We went to the diner, drove home, and here I am. I came out to the porch to finish a drawing I started earlier, and so I did, mostly. By the end, the perspective on the wall/ceiling panels got screwed up. The occupant of the porch depicted would have to be on an untold number of drugs for that shit to make any visual sense.
So, this is my last "free" weekend before life starts back up. I feel like I want to go out and be crazy and such, but the wiser half knows that the bored half had more fun thonight, making shirts, painting the beginnings of a tea set, drawing, writing, frolicking, whatever. There was a sense of uniqueness and individuality to our activities tonight that I enjoyed immensely.
Louise says married life is boring. I wonder, is single life all that more enthralling? I want to say no. Sure, having the ability to fantasize guilt-free about whoever you want can be amusing, and you don't have to compete for the covers at night, but eh. There's a kind of monogamy to being single. Love only yourself, until an interesting substitute comes by. (Which I guess would constitue adultery?) Oh well. Here I am, making up catchy truisms out of a sense of being alone.
Although, unfettered from the throes of love and the practicalities of a relationship, I feel like I know myself better. I'm responsible for only my feelings, and my romantic indecision / apathy doesn't have earth-shattering consequences... I like to feel like a walking contradiction sometimes.
The lonely heart, yearning for a companion, has no desire to actually find one.
I was trying to explain it to Francis a couple days ago (I still felt weird talking "inner me" with him but we worked that out) and this is how it goes: I'm unwilling to compromise the fairly loose set of standards that I have, and therefore I come off, even to myself, as abrasive and heartless.
However, the notion of someone more "my speed" frightens me.
I think I'm more fun when I'm not in love. Acerbic sarcasm is the air I breathe in social situations. Everyone knows my warm, chewy inside, and the juxtaposition between the pulp and the rind can be quite amusing. Even if cynicism is the breakfast of champions for people trying to nurse inner pain... well, if it can get a chuckle, nurse me. The laughter of others can temporarily fill the gaping hole that is my desire to hear "I love you" with an echo.
I delude myself by thinking, "Well, this will help my art." What art, though? All I do is bitch about work, school, friends, disillusionment with life. Then, I drop a few tonal and metaphorical references to every time I feel disgusting about having bad sex.
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(DB) out.
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