and why do you sing hallelujah if it means nothing to you?

I am currently skipping Queer Fictions, which I feel badly about but not all that badly, apparently, because here I am. Just took an Airborne, and am about to attempt sleep while I've got the room to myself. I only manage an hour of alone time a week, probably, and in order to get more tonight, I'm skipping dinner. I need to write something for my Saturday reading, and pull something together for my Tuesday reading, too. I need to get through a lot of reading and response papers and sonnets and, oh fuck, my appreciation paper on Percy Bysshe Shelley is already overdue. I am not keeping up very well.

Last night, I was having a nightmare, and it scared my sleepy girlfriend awake. I woke up to her crying, the really scary kind of crying that makes you sick if you can't stop yourself soon enough, and clinging to me, and feeling angry and helpless. You'd think I'd give her a rest when I was passed the fuck out, right? Soon, I'll have to start sleeping alone, but not-alone in the room, which is really depressing. I'm trying not to think about it. The dreams are always worse when she's not around.

So I had the worst counseling appointment of my life, today, which is saying something, since I've been in therapy for the past five years, and am currently on counselor number five. I like this one, too - usually, we really click, and I feel safe in that room. But today, she had me doing all of these stupid exercises where I had to get in touch with different parts of me, locating them within my body, and even though I told her, look, my body is a whole other set of issues I can't even talk about, so I'd really rather not be in it like this right now, she prevailed. I went through her whole Kleenex supply, and kept telling her I wanted to stop what we were doing, but I was so worn down then, and so it just went on. I could barely fucking breathe, and she was asking me to give breath to my nightmares. Fuck that. Then I was supposed to summon an ancestor or spiritual guide who could pull me out of the Nightmare Room (which doesn't fucking exist anyway), and I couldn't come all the way out of it. Had a panic attack, and stopped in the spot Chelsea took me that one afternoon 'til it passed, which helped a little. Throwing up when I returned to my room did not help. I was so fucking vulnerable in there, and I didn't trust my therapist at all by the time she'd pushed me into things I made it clear I wasn't ready for. I don't want to go back, but because I'm such a headcase, I'm scheduled to go back on Monday. I can't keep feeling like a crazy person, I can't get this out-of-control again, especially not with her. I just need to sit and fucking talk, not scan my body for problems and try to separate parts of myself that can't be extricated, anyway.

I can't be around people now. If I'm going to be lonely, I might as well be alone, you know? At least that way, there's some logic in it. So: sleep now, then working through dinner, then seeing Marshall. Then more work? I need to write the fucking Friends of Dorothy piece. Especially because I keep remembering back to those times, to those people who made me feel so warm and safe and sane when I was in crisis. I keep telling the stories instead of writing them down. I want to do so much more than I can, right now, and no, that's not just some part of me talking, it's all of me. Everything in me is tired and afraid, and now I can't even take that to therapy. The bright spot of my day so far was a lecture on John Keats, during which I almost forgot myself. I guess that's evidence that I'm still right where I need to be, after all this.

it's enough to move a mountain, make a blind man see!

Am trying to close these fucking labs, with little success. Luckily, Campus Police has got my back, and surprised me by closing Karpen for me! Which means I didn't get to sign up for advising. Still, bright side, since that's what today's been all about.

It started out rough, which is pretty usual, by this point. In spite of some bad dreams, I made it to Poetics of Perception for the first time in ages, and we workshopped villanelles, and it was not the most thrilling time ever, but we went over Joanna's, which was really incredible, and I talked to her for a while after class and it was really affirming. Went back to wake Marshall, and cried a whole lot, for reasons I can't actually remember very well now. Lunch with my favorite people helped, and so did watching Pecker with Jeff and talking about Bengal cats and Fern Gully music and furries while watching Asheville's public bulletin channel. I think that Jeff and I are in line on a lot of things right now, feeling all hectic and out-of-place, and it was so good to see him again and to spend all that time laughing. Dinner was a chance to continue the hysterics, revisiting our television sitcom story and talking about mean kids we knew way-back-when. We loitered outside, and then Marshall called and asked me to meet her in the parking lot before work.

