Late night loneliness - from paper journal
Jun. 1st, 2005 11:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeanvieveI don't know what has reminded me so sharply tonight of a lack in new correspondence in my life, and I shouldn't feel so sad about it as I have of late been a stunningly bad correspondant. I've gamed too much, perhaps, because I feel somewhat lonely for the lack of a simple articulated intelligence at the other end of a letter that offers up literary food and drink to feast upon. In times such as these I miss Australia, and other such sparkling and contrary yet conjoining wits.
But I am more like Longfellow than Blake. My words gush like a wound sometimes, and I'm left feeling I have to write them down or bleed to death for lack of life's tranfusion from the right other. And even scabbed over as I feel these days with disuse and peace, I must some moments pick at them when they itch. They itch tonight, in this city of romance and mystery with a thousand minarets. Would that I could write to someone, but the computer is very far and I'm already half in bed. Plus the internet cafe stinks of smoke.
I'm minded of the last time I actually did take a pen in such a moment as this and write to a man I knew. I opened the letter with the caveat that I knew we were not an item, that I knew he was in love with a friend of mine; but that I felt romantic and had to share it with someone I cared for lest I burst, and thought our friendship could bear the burden. Alas, the male psyche is fragile, and the painful letter I got in return frustrated me no end as it seemed he did not believe my caveat. That I did not, in fact, feel romantically about him, but romantic in the moment and longed for a friend to share it with. Ah, well. I've been told more than once by men that I am hard to understand, which is strange to me as I find myself so simple. But it was a lesson learned, and I no longer dump my revelling in the moment on random friends lest they misunderstand. I hate the sorts of letters I get back. They make me sad.
I'll have another slug of the Greek Liquour that I was going to bring home as a present to a friend, that has turned into cough syrup for mom and a nice little treat for moi. And this book I'm slogging through has a lot of gushing of an over intellectualized nature, enough to distract at least if not fully entertain. Mayhap the movie is better. Possession.
But I am more like Longfellow than Blake. My words gush like a wound sometimes, and I'm left feeling I have to write them down or bleed to death for lack of life's tranfusion from the right other. And even scabbed over as I feel these days with disuse and peace, I must some moments pick at them when they itch. They itch tonight, in this city of romance and mystery with a thousand minarets. Would that I could write to someone, but the computer is very far and I'm already half in bed. Plus the internet cafe stinks of smoke.
I'm minded of the last time I actually did take a pen in such a moment as this and write to a man I knew. I opened the letter with the caveat that I knew we were not an item, that I knew he was in love with a friend of mine; but that I felt romantic and had to share it with someone I cared for lest I burst, and thought our friendship could bear the burden. Alas, the male psyche is fragile, and the painful letter I got in return frustrated me no end as it seemed he did not believe my caveat. That I did not, in fact, feel romantically about him, but romantic in the moment and longed for a friend to share it with. Ah, well. I've been told more than once by men that I am hard to understand, which is strange to me as I find myself so simple. But it was a lesson learned, and I no longer dump my revelling in the moment on random friends lest they misunderstand. I hate the sorts of letters I get back. They make me sad.
I'll have another slug of the Greek Liquour that I was going to bring home as a present to a friend, that has turned into cough syrup for mom and a nice little treat for moi. And this book I'm slogging through has a lot of gushing of an over intellectualized nature, enough to distract at least if not fully entertain. Mayhap the movie is better. Possession.
