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Friday, 20 October 2000 (i don't wanna talk about it now) 8:52am Walking by Starbucks (Starbuck's? Starbucks'?) this morning, I couldn't help but notice that in addition to Wrecking Ball, they also sell Emmylou's Red Dirt Girl and Billy Bragg & Wilco's Mermaid Avenue. It hurts to think I fall into Starbucks' target demographic.
Then again, yesterday I returned from a meeting to find I'd left the computer playing Aube's
Metal De Metal, rather loud and with the door open (hey, I'd left in a hurry)
meaning that at times people walking by my office heard all manner of
scraping, clanging metallic sounds. Won't find that at Starbucks. Not yet, anyway.
If nothing else, I was dressed for it. I was wearing a short black velvet dress which I haven't worn in about a year, and had on more makeup than usual. Indeed, I looked not dissimilar to how I did when I used to do this sort of thing on more than a regular basis. Hell, Maddy and I had even been fighting. It all felt very retro. I didn't see Zaleska for a while upon arriving at Roderick's, although her presence was palpable in the form of her trademark pirate flag hanging above the stage. I knew I was in the right place. I couldn't help wondering if she'd had it up for every show on the tour, or if this was special. Timbre was there (to see Zaleska), as were Chas and t’m (though had been unaware anything special going on that night). By the time the show began, they'd left. Can't say as I blame them too much, really; unless you know someone in the group or are otherwise familiar with them, it's hard to drum up much enthusiasm. When a friend is involved, though I think it's only right to be there to support them if at all possible, even if one's own sense of scenesterism is offended in the process. Which wasn't the case with me, but I digress. t’m, as it happens, has the same kind of boots as I do, except in black rather than burgundy. They also set off airport metal detectors. Nice to know I'm not the only one. Timbre told me about her new relationship with The Boi; she seems much happier and healthier than in her previous relationship with he whom Tania diplomatically referred to as "that bald raver person." Perhaps most importantly, he's aware of her gender issues and isn't afraid or trying to hold her back. There's no telling what might happen when/if she begins to transition, but for now he supports her, and that's what matters. That, and not pressuring her to move forward if she's not ready. She's talked to me on a number of occasions about her burgeoning f2m status, and while I've always listened and tried to help however I could, she's got to move at her own pace. Only she'll know when she's ready. When Zaleska saw me, she practically screamed "Sherilyn!" and leapt into my arms. She was probably drunk and homesick (and I was neither), but it still felt nice to get that kind of reaction. As both tour manager and DJ her duties included both rounding up the group and DJing before the show, and thanks to Rodericks' policy of not allowing outside DJs, she didn't have much to do except group-herding. And there wasn't much of that to be done, so she seemed to have a fair amount of time on her hands. During Attrition's show her and I stood on the steps leading down to the dance floor, across from the stage. She was more than willing to answer my questions (his first batch of incense came from India, and when that ran out, he bought more from a truck stop; it is in fact criminal that she fits into that dress so well) and offered up some tidbits of her own. Sometimes it seems the redeeming aspect of going on the road is the stories you accumulate. (Spoken like someone who hasn't traveled much.) She took off every so often to attend to what I presumed to be tour-managerial duties, and a song or two before the show ended she asked if I'd like to be her helper. What can I possibly say to a question like that besides yes? I followed her to the bar, where three beer bottles each were thrust upon us. Zaleska seemed rather amused by my momentary fumbling with the bottles. Hey, I'm new at this. Gimme a break. I followed her back out into the main room (have I mentioned that the model of Kal-El's ship which once hung above the dance floor and was then moved to the bar has now disappeared entirely?) and backstage while Attrition was still playing. I have to admit, I found it very neat. i'm with the band! It was the kind of surreal moment which seemed to happen all the time last year, but less so recently. We danced for a while after the show, and eventually I told her I had to leave. I had no idea what time it was, probably around 2am, and I had to work the next day. Zaleska seemed genuinely disappointed—ouch—and asked if I'd like to meet the band. She took me backstage again and introduced me to the keyboardist/sampler and the other vocalist (she wore a purple vinyl dress which was just as impressive up close), though the leader of the group, Martin Bowes, was off being angsty somewhere. Since he does everything on the records by himself it's not unlike meeting Prince or Trent Reznor's band rather than the (A)rtists themselves, but I was still rather honored to be Zaleska's Official San Francisco Friend. And who better for San Francisco than a garish goth tranny, after all?
