Hyperbolic

Preface: This one jumps from topic to topic like the bunny we're due to celebrate next Sunday. Consider the page breaks a leap in consciousness. It will all congeal in the last half.



There's a long list of things I'm supposed to do.
And Tony said I need to quiet the voices in my head.
He said the best way to do this is to create lists...
     (Learn Italian. Memorize your lines. Write. Manage your website. Pickup that book from Barnes & Noble. Attract ways to make money without sacrificing who you are. Make money with your art. Save. Meditate. Meditate. Meditate. Attract opportunities to move from your mother's couch. Save. Write. Meditate.)
   That's probably the most honest and recent one I've got, so far. The voices are actually louder; more driving; persistent. Demanding. ("You have to... ")
    I'm appeasing one of them right (write!) now by doing this.
    Yet, I could be meditating right now. My window for meditation in my mother's home is not very long.
    And when I don't do it, I feel it.
    I definitely feel it.
    My 3rd eye feels it. There's a pinching right there, in between my eyebrows. And if I'm distracted by the day, I don't feel it until the end. Otherwise, its a nagging tension; constant. I find myself half-consciously placing my thumb and forefinger there to relax it. Not knowing (yet knowing) that my body is telling me "Release me. Open me up. I need to see."
    Meditate.

    (I keep feeling this pressure.)
    They say there aren't enough hours in the day.
    Somehow, I disagree with that. There are.
    But I feel this pressure. This pressure to get so much done.
    (I get restless too. But this aint that.)
    And the pressure is not just me on myself. Its the outside voices too. (I won't list those. To do so seems to give them more power than they deserve.)

    And if I don't learn Italian, I'll be fine, won't I?
    I'll get to Italy, and be fine.
    And if I don't meditate, it's okay. 'Cause I will eventually.
    And there's always my dreams...
    And I'll write... I'll always write. Eventually, I'll write.

    And it's hard not to believe that my husband will take all this away. Because he won't. These problems, these frustrations --- they're mine.
    And even if he wanted to take them away, he couldn't really.
   Nor would I (or should) ask that of him.
   Bugger it. 'Cause I can't meet him till I fix/reconcile/work on these things myself anyway.

    And I keep reminding myself "It's only April, Lamar. It's only April. --- Look at all you've accomplished in four months... You've got at least eight left to be exactly who you want to be. --- And you'll get there... You already are... You're right on schedule, love. ... Chill out. You're doing fine."
    (That's a good voice.)

   I think my "Saturn Return" is done.
   Or maybe its done when I Arrive.
   I turn 30 this year. Yes, but it feels like it's already done.
   How do I know this? Well... Things don't seem to be as hard as they used to be.

   Write. Write. Write.
   I think writing this Rom-Com I've been meaning to write will be good for me. It'll be a good outlet for the part of me that loves my husband, and has already met him in some alternate reality veiled over this one.

   I am so desperate to make love.
   To give myself completely to someone.
   Casual partners don't seem to interest me in the way it once did. Nor the sex.
   Yes, there's a cursory curiosity that I have when I check my "sex gmail" account, and read the private jock party invitations. There is a cursory excitement.
    And then, throughout the week leading up to the party I'll entertain the idea; casually allowing it to slip  into my thoughts. But then it quickly seems to fly out again.
   Perhaps I'm done with that. Heaven knows I'd like to be.
   And heaven knows how many times I thought I was, and then find myself walking right back in again.
   But I don't like how I feel when I'm there.
   I don't like how those parties make me feel. Even as sex-positive as they are. (But I'm the culprit of that, aren't I? Those parties are really nothing unto themselves. --- What does Hamlet say? "Nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.")
   I feel I have to try to be someone when I'm there. I see myself shrugging on a piece of armor; or a suit of power. And it takes work to do that. Every time. I just want to walk in and be me.
   And I think I've achieved that for the most part. I don't take rejections personally anymore. And I realized that some of those rejections are because I either rejected them first, or, I've hadn't allowed my light to shine bright enough to begin with.
   And my triumphs are proven by the fact that I've been fucked by guys I once thought I could never attract, because they were super hot, and I counted myself so beneath them.
   Not anymore.
   I am hot.
   And that game with myself is over. (Another reason I don't go to those parties. --- Because it sends my thoughts down a cyclical steam of consciousness that was never healthy. And the best way to stop that negative conversation with myself is just to take myself out of that environment entirely.)
   God, and not one of those guys could give me what I really wanted anyway: Love.
   And I can honestly see the reason why I wanted to go, and started to go to those parties in the first place: Acceptance.
   Well, I got it. And I didn't really need it. Because the kind of "acceptance" that really worked on my soul was accepting myself.


   And now?
   I'm talking to this guy. And by talking I mean emailing.
   I've been emailing this guy who's Craigslist ad I responded to a few days ago.
  He's straight (self-proclaimed). Married (but separated). And attempting to explore new sexual vistas.
  I told him that, at this point, I'm looking for a lover who is honest, direct, and up-front (can't take the NY out of the boy); 'cause I don't have time to waste in that arena (my husband's coming!), and I'm just so tired of playing games ('cause when that's all said and done, and you actually meet, there's a whole other waltz you've got to toe into).
   He seemed to respect my principles, and was honest and direct enough to admit that he's not looking for a LTR with a guy. Just something meaningful, and predominately sexual, and ongoing.
   And so far, once we relayed our sexual preferences/desires/appetites/attributes, it seems we're sexually compatible (on paper).
   So we jumped that hurdle.
   Now onto the next: He asked for my number, which I gave him. And said he'd call.
   That was nearly two days ago.
   Don't worry. I'm not hung up on it. People get busy. Especially in NY. (And he told me as much, in an email, apologizing yesterday --- completely unprompted.)
   Mainly, I keep telling myself that if he does call, "be yourself". --- Because by lying about any part of who I am, I am only delaying his reaction to the truth; which will inevitably waste both of our time, if either of us should choose to walk away from this.
   Even optimistic-wise, if we both turn out to be totally into each other, I could be keeping us from having a positive experience because of my own unfounded fears; even if for only a day. (--- well, not totally unfounded. Those fears stem from years of allowing terrible wounded queers to lacerate me with their judgments on who I am and what kind of man I ought to be. But yes, its time we put the past behind us, and be done with it.)

   We'll see on that one.
   If something happens, of course, I'll let you know.

  
   I guess that's it.
   I didn't think I had a lot to say --- And lo, and behold...
   I wrote something.
   ... Now if I can just get on the floor, and meditate then...