Lisa came and got the last of her stuff: tooth brush, comb, make-up, shirts, etc. I tried to get her to fool around (I’m a guy, I’m allowed to be callow and horny, right? ….. right??) but she kept laughing it off. Pretty sure she’s seeing someone new already. Guess I didn’t mean as much to her as I thought I did.
Talking to Nikkov about it makes me feel a lot better. Obviously he doesn’t talk back but it’s nice thinking that someone is listening to me. Comforting in a weird way, I guess. I’m having a hard time outlining a new story even though I had several ideas while I was working on Nikkov’s story. He grew in character so fast I have a hard time not trying to write him into these other, contrasting stories.
That grocery trip turned out great, also. I am so addicted to those little hamburger helper singles packs, I would like to shake the hand of whoever thought that up. I even like the spicy taco ones and I have never liked spicy foods. I think I’ll go heat one of those up now and I’ll tell Nikkov about some of those story ideas.
Diary,
Things are great. Been a while since I wrote in this but I’ve been working on that short story. It sold!! YAY!! A New England horror mag picked it up for a couple hundred bucks. Still, gets me in the door, right? It’s weird, I wrote it pretty quickly because it felt so natural but I’ve started talking to the main character of my story when I’m alone. I’ve always talked to myself, just the natural course of things when you’re alone so much, but now I specifically feel like I’m talking to Nikkov. It feels right, so I see no reason to stop.
Oh, that girl I was seeing, Lisa, she got upset with me, all the time I was spending getting the details of my story together that she quit calling or wanting to hang out. She was always complaining that all I talked about was the story and how it was playing out in my head. Well, now she’s played out, I guess that just goes to show you. She was fun though.
I have to head out for some groceries. Now that the story is over with I’ll be writing more here until I plan out my next one. Things are great, now just need something in the house to munch on.
-D
I started a myspace blog because so many people bugged me to so they could check it easier… alack alas… that’s where to find my latest stuff.
Inside I can’t deny the ache and on my face I wear a smile like the gruesome teared and frowning face of a clown. I thought I had a hold on life before I opened myself to another and in so doing gained great feeling and emotion for which I am glad to own and glad to know I can still feel. I also gained a crushing weight on my chest that can’t be lifted by anything but her smile and her laughter and the basic attention I can glean at the best of times.
I sit back and rummage in my mind and my heart for anything to keep my mind from the bleeding, ever tenacious pain like a dagger just under my skin. I read great works and repeat to myself the throbbing words long dead poets felt for the loves they could not capture and bespeak my woe to their never present spirit. I rue myself over and over for the evident failure on my part to summon either the courage or the persistence to have kept that love and beauty close to heart.
Picture a great wall which is my life as I tear it down and weep in the tumbled and chalky remains that litter my mind. Oh, did I have control? I try to look back but it was a hollow shell. A long and hollow shell many layers deep that I believed to be just loneliness and see it for the wasted time it truly was.
Part of me hates this pain and I feel bitter to the point of tears but I would thank her for the time spent making that pain possible. Biting my tongue gains me inches in this sorrowful time I hope and with my hope I stay in pain. That pain for which I would thank her.
I find myself able to write again and wish I couldn’t.. only the distinct drowning pain in my heart, lungs, and stomach is such a tool for revival.
And so I write on and were it ink my tears would stain its edges and were it paper my hands would crumple it in despair.
Dear God… Big bucks, big bucks, no whammies, STOP!!
what dies within me, wilting in such a pathetic, wounding way. Like a drinking dagger it folds into the skin and slips beneath what holds me in.
What grows inside me isn’t something that can simply be said and even said there is no one who would listen. It’s just, being empty. I get excited about something and then that goes wrong and the emptiness is even more stifling.
If it weren’t so mind numbingly depressing it might be funny but the fact is I find much more creativity in my emptiness, as if I create something better to buoy my well-being.
And I cling to those things which make life understandable: my job, my daughter, my writing.
Yet even in those things: my job is merely a catalyst, my daughter I share and in her absence my heart bleeds, and my writing, well, my writing has a sharp edge.
Who is to say? And who is there to talk to? Maybe a life alone is my fate, if that exists. If there is a God, perhaps it is my salvation to be alone and empty? Or maybe I think too much.
You wanna see a donkey show?
PLATYPUS, I choose you!!
Quick Platy, use your duck bill attack!