I had written a couple of lines here about my life moments ago, started talking about how all that I think about these days is sex or masturbation, about how I either am doing something with my dick or thinking about doing something with my dick. I lost my momentum with that narrative I had been composing, stopped a few sentences in because even trying to write about it here, trying to actually think it through, was upended by me starting to stroke my penis. That may have started because I am sitting here naked in front of my computer about to go to bed and generally being naked in front of my computer usually also involves masturbating, and that in some Pavlovian fashion, I would immediately start to tug my penis, even despite my intended goals to reconnect with myself and with that of this as of lately neglected diary (one and the same maybe?).
And so I have started again, am trying to focus. Jacob was not here in my apartment when I get home from work at 3 am and I was kind of disappointed because I have become so used to sleeping with him every night for months now that it just feels weird. And yet I am wondering why that is and whether or not that is the reason I am writing here now, his not being here - if perhaps his presence and the happiness it gives me, the sex it gives me, the company it gives me - that I don't have these alone moments to stir and to stew and seek out sex online and think about my life in the terms of the narrative I had been doing for so long earlier - lots of that centered on things that seem less pressing now perhaps. I don't know. I just got really hungry because also when I got home, aside from expecting to see him in my bed, me not seeing him, and me feeling a bit sad and a bit weird about feeling sad, questioning somehow, somewhy, the reasons for feelings, rather than feeling them, perhaps wondering if I wasn't acting in some way that I learned elsewhere, some role that I really liked the sound of or the appearance of. And maybe it's best not to try to question the motivation of particular feelings, especially toward other people, that it just leads to lots of trouble, but that that the trouble, that constant questioning (even of things that may be absolutely wonderful for you), is what narrative tension comes from. No one wants to watch a movie about sunflowers and big bright sunny days but if people were stoned or tired and sleepy they might think that that is the type of world they would like to live in, despite how watching a movie of people living that life would be an absolute snooze-fest. We want to see people get shot up, slapped by lovers, crying in dingy gay bar bathrooms because they're coked up and their father never loved them and it's hitting them so hard there - we want bank robberies, planets exploding. We want lots and lots of drama and so when you're life becomes lately drama-free as it were, the ability to even conceive of a narrative for that, one that would be interesting to anyone else, becomes difficult. It all seems so sentimental.
So I get home and he's not there and I think how nice it would be to write in my diary, how amazing that would be! How for the first time in absolute months I am spending a night alone, the space in which I used to stay up late on these computer devices talking to strangers and friends all over this little country, trying to find out things, form myself in chatrooms as a teenager, taking this or that stance, all because I wanted to seem like something, that seeming and being were somehow the same to me at that point, maybe even still are, that if people thought you were, you were. A bunch of little bullshit, but also great fucking shit, the type of shit that pushed me from one thing to the next, that had me on here working out my thoughts so often while parents or roommates or whoever was asleep, when I retired to a bedroom by myself and really dreamed about things, thought them through, perhaps thought them over too much. This is the space, a late night alone, in which in a state right before sleepiness, perhaps to bring sleep about, to expel these things from my head so I could sleep nicely, I would write things on here, long, hopeful emails to friends in other cities, or I would write in my diary, first Diarlyland, then Livejournal, now Blogger, doing this for nearly a decade now, and now falling off the habit perhaps, this thing that I really loved so much, this my pre-boyfriend boyfriend, that now that I have this person, Jacob, I spend every night with him, sometimes having sex, sometimes cuddling, sometimes me pushing his sleeping body far away from mine, but I spend them with now and not this glowing computer, a connecting little tube to some plural notion of people.
I am out of weed and I am too broke to buy some right now after all these moving expenses that have been paid and that still need to be paid, that it seems like too much of an indulgence at this point. But oh man, getting home from work tonight and having to wait for that shuttle bus which for some reason 7 years after I move here and start riding this little L train that I have so come to love, that they are still doing track work and making me get a stupid slip of paper at the Lorimer stop, little lotto ticket feeling slip of paper, usually pink, and take that up a steep flight of stairs to get on a crowded bus. So I was a bit sad you may imagine that when I got home and only wanted to get stoned, I had no weed.
Found some crumbs in an old bag, made it work. Desperate times. Got real stoned and Jacob has just walked in the door. These thoughts are going to end here, though I would have liked them to continue. I am moving in a few days into an apartment that is larger than a studio, moving into an apartment with Jacob, and so will have more space, will be able to write even though we live together, can hide in another room while he is sleeping without waking him, and I am really excited about that. I am excited that the next couple days are going to be in the eighties, that summer is so close, that I am moving, that I have a penis and that there are so many of these things on others of you out there.