Zaleska very much wanted me to stay, and I was tempted, but I knew it had the potential to turn into an allnighter—and
while that made it all the more intriguing, the week had already been harrowing enough without throwing hardcore sleep deprivation
into the mix. I felt guilty, almost like I was abandoning her, but I had to go, and she understood that. It was nice while
it lasted, though.
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Thursday, 19 October 2000 (26 unknown carcinogens) 9:52am So Pike is going on vacaction for the next two weeks, starting Friday; I have the second of those two weeks off, and Brian's last day is the middle of that week. Thinge are going to be quite different come November. The Den Mother is in a good mood about it all, of course. Of course, of course, of course. She's losing a thorn in her side, someone who refuses to be a team player and do things her way. I'm actually beginning to miss The Big Boss, who at least didn't have the attention span necessary to micromanage. But it's all going to be okay. Really it is.
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Wednesday, 18 October 2000 (ultraviolet (light my way)) 9:38am As subculturally impolitic as this may be (ooooh, that place is so pretentious!), I do love Roderick's. And now reality comes crashing back down.
it all means something, right? tell me!
Brian's working on it, though. With any luck, there will be a buffer between her and I, one that should last long enough for me to get out of the department entirely. A new department (away from The Big Boss and The Den Mother and The Fidget Queen) is being formed, and if it happens, they'll be wanting me in it. Still, the politics and machinations and dealings and whatnot swirling around right now are astonishing. I didn't think 2000 could possibly be more complicated than 1999, but it would appear I was wrong. Brian's last day, according to his letter of resignation, is November 1. Man oh man, October is turning into a severely apocalpytic month.
Hell, I'll be lucky to survive this week. Tomorrow is going to be especially
painful: I have to attend a training class called "Performer." It's
some corportate clusterfuck which is supposed to help employees and managers
learn to communicate better, and more specifically, make sure employees
know their jobs. Which is all fine and dandy, except that A) it's mandatory
whether employee or manager think it's necessary or not, B) Brian and I have
no problems communicating with one another, and C) he's fucking GONE in two
weeks. And, yet, attendance is mandatory. Ugh. Must. Not. Kill....
I've also requested all of Halloween week off, not just through Wednesday
as I'd originally requested. I have enough Paid Time Off accumulated,
and I know that with everything else going on (the wedding, natch), I'm
not going to wanna think about work...especially not the mess that's
going to be waiting for me when I return.
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Tuesday, 17 October 2000 (acrobat) 8:46am And then there are those times when everything is on the verge of flying apart at the seams, and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it—today, Connelly's Razor will no doubt make its triumphant return. 12:10pm Still betwixt salon positions, Anodyne will be coming over next Monday evening to do my hair. In addition to the standard blackening, I'm seriously considering putting in some red, both to spiff it up for the wedding the following week and because I continue to be a firm believer in making superficial cosmetic changes to compensate for spiritual emptiness. Anyway, she said she'd be more than happy to do it. And then I'll be happy. I'm pretty sure that's how it's supposed to work. 2:39pm He said "Yes." Well, that's that, I suppose. This particular ride is coming to an end. 6:25pm see what I mean? and it's only tuesday. this is gonna be a toughie. sometime after midnight Okay, so I'm no Pamela Des Barres. I didn't even screw anybody. Still, thanks to Zaleska, for a very brief period—had anyone thought to ask, which of course they did not—I could have said, i'm with the band. And isn't that what we all dream of?
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Monday, 16 October 2000 (seeing strange lights) 9:05am Back at it. Somehow, though, this week already has a bad vibe. 11:07am And now I know why, and it isn't just because I shared an elevator (but no words) with the President and CEO of the company this morning: Christina Aguilera is performing across the street today at the Evil Levi Plaza. That's a very good reason not to leave the building unless absolutely necessary. Oh, I'm not going to pretend that I don't find her attractive or that I don't covet her midsection (in the sense that I wish mine looked an iota as good), but that's not a crowd I'd care to contend with, either. 4:24pm Ugh. As she is wont to do, The Den Mother has made some fairly arbitrary changes which will require several hours to actually implement. Brian has promised me that there'll be no more changes from her or anyone else after today, and while I know he's sincere, I've heard that sort of promise before. And, of course, after today he might not care at all anymore, especially if he says "Yes" to that job offer... 5:26pm He just made a not-so-veiled reference to not being here much longer. I guess I know his answer.
