Author and Columnist
02.15.01 2:54 a.m.
-I forget. Possibly me.
"The villain is the hero of his own story."
Response 2021.09.25
Much has happened since we last spoke, and yet very little of it real.
From the time I awoke until quite late in the day, I was in an odd place, psychosexually. Not that anything was specifically sexual, but rather everything was overly sensual. I rather believe my sense of smell somehow got its hands (or nasal cavities, I suppose) on steroids. Every scent, especially the scents of people, followed me. I could tell on what floor certain people got in the stairwell. Thankfully, this has faded. I do not think it is an ability I wish to have boosted. It was nearly painful, and an unwelcome coupling with my near frantic, conflicted energy of today.
Speaking of senses, I am increasingly losing my ability to focus my eyes and shall soon need glasses. Promise you'll love me all the more for it?
I met with a cyber friend, with whom I share mutual acquaintances. It was different than I expected, irrationally like a first date in its level of awkwardness. When I am awkward socially, I blather on until I reach exhaustion or some manner of middle ground. I am not terribly sure where I got this time.
This entry is not terribly interesting. Well, it would be if I were telling you everything about what is occurring in my life, but I am not. I fully comprehend the near sit-com effect complete honest would have and do not welcome it. I'd much rather my life was like a Joss Whedon inspired soap opera than an NBC sit-com.
Eileen, dear, sweet, frustrating Eileen, is at a Howie Day concert in Massachusetts right now. At least that is what I have been duly led to believe, but I have been known to get things confused. Tomorrow (or, rather, today since I am writing this entry so late), she returns. At 8PM, I will see her for the first time since the Rent/ Shakespeare/ hormone/ aesthetic sense inspired kissing/ singing/ holding/ dancing/
smirkingatoneanotheradoringconfusingtogetherinawaythatisnottogether. We are going to a rather lovely little inn for a late, romantic, and quite-a-bit-more-that-friendly dinner. Slightly before she left I told her more bluntly than I would have liked to that I needed greatly for her to make a decision about me. I confessed that right now, if she chose to tell me she wishes for my never to be anything more than a friend, I could cope and be fine swiftly. Every moment she waits, I grow fonder of her. Soon, she will be a part of me as Kate still is and may always be in some way. Eileen will flow through my blood, riding on platelet inner tubes. Then, to be told she feels nothing more than friendly and wants to feel nothing more would crush me. She seemed to understand, though she wishes she could see the handwritten letter than contains this confession (she extracted it from me when she worried that my feelings for her were weakening and I had to inform her it was quite the opposite). So tomorrow, dear journal readers (You all need one name. Submit your suggestions for a name below), you shall have a fuller plate than tonight. Right now you have carrot sticks and ranch dressing. Make do.
Last night, Kate asked for me to call her (which is actually far more significant than it sounds, but you'll have to take my word for it). She said she needed to speak, though on no particular subject. So I acquiesced, especially as Eileen has already gone to bed and I had grown quite tired of doing work. Miss Katherine told me how she missed talking to me, missed me being around (Have I really been neglecting her that much? I do hope not), and such. I was certainly flattered, I wasn't sure I still meant that much (or much of anything) to her. Though it did come at a point were her roommate-plus (JB is certainly far more than a roommate to Kate. Maybe something like the big sister Kate never had?) was out of the country on the business of leisure. So Kate was quite alone and had due time to miss me. She was wackier (for "wacky" is most certainly the best way to describe her behavior, though she felt she was crazy.) than I had encountered in her in a very long time. We spoke with great breadth and depth, perhaps too great. The details of the conversation, of course, are private and shall not be revealed here. Suffice it to say, last night added several perspectives to my view of Kate as a person, evolving entity, ex-love, and social pincushion. I should say here, just so there is no confusion or tense feelings, that it does make me love her all the better (as a dear friend, not more) that she is willing to share with me, even when I do not like what she is saying. Perhaps especially then.
Tonight, after an extraordinarily long return engagement at my desk at work (I missed classes and work on Monday, I am trying to make up for it), I went to see Kate, as she so wanted me to. And, frankly, I missed the girl. Though, given my almost vampiric feelings earlier in the day, I almost cancelled the meetings so no one would get hurt. However, I had more than recovered when she paged for me to come over.
The purpose of the meeting was to watch a film called The Boondock Saints which Kate theorizes (and I concur) was Kevin Smith's inspiration for the characters of Bartelby and Loki in his film Dogma. Both are excellent films in their own right, though "Boondock" is more artistically worthy. But I have digressed. Kate did not seem quite as fond to see me as she had on the phone the prior night or even when I called her to confirm that I was coming over. I would say I was disappointed, but I had somewhat expected it. She wasn't unhappy to see me by any stretch. Just not as close emotionally as I would have like. The rest of the night does not really bear repeating. Some was pleasant, some was decidedly unpleasant. Mostly it was uneventful, but that little matters. This journal is more a catalog of the feelings and thoughts behind my life, not a play-by-play of the events of it.
reading : TwoP Buffy recaps
listening : My cat Kizmet meowing desperately for my mother.
wanting : A better sense of foresight, maybe outright psychic precognitive abilities
interesting
thought: Other people's bodies are rarely inanimate vehicles to me or them. Those that view their bodies as I do are either completely insane or startlingly amazing to me. Maybe both.
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.