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I think maybe I'm happy.

The last few days it has rained with some consistency, making this a time of furtive sun and courageous obscurations. It’s rainy days I’ve always liked best, because the daytime is muted and gray, all colors fading into the background, details falling back. The light of a rainy day is utterly dissimilar from the light of full sun. It hides what it reveals; it softens and bends things into one another. On days of rain, the whole world runs together in the damp, and its easy to feel, knowing that everyone else’s vision is as limited as yours by the all-pervading gray of the rain-besotted sun.
At night, the clouds that by day stole light act as mirrors. The distant city lights are closer than ever, and the stars are stolen. The reflection sometimes resembles a fire, far away across the horizon, as if, over there, outside the sphere of sight, someone is losing a war with barbarism. The rain steals night’s darkness with practice ease, and takes day’s light. with the same facility. That’s why I love rainy times. The world no longer divides so clearly into night and day, light and dark; subjective time warps and subjective space curves in on my perceptions. When you can’t divide day from night so swiftly, and things are just a dim eternity without division or apparent end, the patterns I sometimes see out of the corner of my mind are more apparent.
It’s maddening to know that I’m human, sometimes. I can feel the presence of the pattern somewhere outside myself, outside my sight and comprehension. The perfect anasynthis of the system of humanity that surges around me like a tide is there, felt, sometimes briefly glimpsed in nodal awareness, but always fading instantly and never full, never complete. I want things to be complete; I want desperately to have all the factors at my fingertips, to know all the radial options and the universes they will create. Knowledge is my motivation roughly half the time- the other half being split evenly between love/lust and distraction.
I don’t feel quite myself when I see what appear to be patterns in the way people speak and move and walk and choose. I feel outside myself when the universe appears like a great tree of choice reaching to the stars- when I see all my possible actions spread out like a fan, all the possible turnings of the wheel of history and fate.
A part of me hopes I’m right; hopes that I am somehow outside my self- outside my body, my shell. The body is a blunt instrument, the poor tool we’re given to express what’s in the mind. But then again, the body is the expression of the mind, and reciprocally, the form of the body influences thought. Your shape affects what you can conceive, just as language shapes what you can express. A shoddy language adds to lackadaisical and dangerously malleable thought. An imperfect shape prevents the soul from perfect symmetry’s achievement. I glory in my life of the mind- but at the same time, the wind on my face or the feel of my hand against another is glorious too. The mind is my pride and my truest self. But the body is my great instrument, tuned and readied to the task. Therefore I suppose I must train both and love both as much as I can.
As to events- I’ve still no idea what K. meant by her words a some little while ago, but it would appear that she has no desire to bring them up independently, and I don’t feel any need to push it. Things are still in limbo with F., and T.; and with C., they are still more indefinite, as never before. One of the drives fundamental to human beings is that of resolution and completion, and the lack of satisfaction this drive is receiving is admittedly very unpleasant.
This entire weekend I’ve been more or less idle, with the exception of writing this and listening to music. Idleness is a privilege I seldom allow myself- I think of it as too close by far to slow death. Which might also explain my positive aversion to sleep, though I’ve always contended myself with a rationalization that it’s a waste of time.
I’m free this Friday- I don’t have to work at all, according to the schedule.
Therefore I have a little bit of a possible dilemma.
I could of course draw out whatever meaning there was in the statements made by K.; and having done so, I rather suspect that I would subsequently have plans for that day laid out and done, and well it is to be so.
Or, alternately, I could endeavor to spend a pleasant day with Alex, since I haven’t seen him in some time, and his company has grown even more congenial given the new maturity I’ve seen him display time and time again.
Or again- I need to visit Vicki at some point, and I don’t know when I’ll next get a chance… she does have an awful lot of my DVD videos, and I’ll be wanting them back eventually.
I suppose these are arranged in prioritized order, though I didn’t intend it that way.
The pursuit of the affections and ardor of woman takes precedence over all other considerations that I can conceive; therefore my first option is also my most attractive.
Second only to this, however, is spending time pleasantly if not profitably with those few who have proved to be the most loyal friends and most astute, both qualities being of equal importance in my eyes.
So I don’t know what I’ll do this Friday. Maybe nothing. Heaven alone knows the answer.