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Sunday, 15 October 2000 (interregnum) 12:38pm Well, I'm not going to work today. I know that much for sure. There's still a lot of work to do, and a pseudo-deadline on Tuesday, but at this moment, I don't care. The main reason there's still so much to do is 'cuz people have been coming in (especially after I left on Friday) and ordering sweeping changes, simply because they can. Fine. Whatever. They'll just have to wait a little longer for 'em. I'm going to spend a few hours at home, then pick Madeline up from the airport, and that's that.
Sleeping in until 11am, though a rarity for me, helped. I was at Shrine until
about 2am last night, usually either standing by myself feeling inadequate or
dancing and feeling inadequate. (Standard pattern.) I did talk to Anodyne
quite a bit, which always makes me feel a little better. She apologized for
not having responded to my email (lord knows I'm in a big glass house on
that score), and said she'd still like to do my hair. It's all about the
little things.
Last year, however, I wasn't wearing buetz with metal lace-hooks. They didn't set off the airport metal detectors when we went to Vegas, but for whatever reason they did this time around. On Friday it was no problem; I put my glasses in my jacket and put it on the conveyor belt, and when the alarm went off, they ran the probe (*cough*) over me in a rather cursory manner, probably already aware that I wasn't carrying anything. My clothing was fairly close to my skin (either in spite of or because of my self-image issues); if I did have a concealed weapon there would be a fairly obvious—um—bulge. More importantly, I was wearing velour leggings and little makeup besides eyeliner. Today, though, I was wearing a slit skirt over stripeys and black lipstick. In other words, I was a Clear Security Threat. After all, what's more threatening than uncertain gender? The woman watching the conveyor belt screen first referred to me as "sir," then corrected herself and said "ma'am." The guy with the probe, however, didn't want anyone to think he was quits so easily fooled, and was "sir"-ing me like crazy. Yeah, I was wearing a skirt and makeup and had a not entirely unnoticeable shape, but anyone with half a brain could tell I was really a boy, and he had half a brain. What I don't get is why he asked if he could lift up the back of my shirt. I don't get that one at all. There was nothing remotely metallic back there (the only vaguely metal part of the clothes on the upper half of my body was the front of the waist-cincher), but maybe he's had problems with goffed-out trannies smuggling weapons along their spine. Maybe it was because I was wearing a Diva X Machina t-shirt showing a woman holding a gun; perhaps to them that's as bad as making comments about guns and bombs. Maybe they could just tell they had a live freak and were using the extent of their authority to keep me in one place to gawk. I honestly don't know. All I can say is, I was feeling a smidgen persecuted, just a leetle teeny tiny bit. They let me go (turns out the only metal on my person was the lace-hooks of my buetz—who knew?), and I walked to Maddy's gate, trying to shake off the sense of violation. Ugh. Wasn't easy. Her flight arrived on time, they disembarked, and I struck the same pose I'd been in when she got off her flight last year. As we hugged, I noticed a small boy holding a box of Kit-Kats—I was momentarily reminded of Lee, and pushed that thought away—walking up to people, asking if they wanted to buy one. He was presently tapping the arm of a guy rather passionately embracing his girlfriend. The couple may very well have been apart for months, and their reunion was being ruined by this kid. How rude is that? (I consider it a classic example of the failure of capitalism: if our priorities were straight, schools would have the money they need in the first place and wouldn't have to resort to children peddling junk food on the streets. The day that Conk ranted about how his tax dollars shouldn't be spent on education, I knew we'd reached an ideological impasse.) We were next in the kid's path. He only seemed to be targeting couples, probably because everyone else was walking away; those of us standing in one place were the easy targets. Except that when he got a good look at me, it was all over. He didn't even bother his sales pitch, such as it was. He just looked at me, momentarily speechless, then muttered something I didn't quite catch (it wasn't "Wow," but along those lines), and hurried off. I suspect he was not so much dazzled by my beauty as he was shocked by seeing this tall man wearing scary makeup; either he was afraid I was either going to drink his blood or fuck him up the ass. Because, you know, that's what vampires and faggots do if you're not careful. Either way, I'm sure he'll get a lot of mileage out of that particular anecdote. Aye, there's the rub: I tend to either be unnoticed (as last night) or very much noticed (today), and am dissatisfied with both. The world's not