Author and Columnist
02.12.01 12:54 a.m.
- Yukio Mishima
"Foxes all, walking the path of foxes."
Response 2021.09.23
I have fans. No, seriously, I do. Several people, complete strangers (in that a person can be a complete stranger, let alone complete in themselves) wrote letters based upon my writings and my one prior journal entry. To answer the predominant question, the mere act of writing a poem wherein the protagonist is suicidal should not be construed as stating that the author was or is. It is not a cry for help, I am Xen. When I cry for help, it tends to be audible and actually involve tears. In my case, I felt that such poems were the best use of my talent at that point. Right now, I very much doubt I could turn out a single poem or story of that color, because that is not where my talents currently reside. I confess that I wasn't inspired by anyone around me dying, nor any actual prom queen. So, please, don't have needless concern for the cyber-entity named Xen. He's quite happy, just was (and possibly is) a melodramatic teen.
Tonight, a girl contacted me from my past, Marie (ironically enough. Read yesterday's entry to understand why). Actually, as she has two children and a year on me, I suppose I should call her a woman? But it doesn't sound right. I snuck into a church dance with her when I was 15. I passed notes to her from my bus window in eighth grade. She doesn't feel like a woman, she is Marie. Not quite an ageless being in the vein of Sarah, Conor, and Kate, merely that some part of her shall be perpetually that young girl to me. A Memorex Vampire.
The purpose of her most welcome IM was to tell me that her younger sister, Chrissy (whom I was also very close with), just gave birth to a son three weeks ago. Chrissy, for those of you that don't know, was my first experiences with deep romantic emotions (inasmuch as a lad of 14 or 15 feels such things in a real way). While it has been something like six years since that, it startled me. My little Chrissy has a tiny baby.
And I am happy for her. I am happy for all involved, really. Chrissy will make a great mother, as her sister has. They both have the requisite nutritive spirit. However, it shocks me to know that these people I shared beginning adolescence with are now mothers. Another couple I am close with is speaking of marriage.
At first, publicly, I stated that I felt old when realizing that these issues were concretely creeping into my life. However, that is not at all correct. I feel ageless as always. Nor am I much worried that I shall be spawning or wedding soon. That would require a very different life than the one I am currently leading, a life quite a bit more like the one I was leading half a year ago with Kate.
I think the issue swimming in the air around my head is... wait, I had it just a moment ago... slippery devil has eluded me! Blast! All right, I have captured its cousin thought. This one shall be flayed and dissected alive (how is that for imagery after insisting that I am not morbid?)
Changes
My friends are changing. I am changing. Right now, ever so slowly, we are all evolving or devolving (maybe both) toward certain ends. And especially the most certain end, shuffling off of the mortal coil. I was once told that men fear marriage because, in their feeble male brains, marriage equates to death and death is a force to be feared. If not death, they view marriage or any of the supposed shackles of domesticity as stagnation (do you know what stagnation leads to? That's right, death!)
Until four months ago, I was in a long term relationship that, left unchecked, may have someday led to something far more domestic then leaving my toothbrush and razor in a baggie in the top drawer of her nightstand. It was checked and deemed in need of revision in the form of a break-up, though not by me. As any dumpee, I took it poorly, though I cannot judge its rightness or wrongness now. But I am happy now and so is she. We have evolved or devolved to this point at hand. We are never, more likely than not, going to get married and have children. Point being... I'm not quite sure. I started this paragraph in hopes of stating that domesticity does not lead to stagnation and/or death. It doesn't, of course. Clearly I have not proved that to the satisfaction of even myself. Actually, I veered wildly from the point at hand. It's my journal, I am entitled.
So my life will not be filled with smaller humans that share 23 of my chromosomes, not for a very long time. For at least another half a decade, no gold ring shall be on any of my fingers, except the gold dragon I always wear. Nor am I likely to live longer because of it.
From now on, there will be no more flaying and dissecting of live thoughts. As we have seen tonight, they writhe far too much for any practical purpose.
reading : far too many digests of Pagan groups
listening : Tommy
wanting : Eileen to talk to me so I can tell her "sweet dreams"
interesting
thought: I seem to regard my body as an inanimate vehicle that I like quite a bit.
Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings.
He likes when you comment.