whatever emotion it was that bracketed the moment, but nothing really coherent in terms of memory comes before will. i remember the reservoir, actually. i remember a boy laying his head on my lap on a sunny if chilly autumn day (much like today, actually. funny how weather reminds me of certain boys) and it being really nice. just nice. ugh. look at me. bloody english/linguistics major and the best word i can come up with is "nice"? that's ridiculous. i'm ashamed. but hey, i'm a playwright. i don't do confessions.
i remember romeo and juliet. i know shakespeare. i just do. he's a great guy. you can't really say much more than that that hasn't already been said, usually by harold bloom (and if you plagiarise him, i'm certain there are individual literary demons in hell to take care of you). so i won't. but i remember romeo and juliet. and watching it. and i quoted mercutio's death scene, you know, the bit with "ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man"? and i remember that was construed as a threat of suicide. when all i was doing was quoting the play. gawd. how silly.
but i can remember will. but it's interesting. right now i'm sitting at the bowl staring at luther from just above my lit cigarette, and it's really great what kind of a perspective i'm getting on him. that's how i remember will. as though i were looking at him through that tiny bit of haze just above my lit cigarette. i can still make him out, but everything's just a little bit muddled.
he's beautiful. i remember that much. in my old age i'll look back on the whole experience and have some great joycean epiphany but it's not coming right now. right now i'm still dealing with his symbol of the potted meat. i'm trying really hard to get to molly's final Yes but for right now i'm stuck on the toilet in the morning reading the advertisement for potted meat. it's very disconcerting. i'm trapped here, but that's okay. it'll happen sooner or later.
i just decided that i don't really want to talk about will.
i've been asked by my sainted mother to be a mentor for a troubled boy back home who's wrestling with his homosexuality. my roommate questions the appropriateness of this. obviously. i mean, here i am, after all, sitting in the bowl, wrestling with all of these dramas and traumas and existential crises and i'm supposed to help someone deal with being queer? half the time i want to just screw katherine and get it over with. have a baby. raise a family. blah blah blah. the other half i'm thinking up slow and torturous ways to repay all my ex-boyfriends for all the shit they laid on me. my roommate tells me not to crush the poor boys dreams. which i won't. no no, his dreams have to be crushed on their own time. i'll have none of it.
i decided that my latest existential crisis is borne from my realization that i'm a modernist trapped in post-modernism. meaning that a modernist knows that he's going to move along in this life, but his destination is just going to take him right back where he started. a post-modernist realises all this, as well, and promptly decides not to go anywhere because of it. it's really an alarming thing to have to deal with, i think (i never give you my number i only give you my situation), because everyone around me is thoroughly immersed in post-modernism and i'm the only one who's moving. i know i'm not going anywhere. but i still have to go.
i wish i didn't have to go anywhere. it'd make getting here a lot more enjoyable, i think. i wouldn't have to deal with the likes of cory and joey, who, for all their merits, aren't human. that's another thing. i think very few people these days are owning up to actually being human beings.
wow. full moon tonight.
still others can attest to the fact that i am a fully functional member of society despite the scars on my arm, my two tattoos (and ankh on me back and thoth on me right forearm), and my piercings. i mean, after all, i aced my old english midterm and got a's on both of my chaucer papers, and i assume that my paper on falstaff is worth at least a b. i mean, i didn't say anything new, but who *can* when you're talking about falstaff?
i took that survey thingy. was all for it until that question. that one question. the question of cutting. i believe it went something like "have you ever hurt yourself (cutting, hitting, etc)?" and the answers went "no," "yes, to punish myself for being gay," and "yes, to punish myself for other reasons." i more or less went ballistic. i did. ask the cats. yes. i have cut myself before. yeah, i did it in the not-too-distant past. it's something i know a lot of people have done. and those answers really pissed me off. cutting is not a form of punishment for me. well, it is, but i'm not punishing myself. well, no. it's not punishment at all. nor is it for a vast majority of the other people i've talked to. it's so much more complicated than that.
the last time i did it was a little less than a month ago. it was the first time in almost a year. why did i do it? in part because i couldn't think of anything else to do. have you ever been so bored that the only thing you can think of to do is die? not kill yourself, but just die, just to take away the monotony (it's funnier when i say it in person. believe me. i'm a very funny individual. cynical, sure, but i'm damn funny. 8-)? same deal. but partly i did it because joey said that he didn't know if i really cared about him. i broke down, i'll be honest. and then he thought the tears were fake. he didn't believe that he had hurt me. he didn't understand. so i showed him. i went home and i showed him how much he had hurt me. some people just need that helpful transparency in their geology class, and joey's one of them. he had to see it. so he did.
that's why. but those aren't the only reasons. those are just the ones that came to mind at 2:43 in the morning as i smoke my last cigarette and prepare for sleepytown. i'm tired. i have to read the ion in the morning. that's the play. not the particle. so i think i'm going to end this. as it were.
tell us about it, janet