going to change; I've got to change how I look at the world. In truth, it wasn't like I was completely ignored last night. No sooner had I walked into the bar than I was given an appreciative hug by someone to whose FTP server I'd uploaded a VNV Nation bootleg. (I'd mentioned on the junkies list that it had been originally been posted to alt.binaries.sounds.mp3.gothic-industrial, and he wrote me asking if I could upload it to him. The ironic part is, I didn't recognize his name, but he very much knew who I was. How self-centered can I get?) And I was always able to talk to Anodyne, and not just because she was a captive audience at the coat check. Indeed, she assured me that I wasn't annoying her or coming across like a stalker or anything—she's had those before, and I don't qualify. Beyond the fact that I simply like her as a person (and have always admired the hell out of her style), I'm not entirely certain why her approval and friendship means as much to me as it does. Maybe it's the eternal babybat in me—it's there, no point in denying it—that constantly needs assurance, needs to be reminded that I weally bewong... Still, though, as we left the airport, I couldn't help thinking that in some places, like smack dab in the middle of the general public, I may never quite fit. So be it.
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Saturday, 14 October 2000 (human behaviour) 10:26am I saw Maggie last night, though I don't think she saw me. 12:04pm After taking Maddy to the airport last night (her flight left on time, a nice change of pace), I stopped at Trader Joe's to stock up on twigs 'n yogurt then returned home. By then, I had pretty much talked myself out of returning to work. Brian wasn't expecting me to, and they could live without me for a few hours. (As it turns out, hell did break loose, mainly because of people not understanding the nature of the project nonetheless trying to sound authoritative. That's The Den Mother's specialty.) I'd been strongly considering going to see The Matrix at the Evil Sony Metron, but that wouldn't be until midnight. The apartment needed to be cleaned, that was for sure, and in fact cleaning has always been an effective tool against depression. Then again, there was that other movie I'd been reading about that sounded kinda interesting... Fuck it. I showered, changed into what qualifies as my going-out clothes (waist-cincher under tank top with fishnet over it all), and went to The Bridge to see Lars Von Triers' Dancer in the Dark. It's a Swedish musical starring Bjork which has critics drawing lines in the sand. Just the fact that it's a musical meant that Maddy wouldn't have been interested, so the timing seemed right. She'd actually suggested I take the opportunity to go see the rerelease of The Exorcist, but there's no way I'd go to that on Friday night, not with the way modern audiences are reacting to it. Savages. At least a crowd at an arty foreign movie will behave themselves. Sometimes my naivete shocks even me. It's nothing new, though. I remember thinking in high school that once I got into college, I'd be surrounded by people who were there by choice, and as a result would act like it. (My grades and study habits in high school were less than stellar, but I wasn't particularly disruptive, either.) Then when I got to Fresno Community College and discovered that nothing had changed, I decided that it didn't count since it was, after all, a community college. As Jonco pointed out, the only requirement for admission was a pulse—and there were probably special programs if you lacked that qualification. Not having learned my lesson, I reasoned that at the University level it would be different, since it cost so much more. If you're spending several thousand dollars, you'd want it to be worth something, right? Um, no. It just don't work that way, as I discovered during my first week at San Francisco State University. Hell, my very first night the residence apartment was filled with drunk people, and my roommate Chip was always open about the fact that his wealthy mother was paying his tuition and supplying him with a healthy allowance, most of which went towards CDs and booze. Now, of course, it all seems blindingly obvious. I had a lot to learn. And I learned most of it the hard way. But I digress. For the most part the audience was in sync with the movie, accepting the shaky digital video and Bjork's voice (singing or not) and the musical segments and even the intentionally melodramatic tone. Musicals are a very difficult concept for the modern audience to wrap its collective brainstem around, and I suppose you either tolerate them or you don't. (Unless it's animated. Full-length animated films are musicals, almost as a rule.) Except for the couple sitting next to me, who laughed and snorted through a lot of it, especially at any display of emotion from the characters. And there was a lot of it. It was like what I figured what must have been going on down the street at The Exorcist. Maybe that's where they went when they blessedly left halfway