Self-Analytical

Occasionally, someone brings it up, "Any prospects?" "No," and it goes on from there for a while. I don't elaborate on reasons or get into the real minutia of how things have panned out in my history with women. But really, it hasn't been good, mostly. Generally attracting the complicated or struggling. I've packed my bags and accepted that, right now, there aren't any whom I've met that break that mold. Who aren't looking for some encouragement or a shrink, I'm neither, but an equal. Someone to grow and progress with. To move through the worlds of God. To share with.

The funny thing is that I've written this exact entry before, perhaps more than twice, and the results turn out the same. This time, however, it stems from my sitting here on the train listening to a young woman complain to her boyfriend as he stares back vacantly and the guy across from her, while his own girlfriend, checks her out. Or the group of three, complaining about 'guys,' preparing to land at a party. It's an exercise in supposed gender roles. More aptly, a celebration. They act as their generation and gender is supposed to. It's likely that they question these thoughts. Think about them, briefly, at moments when their alone only to snap back to norms in a single erasing stroke. It's actually difficult to think of anyone who doesn't. I'm sure it happens in samples in places, and they're gleeful ignorance fills them with a fabricated feeling of displacement, of vacuousness. They'll never say so, of course. Keeping to themselves, they don't think it's apt to mention, like the already established mores dictate.

As males we're supposed to keep feelings, thoughts, and emotions in check; never revealing ones true self for fear of being called a sissy and being dejected. And as women, they're supposed to bramble directionless, and never show any real intelligence. That's not, of course, to say this is universal. Simply, that it is accepted; perhaps even expected.

Maybe this is just the world that I see, the world that "talks most and says least" as my high school had and continues to nominate and vote on. Maybe those of merit, the women I'm actually interested in are among those who "speak least and say most." But how does one find this person? Are they happened upon? I hope so. I'm tired of hearing silly things from people who only have my happiness on their minds. Silly things without ever trying to understand what it is that might make a person happy.

No offense, friends.

When a stumbler needs a push

Over the three weeks I've been full time again I've focused on watching movies I've missed and reading and saving the writing, if at all, for the train rides; hunched over, my Moleskine in my lap, anticipating the bumps. A lot of the things I know I need to be working on have been pushed back and "prioritized". I'll write the script this weekend, revise that short story tomorrow night, or meet with Henry about the new comic project next week, when we're less busy. There's a lot of that. Much more then actually getting things done. The thoughts are there, I mean, they come up, I just don't act on them. Pages 1 and 2 of the script are done, revised to death, but the rest remains in a pre-production writer's strike like the real guys. Except they feel comfortable calling themselves "writers" and cashing pay checks and not having to think about such things as "is my blood sugar too high?" "Too low?" Is the dryness in my throat from a 200+ sugar level or general dehydration? The headache? It's tough to tell them apart a lot of the time. They probably have their own things though, and they probably do question themselves as I've been doing. they probably have projects where they have to push themselves to make sure they don't die in a limbo.

And then I look back at the passed - think back to the moods, the inescapable feelings - and remember that it's depression. That fair weather friend. The one I smile at through the mesh screen of the front door out of courtesy and finds it's way in regardless. That grin, that pang that it understands by looking at it's crows feet. Really, that's how it gets hold. How when you turn from the door it's right there, in a rocking chair, waiting for you to just sit down and do nothing with it for a while. And you do. And it aches.

Things I love about riding the train:

or something...
1) Wanting to pull the headphones/headphones out of someone's ears or pulling the CD Player/mp3 player from their coat and smashing them;
2) Listening to an old Russian man extrapolate, in broke English, on his belief that we could solve all our energy problems if only we could utilize the power of donkey technology [the Saudis are getting 8 mpg (miles per goat) while we here in the U.S. are only getting 4], and then switching to Russian as you see the Russian woman sitting across from growing increasingly angry as he's obviously saying something offensive in Russian;
3) Hearing an African-American woman who's either a really fantastic actor or a paranoid schizophrenic mumble to herself about how 'black africans' are scum and should have 'accepted the whiteman's handouts'...whatever that means. She was so worked up she was spitting and nearly knocked me over as she made her way to the exit.

Not a lot of writing...

So, I've been doing a lot of reading and watching of movies over the last week. Catching up has been something I've needed to do for quite some time and I couldn't be happier than sitting here, as my room fills with heat that is beginning to make me sweat, and watching movie after movie and reading comic after book.

...that is all. FOR NOW!