23:17 - Sunday, Feb. 08, 2004
When he left yesterday, I put my head down on my closed computer, hands over my eyes, trying not to cry and succeeding, mostly... I was so busy I didnít even have time to cry. I had to shower and get ice cream and run to volunteering, which I was already late for because I couldnít get up off the couch. None of this is particularly depressing, but I could have easily sunk into my bed with the blinds drawn and stared at the ceiling for hours and hours just for the lack of any motivation to change things.
Every time I get like this I have to shift to absurdism. Even existentialist absurdism, that old second grade trick... stare out the window at the elm trees and wonder how we came to be wondering. To be succinct about it and all.
Andrew told me tonight that Chell wrote him an email before he left for Boulder: ĎToday I took my gun and I shot a duck and I put its head on my head.í
Things like that make me happy to be alive and where I am.
Things like that and Alexís obsession with meeting an albino before she dies, and the colour pink.
Pajama day at our last Thursday night together, everyone coming in and dropping their pants to reveal plaid pajama bottoms. The pile of pants in the corner that would have been the first thing people would have seen had they walked in.
The singing vowel Ďeí and the crack in the voice coming down, like a hint of falling into a reclining chair.
I miss being at Andrewís and watching people. Everyone there is loud and obnoxious and none of them make any sense because theyíre always blazed. And they want people to look at them, and itís hilarious in the loud way, but then thereís Brendan, who is perfect for the atmosphere; he whispers, always, so no one will look at him or hear him. To Chris: ĎI think we should join a frat.í
And the way the veins in the back of my right hand slide across the tendons, and the clock that gets stuck at 12:08 because I havenít peeled off the display tag.
Sometimes Iím in my room improvising on the piano, and I hit a chord and suddenly I think that the guy in the room next to mine could be sitting on his side of the wall, a gun cocked, finger on the trigger lined up with my heart on the other side of the wall. It could be true so easily, and just because of a chord...
It all feels like a dream. My stomach hardly protests anymore.
I almost donít want to be human sometimes because it implies a place of slavery to something, whether it be money or status or power or even another human. I donít want to ever accept that, though I realize in the back of my head that I will, Iím going to finish college and get a job and have to pay mortgage on a house and budget my money on a sheet of paper and worry about the economy.
I can see it almost like itís happening right now, and it is.
Somewhere Nick is going to be living in a utopian paradise, wandering the fields and building fires, and Iím going to know that in the back of my thirty-year-old head, having convinced myself that he really is illogical and turned my back. I will believe this entirely, that I wouldnít want to be there, that itís all just adolescent deviance and that Iíve grown beyond it. And Iíll see banana trees in my dreams and they will be haunting nightmares because of the paths I have and havenít chosen.
ĎE-flat means nothing,í she proclaimed. ĎI am going to bring you out of your shell.í