I’ve slept no more than two hours in the past thirty-six and I’ve just inhaled a glass of plum wine to bring my heart rate down. For whatever reason, my heartrate is always out of control when I operate on little sleep. Neurotic, over-thinking, psychically hypersensitive people like me really need a lot of sleep. We’re talking an eight-hour minimum, folks. Today I was working on a pilot (a rather lame pilot) that had me sequestered underground in the Grand Central subway platform for fourteen hours. The interior of my nostrils has turned a dark shade of black and inspite of extensive scrubbing and bathing, I still feel layered with underground filth. Unfortunately, the company didn’t add on an additional hazard pay for the toll it took on all our bodies. I feel as if the stench of urine still surrounds me and my animosity for the MTA that has been residue since their strike has somehow dissipated into sympathy and compassion for what they deal with down under.
I hope no one expects this entry to have anything but a stream-of-conscious ramble, because there is little continuity or specific themes to be had. I generally journal in one of the five different journals I have devoted to different aspects of my life. There’s the mini-dream journal, the manifestation journal, the yellow-book-sized journal that’s a nice mix of everything from poems to dreams to past memories, to my diary, and my lyrics book. I write extensively and one of these days my offspring or some poor soul who comes across my belongings will see the legacy of verbose self-indulgence that I’ve left behind in my loopy manuscript. Tonight, it was much easier to opt for typing. The cold weather wasn’t necessarily enjoyable for the arthritis I’ve developed in my hands. Yeah, I’m already arthritic thanks to probably pounding on my casio and all that written self-indulgence.
I can trace back years in my journals and since being seventeen and living as an adult there have been two topics that reappear in all my worries, hopes, fears, doubts, dreams, potential manifestations, and jaded but optimistic rants. They are personal relationships and my career. Prior to being on my own, my journals were obsessed with overachievement, becoming famous, and meeting my idols. But I think the topic that plagues me the most tonight is the idea of love and relationships. Looking back and into the present, I really see the faces of loves lost more as a series of patterns than a stream of people. And it’s when I particularly have to see my amazing female friends go through terrible instances with men, where they are used and discarded like a piece of Charmin, that I’m able to really self-reflect and feel a sense of true sadness for the things I’ve let transpire.
Now, I will also say that my patterns have taken a shift and even since the fatal-heart blow I took last year, I’ve really been involved with absolutely charming, friendly, and genuinely nice guys. They’ve been gentlemen, considerate, and thoughtful in their courting, even though many of them disappeared after a few dates. I’ve made peace with disappearances and accepted with what is, when years ago I may have clung onto something that wouldn’t work. At the same time I made the resolution to try and be involved with the nice guys, who don’t always finish last. I was willing to sacrifice the mind-blowing passion and fleeting romance for the sake of reliability and respect. In these cases, the universe intervened or they somehow just knew, and managed to step away.
But the more time that passes, I wonder why I’m so consistently willing to forgive and grant second chances (hundreds of times) to situations of the past that were nothing but destructive patterns. Maybe they didn’t start out that way, but they evolved into it… and at the end of the day, I’m left to doubt that I’m meant to be with anyone. Maybe it’s self-protection, or maybe it disillusionment, or self-sufficiency that gives me a sense of complacency with being alone. And if I were to find myself involved, for once, just once, I’d like the person I’m finally interested in and not just getting involved with on account of being statistically “right” and “nice” to pursue me consistently for a change. It would really be a welcome opportunity.
In the meantime, I have my music… and my keyboard… and my journals to take me away. When I was madly in love at the age of 20 with someone who didn’t necessarily reciprocate, I remember reading a quote from Stevie and thinking she was absolutely nuts. She said she’d rather be alone in her castle with a piano and her journals and her art than have a torrid love affair anyday. The more time that passes, the more I realize that it just may not be such a bad choice afterall.
Now, hopefully this is enough of a random rant to get me the shuteye I so badly need and deserve.