Tuesday, May. 11, 2004 - 5:19 p.m.
Write On

Missing. Longing. Need.

Words like these: how mortifying, how essential.

So maybe I’ll spill words here some more. A lot is up in the air, why not cyber-jot?

I’m beginning to thrive again. Life is expanding, confusingly joyous, more and more of the time. Trial’s coming up. Probably next month. I’m dreading this, but jeepers it really has so very little to do with me. I just have to get up there and articulate the truth, and endure whatever obscene battery of accusations get flung at me during cross-examination.

Beyond that, I don’t want to dwell on it. That’s not what I’m coming back here to go on about.

I’m coming back—(if that’s what I’m doing?)—because the quotidian increasingly enthralls me again. I might want to write about it.

About coupling recently with a stranger on the beach, in the middle of the night, in the rain.

About the ways I channel horny curiosity now—most safely of all, into webcamspace. The —literally—spectacular meanings that can happen there.

About death. People are dying or might die all around me; I almost got killed; Six Feet Under rules. It’s topical.

About all the silly fucked-up beautiful things I do and am. Or could be.

About talking online to a luscious young man from the deep South recently, who was confused about sex, about why his gay friends call him a slut; putting him on to this site, hearing how appreciative he was of experiences resonant with his.

About meeting a fellow online journaler visiting from out-of-town last night, falling into a near-reverie of animated conversation and deep sharing.

Because, not writing, I’m not sure who I am. Wording my selves doesn’t dissipate that uncertainty so much as it energizes my living-out of what matters. Uncertainty doesn’t matter, I need to keep reminding myself: it’s those spurts of life I live as if it didn’t. Yeah, that’s it, that’s the ticket.

Stories might spill here again, eh?