through. I don't care, really. I was just glad they left. Dancer in the Dark (which, for the record, I really liked) was over at half past nine, and The Matrix was at midnight, so I had some time to kill. I briefly considered going home, then decided to go to the office. It was closer, kept me in the general area, and had a friendly restroom. (I decided against putting on makeup because of the possiblity of having to use the restroom at the Metreon, as I'm still not confident enough to use the women's room.) Besides, there was fix I needed to make on the Palm project that had been bugging me all day long. While there I grabbed a copy of the Bay Guardian from a few weeks back I'd been keeping because of a cover story on Dancer and Bjork. Now that I'd seen the movie, I could actually read the article. Me? Anal? Perish the thought. I parked in the Fifth and Mission garage and walked to the Metreon. It was just shy of 11pm, and I was about to get in the line for the box office when someone came up to me from behind and said, "Are you here for The Matrix?" I was wearing my duster, and it occured to me that he probably thought it was in specific reference to the one Keanu wears on the poster. I'd also wore it to Dancer in the Dark and The Magic Box—hell, I'm wearing it in the picture at the top of the page— but in this context it became almost a Rocky Horror gesture. Completely unintentional, but there it was. I found it rather amusing. As did he, in a good way: he had an extra ticket he needed to get rid of, and I apparently met his criteria of the right person to give it to. He didn't ask for any money, and walked away before I could even get out my wallet (not wanting to appear to be scalping with security guards watching might have been a contributing factor), so I got in for free. Can't beat that with a stick, epecially since admission is $9.75. Outside the auditorium there were maybe a dozen people in line, including my mysterious benefactor. He was towards the very front of the line, though. Fair enough. I sat down, got out the Guardian and started reading. Someone from the front of line had spotted me and came over to tell me how much he liked the way I was dressed, saying it was very appropriate for the movie in question. He bore a striking resemblence to my benefactor, and in fact I couldn't be sure it wasn't him. So I was polite, thanking him even though it was just the way I normally dressed, that I'd worn the same thing to Dancer in the Dark. After he went away again, the girl ahead of me asked me about Dancer. Turns out she's a huge Bjork fan and already had the soundtrack, but hadn't yet seen the movie. (I gave her my copy of the Guardian, since Bjork was on the cover.) We talked movies and music, specifically the relationship between soundtracks and movies, how the best movie music is that which can exist on its own, without necessarily invoking the film when listening to it but while still enhancing the experience of the film itself. Peter Gabriel's Passion, in my mind, is the perfect example of this. It was the kind of film geek talk that I love. I wound up sitting next to her in the auditorium as well, mainly because we'd both wanted to get as dead-center as possible. Unfortunately, the guy who'd commented upon my clothes while were in line was sitting right in front of us. He was not the person who'd given me the ticket, and turned out to be the worst kind of fanboy, who just kept talking and talking and talking about the most banal shit imaginable (a pseudo-deep analysis of The Sixth Sense and What Lies Beneath, why Star Trek V sucked, how Jar-Jar Binks was in fact a thinly veiled rendition of Jabberjaw and his inclusion in the film had the same effect as did the introduction of Scrappy-Doo—okay, yeah, he had a point on that one), and and being genuinely incredulous when I told him that, no, I had not seen Highlander: Endgame. "You haven't? Why not?" Christ. What can you say to something like that? "Because I'm not interested?" I tried, and he proceeded to explain why I should be interested, even though I lost interest in the movies after the first sequel and have never watched the teevee show. I felt especially sorry for the girl, who shouldn't have had to be dealing with this guy as well. He wasn't talking to her, but she couldn't easily tune him out. I kept trying to pretend to be very interested in something going on somewhere else, wishing for holes in the ceiling to count. He just kept right on, with me occasionally nodding, saying "Uh-huh," and supplying words for him—he was trying to tell me that What Lies Beneath was an homage to Hitchcock. He just didn't have a wide enough vocabulary. The bad pre-show vibes didn't stop there. A very cranky security guard occasionally got on the loudspeaker to inform us that if he saw anyone climbing over the seats he would personally kick them out. The seats are very expensive to replace, he said, and they have to last. It was clear that the theater wans't going to be showing Rocky Horror any time soon. And then there was Maggie. She sat in the