Mar. 27th, 2009

raybear: (Default)
I had a moment earlier when I was considering the fact that today is Friday and I had no plans tonight, and what I might want to do about that, and considering who I haven't seen in awhile and who might be free, but then it occurred to me: last Friday night I had dinner with [ profile] blondestallion then we went to a comedy show, afterwards I popped by on drinks with Jet and [ profile] broqued; on Saturday morning I had brunch with WOWS club, then an afternoon meeting that led into the spring sangha day potluck at temple; on Sunday night, we went over to M&E's house for dinner; on Monday night, I went to [ profile] jethead & K's to watch RuPaul's Drag Race finale; on Tuesday night, I had ribs with J-Hud and [ profile] dommeyourass; on Wednesday night, we went to meditation sitting, then to watch a bad gay movie at [ profile] jethead's house (again...I'm there a addition to having great people who live there, its also 3 blocks from my own house); on last night, I went up to [ profile] broqued's house to chat and eat snacks and build legos.

After that amazing week of socializing, I'm actually not burnt out on people even, at least not those who are my friends (I think being home alone all day probably contributes), but I am also quite content with spending the next 24 hours alone and not feeling some sort of strange obligation to the cultural concept of "Friday night". Why is that even still around in my brain? I'm not 19 and haven't been for awhile. I prefer the version of me in 1983 who was excited about Friday night because it meant Diff'rent Strokes and Webster were going to be on tv and I could stay up later to read in bed.

Its too bad I can't get a job as a professional friend. I could even travel to you and make weekend visits. [ profile] anjiyama and [ profile] downmiles can vouch for my character and skills in hanging out, even if we've never done it in-person before.
raybear: (Default)
Sometimes when I'm walking through the apartment late at night with all the lights off and my laptop in hand, I will open it and face it outwards and pretend I'm in some Discovery Channel show using a night-vision camera to investigate a haunted house. And then I freak myself out and shut the laptop really fast.

I have not showered since Sunday. I have, however, taken 3 baths. That is not my usual proportion of things, and I feel a bit indulgent using so much water.

Today has been filled with surreal daydreams, intensified by an afternoon nap and quasi-lucid dreaming involving a familiar stranger and an old friend and a home and a passionate affair, those dreams that bring bliss in quantities dreams usually reserve for terror and panic. It was so hard to wake up, even more so because, really, I had nothing to wake up for, I had the day to myself and could sleep it away if it brought me pleasure, but it seemed like a bad sign, the symptom of depression, and I got ticked off that I ended my reverie because of medication commercial warning signs blaring through my head. So I've poked around the rest of the day, enjoying myself still almost because of the longing and the occasional moment of closing my eyes and slipping back into the sensations of that otherworld, remembering minute details likes the fabric on the couch, the smell of the room, and focusing to make out the details of faces. I am horrible with faces of real-life people, I can often remember names and conversations and hair and outfit and the circle of the face is a flesh-colored blur, like an anonymous whistleblower being interviewed on the news. However, this time I could do it with such perfect clarity, I felt almost the pleasure a sculptor might, in so perfectly capturing the proportions of a face that you can run your (imaginary) hand over and around and feel your success. Keep touching and get hairs tangled up between your fingers, its quite real, for a split second, before I nod off and muscles jerk, splashing the bathwater and waking me up from not-quite-asleep. I close my eyes and do it again.

Synthetic happiness is possibly superior to so-called natural spontaneous happiness, its longer lasting, so perhaps this moment in the tub of remembering a memory of an imaginary event serves an even better purpose than 'authentic nostalgia'. The imaginary sort of longing in stories can be worked and worked and worked over until a proper resolution is found.

May 2010

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