No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2003-05-02 - 12:19 a.m.

Ulysses and the sirens

Turbulent day.

I got my resume submitted to a contract job. Reasonably cool, but too long a commute.

Then I found out that I got into a month-long intensive acting program this summer. Very, very freaking cool. I'm extremely excited about it, and I'm convinced it will be a good step for me.

But of course, then I had to call the headhunter back and tell them that I wasn't available for the entire month of June. Which didn't go over well. She pretty much ripped me a new asshole, and I felt guilty.

But not too guilty.

Then there was the email from ShyGirl. She thought I was mad at her. I suspected she was mad at me. We assured each other that neither was the case. She said she was coming to see the show tonight.

Why did that freak me out for the rest of the day? I swear she's like heroin. I know it can only end in tears, but I can't seem to resist. Paging Ms. Methodone. Please come save me from myself.

I saw her after the show. We talked some. I wasn't sure about what was going on in her head. (Like I'll ever know.)

I walked her to her car. Then came the long hug. That's pretty much when I knew what her intentions are. (As much as I can know them.) I don't think I reciprocated to the extent she wanted.

I'm trying so hard to keep myself in check right now. I've been caught up in this whirlwind before, and I got my teeth kicked in.

I'm not talking to her the way I used to. I'm not frank and open with her like I was last fall. But to be open like that, I have to be *open*. Like that. Which leaves me vulnerable.

And I'm not ready to be vulnerable yet. Not with her.

She needs to understand that she hurt me. She needs to understand that it's hard as hell for me to trust her.

Jesus, listen to me. I should run, not walk away from this situation, from this woman. eRoommate and Stimpy were telling me to remember the song I wrote. You know, the one about not being a safety net, and how I have the sense to say no.

Somehow I can't do that yet.

I feel like I'm walking towards a ledge. I am Ulysses, bound to the mast, begging to be dashed against the rocks. And everyone around me is deaf to the appeal. They don't understand why I want to go there. They can't fathom this urge for self-destruction.

Yet off I go.

We're doing dinner on Sunday.

Jane, get me off this crazy thing. Called love?

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