September 2006

Was reading Murakami’s Wild Sheep Chase and came across a section on whale penises. I immediately thought, ‘Ah, when whales have sex they must create tsunamis…Or it’ll be like fuelling a plane; slide in, slide out.’

~9th. September 2006


This sentence keeps going through my head – this something that he said -‘ …the signs are right for him but not for you?’ and then, ‘Ah’ and nodded his head when I said, ‘Yeah, something like that…’ and how he mumbled half to himself ‘ yeah…I have a problem with love too.’

It is so painful to think about it: he. His hair, his eyes, his strange facial tic (he likes to crinkle his [….] repeatedly), his mannerisms…how we never ever touched..

Alright, I am not ready to deal with it just yet. I don’t want to think about it just yet.

~13th. September 2006


I think he is the person I’ve come closest to feeling that I can be in love with. I would spoon him huge helpings of my time if he asks for it without my having to hesitate before doing so. I would let him go on talking, if that is what he wants to do (no, I’d hardly be devastated by the fact that he doesn’t want to listen to me – I’ve been taken – I mean done to like that a billion times…) and I’d just be contented listening.

Sometimes I’d like to imagine he was like me, so tired of listening to other people’s crap and just wanting to find someone who’d listen to you for awhile without trying to impose your will upon them…and he’d admit that he saw something of himself in me, and tell me that he wants to see me more… after Depp, he is the second person I wouldn’t mind getting married to.

It’s quite useless, isn’t it, going on like this?

My French teacher writes his I’s very neatly, like a dick going all erect and then spunking in a neat little pool. He writes the shaft of the ‘I’ from bottom up and then end it with a neat little flourish of a circle.

~16th. September 2006


K. : which is stranger, the mirror or the image?

K.: …I would dissect you, rip out your limbs, tear out your heart; the bomb is deactivated – there is no more danger.


I cannot accept that he is really gone.

I am still afraid to think about it. I wonder what would have happened if I told him I was in love with him. I know no other word that would describe this feeling, and I feel compelled to use this odious-sounding word  ‘love’, a poor substitute to the phantom word, the ideal word, the word just out of grasp, no matter.

His face already wanes in my memory and although I know I can look back at pictures of him, I refrain from doing so, for each time his face flashes at me in the picture, I get this horrible, embarrassed sort of sickened dread that empties my already empty emptiness.

Here I find yet another space where my words are inadequate. I write in hope to find some sort of way out, but all I do is skim the surface of the water like some dragonfly, unable to enter the depths and strain, strain downwards.

Vladimir Nabokov wrote this, ‘Life is a message scribbled in the dark.’

Yes, nothing but. Nothing but.

~15th. September 2006

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