Back to my roots...
Tonight I will revisit the happy and TRUE meaning of lj- the angsty, if somewhat philosophical, rant in prose.
Only now I will be sure not to take up quite so much space on your friend's page.
Sometimes I find that Friday nights are overrated...
But then, I only really think so on the nights that I find myself not really doing anything.
Being alone really looks so much more glamorous in the movies. You know, those scenes where the wayward yet lovable protagonist suddenly finds themselves without anyone to talk to, sitting in a corner with attractive dim lighting, hair carefully tossed about and a cigarette making beautiful patterns in the air. Makes you almost want to go home, switch off the phone, open up a bottle of wine and mope- equating this somehow to the happy ending that is always linked to it.
Tonight Mandy and I went to see Alfie- really, let's be honest, for the sole superficial reason that Jude Law is attractive beyond all reason. We ordered a pizza at 1, and ate most of it on the way up to "home", mostly in silence, a mutual understanding that we were reflecting upon something that was like an emptiness that this faux solution of food was not going to fill.
I almost went to Baltimore this weekend. John, a graduate student from my Spanish class (who is prized, honestly, solely for being male- a phenomenon at this all girls school) offered to give me a ride "on his way" to D.C. I declined for two reasons: (a) Eric's wretched roommate occupies the phone for a good 4 hours of the evening and will not forward any messages to him (therefore disabling me from arranging a visit) and (b) John's intentions (to sound like a skeptical father) may have been ... something beyond a platonic ride.
John is not a one-night-stand sex hound, just for the record- in fact I would descibe him more like a Basset hound puppy. But the vibes seem to somehow say something other than "let's be friends". I don't know what I want. He's sweet, and intelligent- elitist in a way that I can appreciate an still be undaunted. He's been everywhere, to Africa and Europe and South America. He looks homey, like a big sweater or firewood. He has thin lips and a big jaw- he looks like he has to shave twice a day. He seems inherently nervous; his voice raises about 8 octaves with any kind of excitement.
He has terrible clothes, like he was once 60 lbs heavier and never did anything about accomodating his new shape. When most men are thinking with their strong masculine fingers curved around their chins he puts his rounded hand, palm facing me, to his mouth, like he's kissing his hand hello.
On the one hand I shouldn't get involved if I'm not sure, 100% sure, that I want to. Or at least definately not if the ratio of want to not-want is particularly unbalanced in the favor of not-want. But on the other, "You never know until you try". John's a big boy, and my trying to shelter him is insulting in some ways. Yet, it seems cruel to do anything else.
So I do nothing.
What I do want, I know, is to feel something for someone, something that I don't have to feed or smother, something that can just become and exist on its own- mutually. I miss all the beginnings, of course- the hand game, the butterflies, the look that you give when you know the only thing left to do to fill the space between is to kiss; and the comfortable middle- the over-drawn talks, the movie marathons, the lying in your underwear and reading with eachother without feeling like you have to do anything at all. Sometimes I even miss the end, where you have that conversation where everything that you never wanted to say and everything that you didn't want to hear is exploding in torrential noise- the conversation that you think through later and feel blessed to have ever been close enough to really have.
It's the reality, really, that I crave- all the ugly little cracks that make the image more than just that, more than just a title or idea or perfect photograph. I don't want all of these conversations with strangers about beer and sex and what classes we are taking and cities we are from. It's all just a cheap prelude to some physicality that in the end means nothing more than occasional fun, perpetual emptiness, and endless wasting of time.