I had a strange dream. When I woke up, I immediately wrote the following without thinking about it whatsoever. I don’t really know what’s going on.

God is essence, uniting and invalidating good and evil, man and woman, light and darkness. Because god is all prior to the creation, god does not exist or not exist, as we understand the terms. God neither is, nor is she not. The creation of other beings defines them, and god, as ‘what is’ but does not create, yet, an ‘is not’. The first beings created by god were pure spirit. Because these beings are necessarily not the complete god, they must be defined as separate, but having the same essence, in a sense, therefore, they limit the scope of god since she does not extend into them fully. To define these beings as separate from each other, aspects- silence and garrulity, mercy and retribution- are formed into the first creation by god; god contains all these attributes in harmonic tension, all correspondences and all oppositions, but the first creation(s) are a chaotic whirl of interacting aspects. Because this interaction is disruptive to beings of pure spirit, god creates the material world, infusing this second creation, which is quiescent and without aspects initially, with herself. In this act of second creation, god creates an infinite universe; the first creation, separated from god initially, is reunited with the creatrix once they are infused in matter, since the second, material creation is the expression of the pre-creative spiritual essence of god. The material, seemingly divorced from the spiritual, is in reality the illusory face of the true essence of the universe; every material appearance/illusion corresponds to a deeper spiritual essence/truth. The material is identical to the spiritual; the only reason we perceive the actual, spiritual universe as material is because we are only capable of perceiving a limited portion of the structure of the universe, the spiritual order- we are not god. Only god can contain the entirety of the universal order or spiritual logic because god is the spiritual logic and universal order; not the personification of the concept, but its definition. We create the material as a mechanism to artificially limit our perception of the actual infinite universe to our own personal and mercifully limited viewpoint. The universe, seemingly chaotic, is in reality an ordered pattern of balances and correspondences, outside our perceptive limits. The order of the universe is not static; that which is static has ceased to exist because its tension is no longer maintained. The universal order is constantly changing, reshaping itself and reordering reality in response to what might very loosely be termed ‘evolutionary pressures’… The will of god is the will of man; the essence of god is the essence of man; God is in man and is man. Man is the reflection of god’s first creation, the face of it through limited eyes, the flesh-cloak of the elohim….
That’s as far as I got before I woke up. It’s a little Gnostic, a little Cathar, and more than a little pantheist…also a little Celtic… the unity of god and man invalidates the concept of evil to a degree, making ‘evils’ simply incomplete or imperfect or ‘twisted’ versions of what is good….meh, who knows. Midnight revelations are suspect. I’ll figure out the ontology and history of this later.

It’s difficult to write about one’s own present life. I more than understand the impulse that induced the great chroniclers of the past to present myth and legend of bygone ages, rather than any detail applicable to the present. In writing, too close for comfort is a very real and viable concept, though it is one that must be overcome, because the best writing is in some sense rooted in both a sound talent and the soul of the writer.
Therefore, in an attempt to root this writing in my soul, I continue resolutely.
Things are growing more complicated.
C. is at best ambivalent and expresses a desire for space and time, meaning ‘separation from all potential suitors’ and ‘time to think’.
In despite of my best intent, I can’t feel much other than an intellectual reaction of understanding and empathy and a gut-level annoyance. I should, of course, have seen it coming, but hindsight is in psychology a deadly bias. Perhaps- hopefully, in point of fact- it was unforeseeable, but I doubt it. It seems perfectly obvious now. But I certainly hadn’t any idea that the marvelous-ness of me (it’s too bad typing can’t convey my sardonic intonation on that phrase) could possibly be construed as undue pressure. But apparently this is the case. Still, I suppose that to some degree the good things in life bear waiting. However, my philosophy has always been that the better things in life demand hurry, and the best require positive haste and breakneck timing if they are to be obtained. Which leaves at a hamlet position- I could of course simply wait for whatever indeterminate period until the lady decides just what it is she really wants; but given that indecision allows her to maintain my acquaintance without any obligation whatever and certainly in a condition of outrageous flattery that I would be willing to disobey my moral imperative as a red-blooded American male and wait any length of time, waiting is a dubious choice at best. Then again, my perception is that a decision to find some other shoulder on which to rest my head would be an effective decision in the negative, a finding for the prosecution, as it were. So I haven’t the foggiest idea what it might be best to do, though my natural inclination is to drop my suit and regard the entire affair as fairly concluded and honestly dealt with, and move on to whatever else may be forthcoming.