She brought me this sweet potted orchid, 'cause it's our five months, and we took it up to my room and lay in bed, listening to boyband music, 'til I was pretty late for work. I'm going over there in ten minutes, if these fuckers ever leave the labs, and that's going to be good. She's good, better than I expected, somehow, and so is what we've got. I figured it'd just be something fun, and I'd fall in love but stop short of ever saying so where she could hear me, and we'd be like friends who spent nights together and, I don't know, giggle a lot? When instead, our subconsciouses are starting to scare us a little, and I'm all shaken-up and hopeful and sometimes pass entire hours without ever wondering how I'm going to fuck this up. Way to be a serial monogamist, Jen. The plan was to stay single, to have fun, to not fall again 'til I'd uncluttered myself a bit. But this is fun, and it's nice to say yes, sometimes, and to be able to ask for what I want, hard as that still seems, and to wake up to something even better than my best dreams have been. So, five months. Who saw that coming?

I have "People Got To Be Free" stuck in my head. The version from the Xena musical. Sometimes, I really do love my subconscious for giving me just what I need, when even I'm not sure what that is. I do know now, though, that my needs involve closing RH142 and 006, reading some essays while Marshall finishes her work, and curling up with her the second I can. Should be a soft, warm ending to an exhausting day. Will report tomorrow. Goodnight, lovers!

without you, I'm always twenty minutes late.

So, true to form, my weekend was ridiculous and exhausting and surprising and difficult and good. Like, um, pretty much every day has been, lately? Here's an update, edited down painfully but necessarily:

1) On Friday night, Marshall and I went out to late-night dinner with two of my three favorite professors ever. We'd pretty much planned to go out with Hobby, but Horvitz, too? In the same night? We never dreamed of it, basically. Hobby even drove us home and invited us to dinner at his house sometime.

2) ALSO, that same night, we identified the namesake of Karpen Hall, only my favorite building on campus. To celebrate, we decided to consecrate my favorite classroom in the building. A strap-on may have been involved. The chair one of my other favorite professors sits in might have been, too. I'm starting to get way too jazzy, as Jeff would say. It was a lifetime dream, though! I can only say no to so many things. . .

3) Finally watched Hedwig & the Angry Inch with Marshall: serious news. She even sang along with the follow-the-bouncing-wig part, and apparently really liked it, and has been humming "Wig in a Box," which makes me really relieved. Anyone who doesn't love that movie probably can't love me entirely. That might be really stupid to say, and even wrong (doubt it), but I have no interest in testing that theory, so let's just take it as a fact.

4) Had this crazy dream involving dogs, my mother and brother, Marshall, Kara, and ice cream. I remember it really vividly, even if I don't entirely get it. In this dream, Marshall and I were living together and looking to get a dog, but disagreeing on which one we wanted to take home. Marshall was in love with a Cairn terrier that looked a lot like this:

But I was madly in love with, of all things, this big black poodle. I'd include a picture, but there are no really good pictures of adult black poodles that don't look froofy and silly. Rest assured that this dog was not like the poodles you have known before. He was really chill, and had this really smart, perceptive look about him. You could imagine telling him your darkest secrets and him actually understanding you, and loving you anyway. I had my heart set on this thing, but Marshall was way into this wired little terrier, chasing him around on all fours, and we were in a stalemate of sorts. I went into the next room to mull it over - I wasn't sure if I could give in when that poodle was so fucking meant for me. The room was a kitchen, but like, a really big, industrial kind of kitchen, like a restaurant would have. Kara was there, and I explained the dog dilemma to her and she asked if I wanted some ice cream. I did, really badly, so we went to the soft-serve machine, which churned out this Neapolitan soft-serve - like, vanilla came out for a few seconds, then it switched to strawberry, to the chocolate, then back. . . I don't even like Neapolitan ice cream in real life, but this machine was really cool, and Kara made this perfect ice cream cone where the layers all lined up exactly by flavor, and I was really impressed, and she made herself one, and we ate them, and then I heard the silly little terrier barking in the next room and was like, "Shit, I should go and take care of this," and then I woke up and cried. That's why I wrote this out, I guess, because it clearly struck something crazy in me. I understand where all the elements in it came from, because of things from my day, but not why the fuck it got me that way. You know me: obsessive record-keeping is always in order.

