23:22 - Tuesday, Mar. 09, 2004 nothing as absolute
So on my Microsoft Word document which passes as the closest thing to a paper diary I have, today, 3 oh something p.m., I wrote: 'In the Midst of What Happeneth When One Mixeth Maui Wowie and Northern Lights.'
I am, that is.
Then, missing the beautiful day and knowing it, even after having eaten rock shrimp salmon avocado sushi rolls under the one-hot-mile-closer Colorado sun and a wilting tree next to the Econ building and roaring Broadway, even after having wandered home savoring the heat, my mind couldn't turn off as I lay in bed with the curtains drawn so nobody could see me laying naked in my sheetless blanketless bed. I needed to get everything extraneous off of me and clothes and bedsheets counted.
Lying there thinking a mix of the strangest, most simultaneously profound and non-profound things, fingers too heavy and anyway, burdened by air, to pick up a pen and write anything down. I couldn't forgive myself for wasting the sun searing almost through the curtains; who lies in their room with the curtains drawn on such a day, anyway? (Being out in it seemed so far away..) and even as I raced through thoughts like flipped cards on a jukebox, the prevailing thought above all the rest was, 'No amount of thinking could possible compare to feeling.' and I haven't been doing enough of that lately... feeling. Oh but that's so totally not true, says my sober mind just now, recalling the diary entry directly before, which is not posted in here because, well, it's just not posted in here, y'know? I wondered what was so wrong with pure feelings that I couldn't put them on the internet but I could easily post thoughts, but then the answer came to me: because feelings hold more gravity, they matter, the enormity of them is something you can't just let the rest of the world read without at least giving it a whole bunch of thought (which makes it thought again, not feelings).
So it doesn't count. Incidentally, since it doesn't count, this is the closest I've come to feelings in writing (as evidenced by the fallout of grammar and punctuation)
3/6/04; 1:09 a.m. just moments away from his twentieth birthday. he still has the fervent brown gaze of a child, and the vein-wrapped hands of a man, a musician. he is scared to turn twenty. he closes his eyes every time he says it. twenty. twenty.
his heart beats within his chest, twenty, right at my ear. my hand skitters up his neck into the maze of his curls. i kiss him with my lips barely parted over his trembling bottom one. a breath, or a hum, or both. �it never gets less sweet,� i murmur at the corner bone of his jaw.
it never does.
the exact second i press the blue light button on my watch is the exact second the second hand passes the 12 on the minute hand on 12 and the hour hand on 12, all clustered on 12, 12 a.m., march 4th, 2004. i am more excited than he is; i am in bed with him on the most important day of his year, watch aglow, the first second of it, telling him happy birthday, happy birthday, and kissing him breathlessly running my hands through his curly hair and onto his face; cupping his face in disbelief and amazement, i can�t believe i am where i am and he is where he is, where we are, pressed so close that we are the same place.
No amount of thinking could possibly compare to feeling. (No amount of writing, either...) and the conclusion I came to from that is that another break from marijuana is in order. My happiest moments lately have been sober, as a complete polar opposition to the beginning of the year, when a haze was just as clear as the sharpest knife-edge (cliff-edge, spaceship Radiohead concert and cactus pricks in my ass...) I see it as a phase. I see nothing as absolute. I get in trouble when I do.
23:30 - Sunday, Mar. 07, 2004 i did my homework drunk
Lab 3.1 is (you guessed it) a flow kill nazi. I wrote it all tiny like the bouncy yellow heads they put on pencils, its measures squashed and wavy-tilted. When he asks me tomorrow what the hell is wrong with my impeccable penmanship I am going to stand on my chair, feet under the foldout desk, and yell, 'Mike, do you want the truth? I DID MY HOMEWORK DRUNK!"
and haha, I'll be lying.
