enfinblue's Bluey (credit to Fifi for the nickname!) Diaryland Diary

"I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart." -Vinc3nt V@n Gogh

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As G0d is my witness, I shall never go hungry again! (I'm going to Atlanta, after all!)

I love Marco. No surprise there.

I don't state this with any negative energy or with any hope or any despair in the face of a new buffet of men. :)

Maybe there is an opening at the moment for me to love someone else. I'm OK with that. I'm leaning forward into infinity - or at least the space between now and then (however one defines �then�) - and whatever will come I am prepared to embrace.

If it means anything - and it's the most curious thing - the feeling of love for him and the letting go seem to be exactly one and the same.

It's utterly vainglorious, but I feel as though he's lying awake at this moment, thinking of me.

When I see him in my mind's eye, I see the stupid man flexing his pecs as he climbs out of bed. He does that. I see the look he throws over at me every time he puts his leg over the bar of his bicycle, and how he turns sideways and rests his feet on my chair when I'm eating a meal beside him in a restaurant. I see him asking me to send him my drawings, which I still have not done. Somehow, that seems final.

I also see him telling me that he remembers more than I think, which I know to be completely untrue for I do not suspect for a moment that he has forgotten anything, whilst at the same time he is singing the song of encouragement to go home and find a boyfriend, someone who can love me.

It all works out in the end. I believe that it will all work out in the end exactly as it is supposed to, and I will have no regrets. What regrets are there to be had? Frankly, I seem to have forgotten the meaning of the word. So much in life is floating by me now. I no longer believe that anything has weight unless we assign weight to it.

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I had a conversation with a colleague today. He at one time was a social worker. Now he is an economist. He's patient and wistful, a gay man with evangelical parents who is mercifully mystified by the possibility of the existence of hell. We laugh so heartily it is almost embarrassing. We were buying Christmas decorations for the office holiday party, in mid-morning, before the Christmas rush of the day. He asked me what my preference might be for holiday napkins. �As gaudy as possible, don�t you think?!�

We had walked the three blocks from the office to the department store, me walking with the steps of a seven year-old, who is observing in slow motion each movement of her �new� feet, in her new boots. Brown, with fur. A veritable miracle. We were pushing around red plastic baskets with long, black plastic handles and liquidly-smooth wheels; low to the ground, these were an impressive invention to my eyes, for a woman always on the verge of anticipating her ninth decade.

I told the colleague that at a movie about refugees last week I had met a man who works as a social worker with the mentally ill. Said social worker had seemed perfectly contented, at peace with his life. �I live for the small achievements of the day�even if they are subsequently fully obliterated,� he had said, in the snow, in the dark, at the edge of parking lot in the abyss next to the old power station on the black, treed edge of the mighty river of the log drives of the second-to-last century (how are the trees so much more black here than anywhere else?). To this my colleague replied: �I went in with that idealism, expecting the system to support that idealism, only to find that the system is irrevocably broken.�

We bought napkins painted with florid Santa faces, moose dressed as The Grinch, and some sort of gilded diorama of country-kitchen stars. As gaudy as possible. And I was satisfied.

10:11 p.m. - 2009-12-14

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