5) I am listening to Savage Garden right now, and "The Lover After Me" just came on, and it's pretty much my favorite song I always forget about. So beautiful. And I still think I'm the bitch Darren Hayes sings about in "Tears of Pearls." Yikes.

6) Still haven't written a story for Queer Conference, even though I've got a reading coming up on Saturday. Lori says I should just read several of the micro pieces and that I don't need to be uplifting about it, but I mean, I really want to write this story. We'll see how that plays out.

7) Tonight, I gave Edgar clean water in his tank, and he's stopped playing dead for the night. I think we're past that phase. Fingers crossed, just in case.

8) Had a really good, long, serious talk with Ali tonight. I love that boy. Even though we argue a lot and are very much opposites in so many ways, we find ourselves on common ground so easily, and everything is so solid and honest. He'll tell me, "Jenny, that's a really bad sign!" or "You are making a big mistake, there!" when I need to hear it, but he gives really good validation, too, and I'll always trust it. He was the first new friend I met here, aside from my roommate, and I can't get over how lucky I am to still have him around on nights like these.

9) Now, Marshall and I are serenading each other via webcam when I should just get over there so we can get some real work done. So, onto that, I guess. Tomorrow, I'll see Jeff (and everyone else) again, and actually make it to Poetics of Perception, and have a Xena day. Nothing's gonna stand in my way; I just can't allow for that. This week needs to be different, and it will. The Secret wills it so.

and if you knew how much I love you, baby, nothing could go wrong with you.

Got back to Asheville safely, and apparently haven't written since then. It's been, well - busy. And messy. But good, too. It's good to see all my favorites again, and to be back in classes, and to have sunshine and warm weather. It's good that I'm going to have a single in the Willage next year, and that nearly all my friends are moving there with me (not young Christopher, but he's the kind of friend I'd manage to see no matter what, so). It's good that the F-Word Film Festival is going on now, and that Headwaters is on its way to being ready for printing, and that Marshall and I are going out with one of my hands-down favorite professors tonight. I mean, lots of things are going really well, and all things are probably going much better than I deserve, at this point.

. . . And yet, this morning, I contemplated making an emergency counseling appointment, then decided not to - not because I don't really, really need someone objective to hear me out, but because emergency appointments are available for people who are in crisis and I can't bring myself to admit that, I don't feel entitled to someone's hour. I am a mess, though. I can't remember the last time I went for a day without crying, a lot, often to the point of throwing up, and I'm clearly unstable and things are starting to slip from me. It seems so stupidly small, though - getting an A- for the first time in a class I've always gotten perfect scores in is not going to sound like crisis to anyone. Even I realize how dumb it is. But also, I've missed five of the past six Poetics of Perception classes, and I was up in time to make it to all of them. I'm just so exhausted, and I wake from the worst nightmares and can't wake up enough, not quickly enough, to be okay enough for anyone to see me. (Except for my lucky girlfriend, who is too kind to me.) It's gotten cliche: I can't get out of bed in the morning. Not without crying for a long time and taking a long time to wake up and reorder my thoughts; not 'til my dreams have blurred enough that I can go on with my day. This is ridiculous, and pathetic, and it can't go on this way. I can't bring myself to take medication as an option, and I won't make an emergency appointment, so I just feel really stuck. And you know what? I fucking hate Jason, sometimes, and I am not a hateful person. I'll take the fall for all of my shit, because I am oversensitive and depressive anyway and I should have known enough to get the fuck out of that situation - or better, not to have gotten myself into it. So, okay, I have nightmares, and occasional panic attacks when I assume that a lamppost or television is a person who is going to violate me somehow, and I'll take all the credit for my response, but I hate what it's doing to Marshall, and that's why I hate him: for leaving a mess that no one else could possibly clean up, no matter how hard she tries. For being fine and happy and laughing like nothing ever happened at all.