Then again, my at once humorous and disturbing talent for attracting the damaged, marginalized and abused has provided me with two additional complications and distractions, most disturbing in their implication. It would appear that the distancing effect of the internet, coupled with the fact that it eliminates my physical presence in favor of my mental/spiritual self, propels what little appeal I possess as a material individual into the realm of the ridiculous; I find myself literally unable to post on my favorite forum site (www.gaiaonline.com , if you were wondering- look for Rowan Endymion) without somehow attracting a series of deranged suitors. I am loath to conclude that the site itself is simply a magnet for these types. I conclude that somehow, those people whose minds are twisted by their fate, whose predilections are at once obvious and perverse, and whose personalities are quixotic juxtapositions of the mutually exclusive, are somehow unable to avoid responding to me. I surmise, further, that this is because I myself have a profoundly twisted mind, a heart full of strange pains and stranger pleasures, and a personality that is, if not oxymoronic, at least Manichean. Contrary to popular wisdom regarding opposites and attraction, it is my experience and conviction that like bonds to like and that people, unlike magnets, are repulsed even as they are fascinated by their opposite extreme.
To get to specifics- a girl of my acquaintance who, in a thoroughly un-mysterious manner, has chosen the name ‘ferret-lover’ for her online avatar, has for some time been in correspondence with me, by the medium of both instantaneous and delayed messaging. Although I’ll admit our personalities are somewhat similar, and that she is not unattractive to my eyes, it is a relationship I would never have bothered to sustain if it required any material commitment or serious investment of emotion and time on my part. It’s certainly not the girl’s fault. It’s emphatically mine. But nonetheless, who wants to hear that? She wants to hear ‘ I love you’ and I’ve always been one, regrettably, to use that phrase casually. I think far less of telling someone I feel love for them than I do telling them I find them attractive, since the former is a common sentiment that I feel for nearly everyone to greater or lesser degree for various reasons, and the latter is a sentiment in which I have tremendous investment. If I tell someone I love them they would do well to still be circumspect, but if I were to tell them they were, as is the vulgar parlance, ‘hot’, then I should think that they might regard themselves safe for a time. But safety and security are anathema to any meaningful relationship; arousal has a distinct physiological meaning that relates both to desire and to stress; if one is greater, so too the other, and that which is stable is that which is stagnant, in love as in all else. My relationship with the ferret (such a name, oy gevalt!) is stable and thus stagnant and interests me less and less as time goes by, a fact I diligently conceal and haven’t the heart to put out in the real ‘open’; primarily because I do of course love her as a friend, a good and faithful one. Also she seems to be the kind who requires the love and affection not just of friends but also of a lover, and being of the same type myself, my sympathy is not inconsiderable. Understanding, yes, love, yes, a degree, perhaps, of lust, yes, I feel for her. But it is not to be, a fact that is quite clear to me and perfectly opaque to her. This being an old dilemma, I don’t expect to solve it any time soon or indeed at all.
There’s also another girl, met through the same medium, and who, predictably enough, also has a web-cam; I have a particular weakness for web-cam girls. They seem to have a particular mixture of perversities I find appealing. This other (I’ll call her T. to avoid revealing her little-used avatar’s name and also her real moniker) is for reasons that will become apparent the apple of my eyes, also the melons of my eye and the cherry of my ocular orb, to be as ribald as I can. Shakespearean and Chaucerian tradition allow this and I practice it at every opportunity. She is consummately attractive; if ever I were to declare I had a type, she would typify it, callipygian, buxom, and with what used to be called ‘glow of health’. I have no truck with the pygmies, skeletal figures, and ridiculous exaggerations that characterize ‘beauty’ nowadays. Real beauty is inherent in being perfectly whatever sort of woman you are, and the closer you are to being your particular brand of woman, the better to my eyes. Therefore, T., who is emphatically, roaringly woman, is attractive to my eyes- a weighty statement for me to make, as I’ve mentioned. She also fits all the qualifying qualities any male always adds right after or directly before a testament as to attractive value- she is as intelligent if not more intelligent than am I, as witty if not more witty than I am on a mediocre day, though on a good one I may have the edge. In perversity of thought, manner and speech, we are evenly matched, which is a matter of supreme rarity and therefore great value. And of course she is poetic and appreciative of poetry. Who can say what might have been, had she been born near me, instead of a year later and a country-length away? But unfortunately she was born that year and that country distant. The first is irrelevant, the second I have found to my great cost, is deadly.