same row as the rabid fanboy, but towards the far left. I can only assume that the momentary diversion of my brain-ray from dude, please shut up and leave me alone to please, maggie, don't see me, i'm not at my best right now, i should at least be wearing makeup was successful. Even if the dude didn't shut up and leave me alone until the lights went down. The ironic part? The fanboy left after half an hour. Sheesh. After the movie—which of course I'd already seen, but damn, it looked and sounded real nice this time, and I'd like to think that someday I'll remind people of Trinity rather than Neo—I kept a close eye on Maggie, figuring out the best way to avoid contact with her. (I worry sometimes about friends that I've lost, and then I realize the most of the ones I've lost are the ones I've deliberately misplaced. This is not a good thing.) She left without seeing me, just in time for me walk back to my original seat so I could listen to Marilyn Manson's "Rock Is Dead" during the credits through one of the greatest indoor, non-live sound systems yet developed.
Walking back to the garage, I tossed around the idea of going to Assimilate, only four or five blocks away. But rather gnarly blocks,
and if it wasn't already closed, it would be soon. Naah. I'd had my fun for one evening. Besides, I had go to work the next day.
Not that I've been at my most productive...
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Friday, 13 October 2000 (violently happy) 7:12am Parked in the Batcave for the first time in forever. It really is much more pleasant to drive before the sun comes up. I wish I could do it more often, but alas. It was probably a fluke that I was able to get up when I did. Among my stillborn exercise plans lately has been to drive to work early, park in the Batcave, and go to the 24 Hour Fitness down the street. Not today, since part of the reason I'm here early is because I'll be leaving work early to go back home, pick up Maddy, and take her to the airport. I feel somewhat guilty that I don't plan to return to work after that; in essence, I'm taking Friday afternoon off, and that's not right. Then again, it's been a week of 12-hour plus days, so I in fact have every right to take a few hours off today, right? Right. Or not. It's not like I'm paid by the hour; I'm paid to be here as long as there's work to be done (and of course to be here during what's considered regular business hours ready to work when it pops up unexpectedly, as is more often the case, especially on Friday afternoons). Then again, I have a shitload of paid time off accumulated, so mathematically I'm covered. It's still uncertain whether or not Lee will be at Dana's wedding. She certainly wants him there—in a lot of ways, he means as much to her as he does to me—but he's burrowed fairly deep underground. Ump's trying to get in touch with him, and has a better chance of it than I do since they have more mutual friends, seeing as how they've known each for roughly a decade longer. I hope he's there, but my breath is not being held. If he is, I think he'll be proud of both Dana and I, especially her of course (it's her wedding, and it's about her, not me). We've both come a long way, even if I wonder sometimes about my own progress. At least I'm farther along than I was, and that's one definition of the word. I probably tend to mythologize him too much in my mind, but I don't care. Perhaps if I'd stumbled in earlier, I'd think as little of him as I do Crawford or The Leader, especially since a lot of people have as much contempt for Lee as I do for the others. (Did that sentence make sense?) (Hell of a time to ask.) I discovered very quickly that his name was mud for a lot of people, Terminal and Tiff being the first. But I didn't care. He was in the right place at the right time for me, reaching out when I needed it most, when I was already abandoned by others. And, for that, I'll always be grateful. His other sins, though they may be legion (*cough*), are of no concern of mine. Of course he's done bad things. But not to me. Entry from last night which I'd neglected to upload:
8:37am Good lord. she's right.. I did upload it. Yep, there it is. I swear to the god whose existence I can no more pretend to believe in than the Easter Bunny's, I went home last night and it was NOT there. I downloaded the most recent version from my sfgoth ftp, and the last entry was from 1:51pm. But it's there, now, just like it's been the whole time... Oh, wait! I know what I did. I didn't upload it last night, and normally what I do in those cases is to put it in the clipboard when I get to work the following morning, then download the version with the most recent entries done from home, and then paste the missed entry in gray as I did above. Except that I didn't make any entries from home last night or this morning, and as such I didn't download the version from the ftp since it was the same one as was already on my hard drive, and then completely forgot that said version by definition already had the fucking entry—
Hi. I'm losing my mind.