This is a really long rant, and all I really wanted to say is that I'm sorry. I haven't seen enough of any of you, or called enough, or written enough, or extended myself in the way that I'm needing (and wanting) to, because I feel like a liability. I have a lot of shit together, and am working on it, and when I do see you guys, or catch up with you, it's always a bright point in a really tiring day, and I get to missing you all, so much. This is what's going on with me, and lots more that I can't even say to my counselor, and I'm kind of wrecked, but also, of course, to be right here, with so many good people and distractions and Edgar the fish and a weekend on its way. I've been given so many chances by so many people, and although it's time for me to be something more than lucky, I know, I really am. Lucky, that is, with so much coming up and so many to see me through it. So thank you for, you know, sticking around. I love you all.

Also, Jordanna is playing the Beach Boys, and "Don't Worry Baby" just came on and I am crying, but I mean, seriously? Something is looking out for me. Just like how, when I am really depressed and feel like I can't face something, I get "Fame" stuck in my head, like my subconscious is trying to cheer my on. Maggi would say, "How lucky, that this part of you is trying to protect you this way," and she'd be right.

your groove I do deeply dig.

Can't be long, 'cause I've got an empty suitcase, piles of things strewn all ovr my floor, and the most upbeat playlist in the world, so a dance party (and some packing) are in order. Speaking of packing, I will NOT forget to bring my brother's shirt back with me, even though it's what I wore last year for Queer Prom and that's sort of sad. But this year is going to be a whole lot hotter; with my fake penis, I can't go wrong. Plus, I'll actually have time to get ready, and Chris will be joining us, and there will be more strangers since it's a conference year. And it'll be the day of my first reading, so I'll be needing to kick back a little.

Had the craziest bad-body-image weekend ever, but didn't give in to old vices 'cause I couldn't bring myself to betray William Blake. Threw up anyway, after crying so much to my poor bewildered girlfriend who, to her credit, is really warm and patient and encouraging and full of praises I almost can't handle hearing, sometimes. She talked me through, and then down, and I was even able to go out and buy some jeans after that, which is a huge accomplishment. The night before I left Asheville for break, I was curled up in her bed and let it slip that, if I ever get through all this body image shit, it's going to be with her; she recognized the rare occasion and made me repeat myself into her tape recorder. So now I've got to stand by it and let someone into all of that, for the first time. It's frightening, but not as much as I'd anticipated. FACT.

Also got a webcam to even the score, and just finished talking to Marshall's mother over it. I don't know how I ever manage to get sad when my world is so fucking charmed.

I am listening to the song that plays in Sliding Doors when Gwyneth Paltrow kicks her slimy boyfriend to the curb and gets all her hair cut off. In just fifteen hours, I'll be back in Asheville, where it will be sunny and some great times are waiting for me. No, I didn't finish my story yet, but I've got some inspiration, thanks to Young Steven - who also informed me that Gay Day at Cedar Point is on Father's Day every year. Isn't that wild? We might have to stage a cruise reunion there, if we can rustle up some hot red tanktops and escape our houses with solid alibis. So I've got a fantastic summer shaping up, and it's not even April yet, and the snow here is melting, and Deelite just came on and I am not about to sit still for this. Goodnight, darlings; next time I'll write, I'll be back where I need to be.

it might just be fantastic, don't get me wrong.

Mmm, yesterday was the best Erie day I've had since, I don't know, two summers back? It started out with nightmares, sure, but then I had this ridiculously hot dream involving half-drag and disarray and a bet we can both win. Let the subject of the dream know immediately, and then spent all day corresponding about it, which left me in quite the state of distraction for all other affairs.