Also, I mention in a subordinate position, she is involved with another man, a not unattractive one who also writes poetry. My tendency to pooh-pooh such attachments notwithstanding, I can’t entirely discount this, because the knowledge that her attachment to her beau is such that she feels little compunction in assuring me, however privately, that I am both attractive and beloved, is a little disturbing. Also I can’t imagine why any attractive or intelligent woman would show interest in me, so the possibility of some monstrous and far-reaching deception is never far from my lesioned soul. Nonetheless, my perception is that she has opened the chamber of her heart to me, and in times of importance and stress my perceptions are seldom completely erroneous.
You will see at once that this present several problems. First, either girl stands in conflict with any perspective relationship, present or future, with C.; second, I am only truly interested in one of them but am seemingly irrevocably involved with both; third, the one I am interested in is forever separated from me by gulfs of distance and experience. Committing myself to her, even though I find her at present more beautiful than any other woman of my experience, would be consummately stupid and not an aid to survival at all. My especial hobby is survival.
To further complicate matters, I haven’t the foggiest idea if anyone else is, unbeknownst to me, in the mix and stirring fervidly, but its entirely possible. I have an unpleasant track record of only discovering the unrequited longings of others years later, when they are dead and gone, and also an equally unpleasant pressing awareness of my own. I’d campaign for greater openness among people with crushes if it wouldn’t invalidate the point of a crush utterly. Petrarch is a consummate b*****d and fully deserves my enmity for his love; his sonnet form, which I love, only saves him from it by a small degree.
To complicate matters which are already complicated further into a hopeless degree of madness-inducing complication, a person, we’ll call her K- not the same K some friends of mine might surmise, an entirely different K.; at any rate, as I conversed with her today she made several remarks to the effect that she found me pleasant company at luncheon-time, and I of course reciprocated; and, just as she was leaving, she also remarked that, and I quote, ‘ we should go out some time’. My fatal processing delay necessitated an automatic OK, and her celeritous departure meant that no more sophisticated response or qualifying query was possible. This leaves me in the unenviable position of wondering precisely what she meant and what I should do about it, if she meant what my mind would immediately jump to by natural inclination.
Not to say I have any reluctance whatever if that is indeed what she meant. She’s not unattractive, I’ve talked to her quite a bit and she’s interesting, witty, fun and ‘cool’, as they say. I’d considered a relationship with her once or twice, in point of fact, but discarded it in the presence of an utter lack of signals. However, this doesn’t mean much, since she doesn’t produce too many signals in the most expressive of times. So I suppose tomorrow I’ll just have to figure out what she meant and respond as the wind tells me. Fate moves us all, all things rise on fortune’s wheel, and fall again; therefore do what the heat wills, and know that at worst, you only hasten what comes.
That’s all for right now.

It is a terrible thing indeed, that when I have so many memories that need sorting and recovery, I have also so many new events that require the same.
Nonetheless I am forced to conclude that my present thoughts and impression take precedence over my recollections.
School’s started, of course. But besides the obvious differences- different classes, different teachers, the experience is much the same, a progression of days, wherein I display all the confidence and intelligence I am able to- that is not inconsiderable, nor is it in my view perfect. I have no truly excessive pride even in the aspects of my character that I find are most efficiently employed to sooth the mechanism of the days.
What the deuce does any of this matter, anyway? It all seems rather dull.
Something’s sapping my real energy, the verve that normally pours itself out here, in my writing- and this unnatural endorphin of the demon is at the same time engaged in forcing me to a persona of jovial avuncular childishness that I abhor.
These are dark times.