Oh, the slack pace of an ill-fated love letter...

Well, so now do I let everyone know that this little place exists, or do I continue to hide it from people? It's not like people can't find it, but they have to be looking for it. I'm just afraid that I will become timid once I know others may be reading, that I will hesitate to write just anything that is on my mind. Exposure to the elements may harden me and defeat the whole purpose of this project: liberation. Abandonment of restraint, the assertion of will, disobedience to and crass disregard for the inner voice which counsels secrecy.

Blog, blog, blog. Whatever I'm doing, I wonder if it's blogging? This is an outlet for my emotions. Solitude is a strengthening trial. Michelle described the trouble she had with grades freshman year, and I recalled that time too, when I was not solitary, when I became in addition to whole, half. And now, struggling to find motivation to wade through these two CS classes which seem simply to be annoying distractions, I wonder if perhaps once again I have been weakened by a loss of solitude. Trusting oneself is irrational, but it can be the strongest belief one can have. Walking through Sharples yesterday, I thought if I ever join a religion it will be one that I create myself, no new members allowed.

Aaron McGruder, shaking things up, making white Puerto Ricans and whites and Jews upset. If they get upset, own damn fault they can't understand what he is trying to say. Confusion breeds anger, or, or, could it possibly extend a hand, lead to higher ground, pole vault to a new level of discernment? "I don't understand why you guys even listen to me," McGruder says, and nobody gets it. He really means it. Why the hell you listening to other people in order to think? It's like you can't be bothered to venture out into the world of opinion without being a copycat, without taking a big stick with you and trying to beat the hell outta whoever poses the dangerous questions. Dangerous because, in this stupor, in this state of abject deception, they pierce through the muddy layers and blaze in our eyes, making us want to turn away, looking into the sun eyes water and breath comes in gasps. And then we are angry at the sun. I hate the sun, let's get out of the sun. Boy, you can't hate the sun. You may be able to blow humankind to high heaven but you couldn't even make the sun blink. So be smart about it. Play to win, not to lose. "Much respect," he writes in my book, and leaves his mark.

And my body is all smooth, the feel of skin touching skin seems new again, such a long time since, such a long time, I am counting the days until two years. The Ides of March. Scrubbing in the shower, grinding the dirt of existence into abrasive, watching it stream down my body and then down through the holes in the floor to some other place, soapy, I remember buying this in Wan Hui, scubbing myself the same way in Jose's bathroom, memories of Beijing, also memories of Aero. These are deceptive, but I give them leeway, allow them to speak to me in seductive tones, coloring memory, coloring feelings, but then I wrap them up and return them to their place. I am alone. I think when I am clean I imagine I am more desirable, that perhaps I have made myself physically presentable so that I will be ready for that encounter, should it come, no, when it comes. But then I am sad, because I know that before my arm will curl around her navel or part her hair, before the ecstasy of skin on skin will be tasted, the dust of the clocks will settle into my breath, my body will roughen, joints will have crinkled and cracked many times, contacts will have been changed. Even the seasons. I will sleep tonight wound around myself and my warmth giver, the brown brown blanket which, simply, generously returns most of what I provide it. Mare, I am thinking of you always, scared ever more of lying to myself, of silence. Perhaps it will not be too long before I see you.