Which is okay, because I spent two hours of my day fighting with an old lady, so it's good that I held a lot back. My mom and her friend are really into this new thing, The Secret? Look it up. Oprah loves it, apparently, and I mean, it makes sense, because it's sort of empowering, and all about the power of our minds, and the Chicken Soup for the Soul guy is in on it. Let me just let you in on The Secret: like attracts like. That's it. If you focus on positive things, and expect goodness and abundance to come into your life, then you will. Likewise, if you think "fat thoughts," you will be overweight - the book claims that thyroid conditions are just something made up to shift the blame from our thoughts, the real culprit in, like, every illness or condition ever. Still with me? Because here's a real gem: those really ghastly situations, like the Holocaust or 9-11 or any war, ever, where staggering numbers of people lost their lives? Wouldn't have happened if those people had been thinking positively. According to the book, victims were drawn into those situations because they were on the same negative frequency. Needless to say, I found this wholly unbelievable and disempowering - it ignores the fact that our all-powerful thoughts have created some really powerful systems of oppression, and that one person's positive thinking, however powerful, may not always be able to contend with these other, older forces working against them. Maureen said that it wasn't up to me, or anyone else, to worry about that, because none of this is real, and this world is an illusion, and we'll all be better off in Eternity. I envy that kind of faith, really, but I can't bring myself to disregard all of this and clear my mind and wait for something better.

Speaking of something better: I got to see Kamal yesterday, for the first time since December! He got into both colleges he applied to, so we took him out to dinner in celebration, and he was his old silly self, but more grown-up, somehow. That boy really is like a brother to me, and dinner was like having the whole family assembled again, minus my grandmother. I watched television with my mother, and did some reading, and had just started Love! Valour! Compassion! when Marshall called and I decided to drop everything in favor of a long-awaited phonecall. Marshall's phone is all the time dying on her; luckily, she's got a webcam. When I saw her show up in that little grainy window, I cried. So much for being tough, huh? It got to the point where we were Mapquesting directions, then having to talk ourselves out of impulsive actions. Our talk got all teary and giggly and overwhelming, and her phone died for real before we could officially say goodnight - six hours after we started talking.

I was hoping for more hot dreams and, instead, got rape nightmares again. But then I had this bizarre dream, in which I was maybe sixteen and babysitting these four kids, but their mother was abusing them, I think? Something really bad was going down, anyway, and I took them out into the woods, where we lived in this ugly lean-to shelter. We snuck back into the house a few times, after making sure the parents had left, to get warmer clothes and blankets and things, and a few books, and I sent the kids off to school every day, looking mostly-presentable, and we were doing it, somehow. The oldest boy was actually Shaquil from the summer camp I worked in 2005, and he had the same hard attitude and tendency to act out and throw things around, and there was this rift between him and the other three kids, and it was really distressing me, and I was having such a hard time balancing all of it, but I mean, those kids never missed a day of school, and never went without what they really needed, and I woke up feeling sort of sad that it was only a dream, even though the last thing I need right now is to kidnap four children and hide them in the woods. I have a lot of dreams about taking kids from bad situations and trying to mother on my own, and that's probably not a great sign.

Right now, I'm going to finish Love! Valour! Compassion!, which is going to have to inspire my writing. If I get this story done, I get to go into Cleveland tomorrow to see dinosaur fossil casts! And y'all know all about my mad passion for natural history museums, so really, this story must get written. I always work better with a deadline, anyway, and now I've got The Secret on my side, and a phone date with Young Steven himself tonight, so I really can't go wrong.

anything you want: you got it.

Watching Top Design alone is certainly no way to spend a Wednesday night. I miss Jana and Jefferson and the way Ali and Chris wander by to watch; I miss when Marshall used to come watch, and the faces Jordy makes at the most unlikeable contestants. Still, I’ve conned my mother into watching half the episode with me, and that’s been good. We also watched American Idol and America’s Next Top Model together, so, yeah, it’s been a big night at the Hilbert household. But when leaving here isn’t an option, distractions are beyond welcome, and my mother must know, without my telling her, exactly what I need, because she’s kept me company ever since getting home from work. We took Sal to the vet today, and started him on antibiotics. Also, he’s graduating from kitten chow to cat food. Since I don’t have kids of my own to fuss over (not yet), I have to make do with my kitten. He’s got a cold, and is curled up by the fire with me, sneezing and yawning but fighting off sleep. Love him.