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Thursday, 12 October 2000 (forgiven not forgotten) 8:44am I will not apologize for doing my job. I can probably shave at any time now; my face appears to have healed enough. More than enough, even. There are a few dark hairs, but nothing overly intrusive. I just need them to have mercy on me until next month.
It occurs to me, I have no idea how many hours of electro I've had done. When I started,
I kept careful track on my calendar, even fussing over whether two hours and fiften minutes
should be consider 2 hours or 2.5 hours. I haven't bothered to do so since last year; I'd
probably have to go through my old journal entries and try to figure it out from that. Offhand,
I'd say somewhere between 200-250 hours. Roughly. In the mid-to-lower part of the three-digit
range, surely. I'm honestly not sure I want to know the exact number, since it's a half-empty/half-full
glass sorta thing. (My, I'm enjoying my hyphenates today, aren't I?) The number could either
represent how far I've come, or how much farther I have to go. And, like one's weight, the numbers
don't matter so much as how you feel about yourself. Fuck knows I don't need numbers to screw that
up for me any more.
okay, i've had enough what else can you show me? 1:51pm As bad days are wont to do, this one just keeps getting worse. Starting with fighting between Maddy and I and a parallel flameup on my favorite mailing list, now Brian tells me that he might be getting a terrific job offer, one he can't pass up. Worst-case scenario, and also the most likely: he takes the job and I begin reporting directly to The Den Mother, who understands as much about what I do as I understand about ukelele maintenance. And, as I know form experience, one's worst fears are typically the ones that come true. 7:46pm Dinner at the office for the third time. The last couple nights I've discovered that it's extremely difficult to get good chinese food around here (although I admit I haven't explored nearby Chinatown as much as I should have), so I pilgrimmaged to El Gran Taco. A burrito is perfect comfort food, and that's what I needed. Probably be coming in this weekend. Just as well, since Maddy will be out of town. I'm not sure what I'd be doing with myself otherwise anyway. Although Assimilate tomorrow night and Shrine on Saturday have crossed my mind, as they often will. Scratching the itch, and all. I don't know if it can be the same as it was then, though. I don't know if I can find the same comfort there as I once did. I don't know if it's anywhere to be found at all. The thoughts don't mean a damn thing.
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Wednesday, 11 October 2000 (dark matter) 8:41am It didn't seem any more difficult than usual, really. The real fun is going to be getting Maddy to the airport in time for her 6:10am flight on Friday (she's standby, but has a good chance of getting on). Maybe I should go 1984 on Thursday night and stay until closing, which would get me home in time to get her out of bed and on the road. Naaaah. Does get me to thinking of...what was it? Sanctuary? Bound? Bound, I think. Post-breakup, pre-diary. (Again, I think. The chronology's getting difficult to remember.) Early last year, when it was being held at that basement club in North Beach, down the street from Bimbo's 365. In one of the rooms adjacent to the main dance floor, with the bondage equipment, were a number of couches and lounge chairs. One of the chairs was unoccupied, and I melted into it nicely. I dozed a little. I don't think I was the only one.
you had a nasty itch—the breakup—which you were lucky enough to find a way to scratch. and like scratching an itch, it didn't cure the problem, but it alleviated the symptoms in a momentary rush of relief that felt not unlike pleasure. at that moment in time, it was more than you could have hoped for, which is why you look back on it so fondly now. but you'll never get it back, you know. and what's more, you don't want it back. eventually you'll realize that.
It has been pointed out that, in the context of the term "the witching hour," it's an adjective,
not a verb. Very true.
I wrote and asked if I'm missing anything, if there's a way to do it I just haven't discovered.
They didn't respond last time I wrote, and I'm not expecting them to this time.
It's okay, because it's instant.
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