it's 3:14 pm, on January 22, 2002 - long update on short things.

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...someone asked me why I didn't try for it. "I don't want the money, baby, I want the fame." They laughed. I laughed.

That comes from a new journal that I just might keep around for quite some time, because, in the very first entry I read, I stuck out my proverbial thumb, but also they referenced Lance, and the very first line I read was "I always wanted to be the straight man".

They laughed. I laughed.

So, it occurs to me that in my pop-tastic frenzy I've been neglecting the journal where things really count. Maybe not in my pop-tastic frenzy; maybe in my escapist frenzy. I have written 1200 words in two days that were original; probably lots more that were nsync, but my kinks are my kinks, and y'all are going to have to suck it up. What I find hot is my own damned business.

So why this glut of escapist humor? This road is no longer a retreat, no longer somewhere that's a haven for any thought that I spew out on a whim. Maybe it's never been that. I don't want the money, I want the fame.

Fame comes with its own rewards, you have to think, but it also comes with its own prices. I'll never know, and I'm envious for that. --if anyone asks why I can morally write fic about real people, I'm going to answer them straight and honest, "I would love it if people did fic about me, if I could find it and read it and see the evidence that people were watching. It would make my day." Fame comes to those who want it, maybe, and maybe it's not all good, but I bet it feels good in the beginning.

On a totally different track, I want to thank the gods for Sheila, because she is just all kinds of cool. I just wanted to remember to say that. Sheila. Gratitude. Much of it. You listen when even the most patient of saints would throw up their hands.

What else, what else in the world. It snowed this morning. I am not amused. Contrary to my very Canadian passport and living quarters, I hate snow. Vancouver is not made for snow; I'm not made for snow. There's something too final, too regular, in seeing winter really closing in. I'm suited for a climate that does wacky things, in no semblence of a pattern, but overall stays static, unchanging. My blood doesn't do well in the cold.

What else in the world. --where else, right. I went to Toronto, which ended up going on a pilgrimage, of a sort. Pilgrimage, I stole that constellation from Al, I'm sure, and I'm sorry for the perversion of it. I learned: travel is about excess. Also, I can drink a dozen drinks, if I pace myself, and not spell things badly.

Too badly, anyway.

Wanting; The new season of OZ. Maybe a flesh wound or two. There's this odd sense that I have depression -- not, I am depressed, but that I have depression -- lurking in my bone marrow or something. Just a small amount, nothing serious. Just a smidge, in the way it's so easy to relate everything to inconsequential things and useless facts like JC hates needles.

It's nothing so dire as waitin' on the devil, only, maybe, but if so, just a little, just a little indeed. Nothing so harsh as Chris, pacing in his pod, or Chris curled up on the floor, but maybe just a little prison, all wrapped up. I always go back to prison, when I can't figure out how to talk about it. All the glass, closing in.

Oswald state penitentiary bred a whole new brand of sin. It had a name: exhibitionism.

Cryptic? Possibly. The time for plain-speaking in front of a crowd is long gone-- I don't have that kind of detachment anymore. I don't have that arrogance, today. Even Chris was aware of his audience, and toned it down some. Wanting: a trip. Wanting: some freedom to breath. Getting: a ride to school tomorrow. You have to start small.

Talked to River today, and Sascha yesterday. Much missing the tribe. Also missing the WMF, because the constellations it made just stuck so well. I'll keep Izzy for a long time, even if I won't admit it. It takes all kinds of forts to make the world go round.

Finished another story with the one-moment-of-bliss, but it didn't fit. May have to rewrite. Have to send a bunch of Christmas cards and/or valentines' cards. Must write on a box; must send box. Must tape box up first. Box must say, moment of bliss, sent. Box must also say, "I am inclined, like any man, to cherish my human affinities."

That was a new and inspiring way to butcher Pablo Neruda, wasn't it.

Doqz sent me an email today that read: "your stuff always makes me want to write something. Anything." And I wanted to weep, just for a second, reading it, because that's what I do. That's -- it is wholly spiritual. It's a spiritual experience. I can't believe I didn't realize that before you told me.

Letters must be written. Latin homework must be done -- homework, not today. Maybe tomorrow. Snow is on the ground, which means the world halts for real. Well, not really, but my world does. My world hasn't been going anywhere for a while now, and I almost like it that way.

Lance says, softly, "I don't want to go," but no one hears him.

Like I said. Having: depression, or maybe it's just disconnection. Wanting: flesh wounds. Also, pilgrimage. Find myself wondering what it would be like to be in a coma. Don't want to escape life, just anything that ties one down.

Not loving: snow. Also, responsibilities of any sort. Loving: tribe. Also, Justin. Because he is the cutest darn thing. Also, Sheila, because she is on my side. Hating: lacks. Also, Nelly Furtado, except for that one song. Trying to oust: ambivilence. Saying: nothing, really.

Also loving: pop. Escape is where it's at. I want to be famous; imagine not wanting to be eaten yesterday, but wanting it today.

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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

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