Also on my love list: Matt and Goil from Top Design, for being consistently fabulous and fun to watch. My kid brother, the way he sings along with K-Ci and JoJo in his room and calls Sal “baby.” Young Steven, for being so brave and open and unapologetic, and for always reminding me that we’re young, that stupid things can make good stories, as long as we commit to them and never stop laughing. Ali, who may never understand me, but who will always inspire me and keep me grounded. All of my professors, especially the ones who regularly encourage me even when I’m hardly giving them reason to. Marshall’s brother, who called me on his way home today just to talk about a meeting he had with his professor. My mom’s friend Maureen, this really spiritual woman who loves really hokey self-help schticks, and somehow manages to better herself at every opportunity. The rabbits who live under our deck and taunt Sal on the daily. Jefferson, who manages to be hilarious and articulate even in his worst moments. Chris, who sends really sweet checking-up-on-you texts and is almost too earnest for me to handle. Sal’s vet, who talks really lovingly about his own cat and plays nice with Sal. Harvey Fierstein, always and forever. Kara, for keeping in touch with me even though her life is so full and I’ve given her so many reasons to quit. Jana, because she’s what brought me to the only city that’s ever felt like home. Mrs. Zeisloft, possibly the only person with a Rick Santorum bumper sticker that I adore and respect, without reservations.

Also: Marshall. Because I had some really sick nightmares last night, and was so frustrated and gloomy this morning, and she just talked to me patiently about doppelgangers and good dreams and how unnecessary all my doubting is. I ended the conversation in tears, shocked to be feeling so good in the midst of this, and it’s kept up all day. Even now, while I’m watching The Real World with my brother and this crazy bitch is trying to turn a gay guy straight while shitty music plays in the background, I can’t stop grinning. Even though said gay guy is now crying after a dramatic airport goodbye with his boyfriend, whom he won’t see again for months, and that’s pretty heartbreaking. Why must I get sucked into other people’s drama so easily?

Today has been charmed, but now it's time to push myself a little bit. Off to write version two of the Queer Conference reading. Let's hope I can do all my favorite strangers justice. Goodnight to anyone who reads this when it's actually nighttime; good day to all the rest of you!

what's the sense in being so sensitive?

Last time I count on slash to save me from nightmares - last night's were the worst I can remember. Kept waking in a cold sweat, crying myself back to sleep, only to run into another bad dream. I feel so stuck, you know? Tomorrow marks five months since all that shit went down in London, and I'm more unsteady now than I was, even then. Clearly, that's because I was sort of in shock, then, and didn't have five months of nightmares and hang-ups weighing me down at that point, but it still feels something like regression, and if you know me at all, you must know how I feel about that. So, yeah, bad news.

It wasn't a great day - I cried a lot, wrote to Kara, cried some more, and curled up with Sal for a while - but the night saved it all a little. I love my mother, fucking love her, and pretty much love where we are in our relationship right now. (I mean, I wish she was all right with me being gay, but I was the one to fuck that process up by getting involved with a boy again, so. . .) We went shoe-shopping together, and then watched American Idol, and although I can't enjoy either of those activities on my own, we had the most fantastic time. It was good to laugh, and to get out. I needed the human contact, and Erie isn't the ideal place for that, especially now that I've cut my hair, apparently. People say too much shit to me, and I'm forever running into people from high school when I go out, and it all makes me so uncomfortable, but there's really no one here I can go out with, so I'm pretty much stuck in this house the entire time I'm here. Marshall says she wishes I'd just come home with her, and I'd probably be better off right now if I had, but I can't avoid Erie without also avoiding my family, and my cats, and so I need to come back, sometimes, and I just need to find a better way of getting through it. Tomorrow's going to be different. It has to be, really.

bridges burned, fingers crossed.

The nightmares have gotten worse: now my brother is in some of them, and Marshall, and my professor. And Jason, of course. I liked it better when my bad dreams were just about me and a guy I never knew, couldn't recognize. I can handle nightmares nearly every night, but not if they're going to be like this. Really, I'm getting sort of hysterical, and I can feel my sleep schedule getting weird again. It's such bad timing, and really makes it hard to greet the day with hope and energy.

