Echo

Roger, this guy I met on craigslist and hung out with once, saw me in the crowd.

You ruined me, he said when he finally got up the nerve to stop lurking in the shadows.

Good, I said. Someone had to.
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Even if I already know, I can’t stop myself from being mad.
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Amsterdam–discovering the depths to which I could love and hate someone.

I think what most hurt was both being lied to, and the disappointing realization of how someone could have so lost their faith.

It is important for me to believe that person is honest. It’s the only way I can believe that person loves me.
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I have a desire to shave my head some day to know what I would look like. I want to look healthy though.
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I love it when all my brothers play nice.
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woman really are like plants. sometimes i’m at work and i think about mine. in some ways, men are, too.

A Truth Recap

My question of honesty. How honest am I really? I try so hard to be. But in order for me to present myself as real in this world, my emotions can’t be. I am so transparent, yet so emotionally dishonest.

That sometimes I want what I can’t have. And that makes me decide not to want.

So does this make this the place where I dump my lies? Yes and no. Truth is here, too. Truth is, legs on the ground. And you deal with what it is. Truth is, what I want to lay my body next to when I sleep.

3 weeks ago, my friend killed himself. I noticed but never realized the depth of his sadness. He was so strong.

What is strength? Is it looking at the face of death and choosing to accept it? Is it looking at life and choosing to live it? Is it being able to live with yourself, when there’s no one but you, and knowing you can’t help where’ve you’ve been, but you’re here now.

The earth’s axis shifted. It’s like the planet declared war on Japan. Who or what would be so mad at the Japanese?…

Sardines went mad, and jumped to shore.

A pair of breasts rants about Asians at the library at UCLA.

I don’t give a shit about Charlie Sheen.

Murakami writes about falling down wells. I write about falling up. He writes about how from the bottom, the opening of the well looks like a moon. I believe if we grow big enough, we can climb out of the moon.

I worry about people who don’t give a shit about me, but I try not to care about people who don’t give a shit about me.

It’s complicated.

Lost in SF. Engaged in activity to hone my internal compass.
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People will try to take things from those who have it. Fame, money, time, attention. I find people are always trying to take pieces of my soul.
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He’s soft inside. Like a loose tooth. Oh yeah, I’m gonna wiggle it.
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I understand that I’m hot when I’m pissed. But I want a man who finds me more beautiful when I’m happy.
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Two nights ago, I dreamed that I went somewhere (hippy-ish…a college town?) And went to this guy who did assisted suicides. He hooked me up to a machine that would put chemicals through my bloodstream, effectively putting me in a permanent slumber. I was laying there and he was messing with the machine when I panicked because I suddenly “woke up” and realized what was going to happen, and when I realized the implications, I didn’t want it. Part of me didn’t want to stop him because I was embarrassed to have come this far, but then I remembered what a big deal this was, the end of me.
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Its easier to dismiss me than to take a look at yourself.
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Simple. Understated. Bright. Able to quickly grasp and follow situations. A constant source of peace.

That’s what it is
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Oh you’re wasting my time. You’re just, just, just wasting time.
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My mother says, julia, I don’t like your use of language.

And I say, this is what happens when you give birth in texas.
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Lead the way you were meant to lead, and you’ll always find a way to get somewhere.
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Any time life’s knocking on your door and you feel compelled to run away, turn around, open the door and accept what’s on the other side. That’s the only way you’ll ever stop running.
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I know you, he says.

Maybe in a past life, I say.

No seriously, he says. Or maybe in dream.

If we’ve met in a dream, tell me. What color was I?

I don’t know, he says. He doesn’t understand the question.

If we’d really met, he would know that I am black and I am red.

But to the blue man with the olive skin, I am something so, so, so pure and simple.

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I hate guys who are super complicated and say, I’m just a simple guy. It’s like if you let them get away with it, they can never stop lying to you.
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