// nothing: another email to c.
| 07/08/2003 - 10:54 p.m. |

...Still obsessed/distracting/escaping with the old journals.
Who the fuck is that person who wrote them?
So full of feeling (and contradiction),
so eager and full of fight
and resolutely searching for growth and passion--
possessing such heart.

Cuz it sure as hell isn't me.

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mom is flying out this friday (july 11th).

i guess it'll take the weekend or so to fit as much as can be in my car, throw out as much as possible, and ship the rest.

then we'll be driving cross-country from ca, leaving tuesday probably.

i don't even know for sure where i'll be living, i guess with aunt j. in philly for now, but she's joined on aunt c.-and-uncle j.'s "won't enable me" bandwagon.

and to all of it:
whatever.

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just a few more pieces of a few recent journal entries there.

i've been going through ALL of my old journals, from the first one at Bm. right on through.
i'm currently up to the summer of 2001, post-college graduation, pre-move to CA.

and i am continually struck by this stranger who wrote them and the words she wrote.
a whole whole hell of a lot about you. wow, she loved you intensely. and felt an amazing amount of love back.
the transformations she went through, the knowledge she posessed, the dreams she reached for, the intensity that she was.

...well, i am as struck as a person could be who is for all intents and purposes dead, who cares.about.nothing, with no capacity to feel let alone hope.


so much i would like to say to you, so little of any worth.

the only thing that even minutely penetrates, the only molecules of feeling that ever flash, about anyone or anything is...for you. and the shame for having so horribly trashed all you gave me.

and yet, i still don't fucking know. or care. or anything.