I'm not sure where today went - I spent a long time drawing up notes for a story which I've now written most of, only to determine that it's not something I can use for any of my readings. I spent a lot of time petting my cats, talking to them, trying to decide what to do about Spunky. The vet said that as long as he's functional, we can keep him here, but I still worry that someone should look at him, do X-rays, determine that he's not in pain. I'm not in any rush to hand him over, though, so I guess we'll just keep on and see how long he makes it. He's a tough old cat, and I won't be shocked if he makes it 'til the summer, or even after. I just hope he's not hurting.

Talked to DJ Lick tonight, for the first time in ages, and felt so good for it, even though we didn't talk for long. I miss him, and the Friends of Dorothy, and cruising. I'm so much better when I'm someplace unfamiliar and transitory, when I can start over and be brave and bold and free of all these issues. I need to keep moving, I think, fast enough that the heavy things can't quite follow me. I want karaoke every night, and new friends each time I enter a room, and surrogate families who keep all my secrets when I can't open up to anyone else. I need another chance; I want to hit 'refresh' on the past ten years and grow up again. I want to do better than I've done. I want to get it right, for once, and have it last for more than one week among strangers. Grad school will be good for this, I think, but I wish I could be who I wanted here and now, among the people who have put up with me, the people who deserve the best of me.

Yeah, I'm better off in Asheville. Thankfully, it's looking like I'll be back there for the second summer term, which means that I can celebrate Order of the Phoenix, The Deathly Hallows, my birthday, and maybe even Marshall's before coming back to Erie again. Even if summer term is lonely like last year, I'll have time to read, maybe even to do a bit of writing; I can dance in drag and wade in the creek and talk to rabbits I find in the Botanical Gardens. I can have a good birthday, a good time on my own, if it comes to that. I've got high hopes, anyway, and that's enough for tonight, if only because it has to be.

give in to the given, and put out the light.

Back in Erie: Sal sleeping fitfully on my still-packed suitcase while Spunky's gotten even more skeletal. I'm so ambivalent - half of me wants to take him to the vet immediately, because he's eighteen and looks it, and I hate the thought that he could be in pain all this time and we might not know it. But I'm also convinced that, if we take him to the vet, he won't be coming back. That's what happened with Graham, two years back, and this cat is so old, and I'm afraid to take him in, knowing that it might mean the end. So I'm really torn there, and would appreciate advice/personal experiences/someone else to discuss the matter with, because my family seems to be leaving this up to me, and if we're taking him to the vet, I want to be here with him for it, whether it's just a brief check-up or his last outing.

Tonight, I got to watch my brother practice his Jiu-Jitsu moves on my poor mother. I got to have lunch and dinner out with my family; along with a long, cold car ride during which Greg and I had a ringtone singalong. I've listened to a lot of Rufus Wainwright today, and I've felt sort of strange, not in an entirely bad way, but in a way I'd be happy to leave soon, nonetheless. Maybe it's just getting back to Erie, remembering how little this city holds for me anymore. Memories abound, but they're mostly the sort that I'd rather shut out, all for different reasons that would fall under 'self-preservation.' Which reminds me. . .

One year ago, I was in London, and it was all late-night breakfast-making and taking turns napping on the tube and Billy Zane impersonations. These are things I'd like to forget. There was one evening, near the end of my visit, when we sat at the kitchen table in the dimming light, sipping weak tea and not saying very much; I was wearing his sweater and he touched my ankle and said, "You're not going to forget this, are you." It wasn't a question; I suppose he was right in that, because I haven't forgotten, but oh, how I'd like to. The good memories are the worst ones, because not a single one transcends regret, not after October. What I really remember are all the mistakes I made, all the times I said no and wasn't heard, the times I should have said no but didn't see the point anymore, the defensiveness and crying jags and trying to convince myself that this was all just a part of love. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing in love again; I feel like damaged goods. I'm doing my best to soldier on, but part of me worries that each failure only makes me harder to love, and I have such sad defense mechanisms at work, trying to keep people from caring too much, from getting in too deep.

That's the thing about Erie: it gives me too much time to remember, and the gray skies and slush-piled sidewalks inspire mostly sad recollections. Being back here, it's too easy to tally up all the people I've ever failed, to work out exactly what's wrong with me. I'm keeping my family close, to take me out of that; I'm cuddling with my cats and calling my girlfriend and trying hard to write something worth reading aloud, since Queer Conference is coming up and I want to write something funny and uplifting, something about community. I'm torn between two stories right now, and have spent too long staring at a blank document, trying to decide. I think I'll call it an early night. When I wake up, maybe I'll be rested and refreshed enough to attempt writing both. First thing, though: getting through the night without nightmares. With all that's on my mind, it seems unlikely. At least I've got Hanson to see me through any hard nights that come my way - it really is a lucky life.

every word from your lips is a lullaby!

Am in Columbus, Ohio, which is a whole lot better than I remembered it. Ohio is a much more happening place than people give it credit for, or at least, some of its cities are. I have to love it; I was born here, along with David Hopes and A. Van Jordan.

Before I can talk about Columbus, though, I need to go back to my last entry in order to point out that I am feeling much, much better, although it took a while. Wednesday was all warm and beautiful: I had no nightmares and a really good orgasm, my girlfriend wore these really hot boy shorts, our writing workshop got completely out of hand and I cried from laughing so hard, and there was a Top Design marathon. The next morning started out with Marshall's dream of a picket fence and our dog in the yard, but then got pretty rough, and I was forced to rediscover conflict-resolution-through-correspondence, and I cried a lot. That might have worked out in my favor, though, since I started crying while my professor read a Shelley poem aloud to us, and I think he may have assumed I was moved by the poetry, not just my own drama. Had a long talk with Jana after class, tucked-away in a Karpen hallway, and felt much better by the time we left. I did laundry and felt productive, and Marshall and I worked things out and had a hot date at the Waffle House, and a very intense night afterward, during which everything as made to feel better. Friday morning was lazy and beautiful, and then got frantic when I lost my keys just before leaving, and crazier when my flight was delayed twice and then flat-out cancelled, but I finally made it to Columbus, which is where I'm at now. The delays were good, though, because they gave me an excuse to buy Tom Perrotta's Little Children, which was the best the airport bookstore had to offer, and which is the first new, prose book I've managed to read strictly for fun since Christmas break. The thrill!

It's so good to see my family again; as much as I find myself missing them, there are all these tiny things I forget until I'm back in a small room with them, and we're teasing each other and remembering things and getting caught up on what has happened in my absence. We're actually in Columbus now because Greg is getting really into martial arts (he's taking Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes back home, apparently) and convinced my father that they just had to see some Ultimate Fighting Champion fight here this weekend. My mother and I spent the day shopping, which is a horribly gendered, but completely thrilling, way to spend the time. I spent lots of time in a bookstore without buying anything, then blew that restraint after a femmey, freak-out moment in a dressing room at anthropologie; my mother and I spent at least nine hours moving from one warm, cozy store to another while it snowed gorgeously outside; and we ended the night by seeing Music and Lyrics, which is the kind of movie I could only go see with my mother. It was really adorable, and there was lots of fake-eighties music performed by Hugh Grant, who was delightful as always in his standard Hugh Grant role, and I laughed a lot and cried a little and thoroughly enjoyed myself and, in fact, now have "Pop! Goes My Heart" stuck in my head.

Came home and climbed into the bathtub to talk to my girlfriend; we both decided to actually take baths, which was great until I got too lightheaded and her phone died. Talked much more until her phone finally died again, and then mine followed suit. The really remarkable thing, though, is that my mother, at one point, told me to tell Marshall about something we'd discussed over lunch today, which is the first time she's ever acknowledged my girlfriend's existence since four months ago, when I told her we were dating. So maybe things there will come together, somehow. I'd like them to. I feel so close with my family right now, and it would be nice to feel less compartmentalized around them.

Speaking of family: my father and brother are still out at the fights, even though it's nearly one a.m. I wanted to wait up for them, but all the shopping and romantic comedy shit has worn me out, and I'm going to fall asleep sitting up if I'm not careful. To bed with me, then: tomorrow, I'll be reunited with my cats, and there may even be pictures to come! Sleep sweet, everyone!