Friday March 6, 1995

Does it require an explanation why I didn’t write, for two months?
Especially since my last entry early January ended with the militant:
“But I will put one foot in front of another, and become a writer. Alone if I have to. ”           
It hardly seems on point that I have not written anything since.
Well, yes and no.           
I didn’t give up on the idea of becoming a writer but it turned out, no writing is required. Or even desired. Because I went through my old manuscripts and diaries and it’s all there. An entire body of work, as if it dropped right out of the sky.
I honestly had no idea I had written that much.
So I don’t need to write, in order to become a published writer.  
I need to organize, curate, filter, edit, embellish, smooth out.

The finite conclusion really is, and I wish it wasn’t, that in order to become a writer I need to be doing the exact same work I (still) do to make a living. The same work I hate so much.        
Eight months since graduation, the loneliness is daunting and my ass feels like it will fall off one day. But I guess that is a shitty reason not to work on publishing my own books right?
Whether you’re sitting down every night to write new work, or to edit your existing work, doesn’t really make a difference for the sagginess of your ass.             
But it felt different though.        
And the idea that my road to becoming a published author, included expanding my ass-sitting hours from 8 to 10, doing the same boring work I’m already way overdue with and sick of, was not appealing.

So although I was thrilled to find I was basically already done writing, the conclusion I had maxed out on my solitary desk-sitting-hours, and that something needed to change to avoid “death by copy editing”, was something I needed to come to terms with.

This weekend I will start looking for a new job. Something where I have to leave home for, see people, have a laugh or two.
But God, eight months in, and I have to start all over again.        
So depressing.  
In combination with my love life which has absolutely bottomed out since January, I really had little to be excited about.   
Both the Slash painter and Bear are up till their necks into their responsibilities towards their families.  
With Slash I kind of knew that of course, but nevertheless it still hurt.
And with Bear too, I just want to shake him up. 
But I don’t know if I want to do that because I want to yell: “Pick me! Pick me!” or “Run while you can!”.   
Or if it really is none of my fucking business how he chooses to live his life, and which responsibilities he accepts.   
His purpose, what he has to do in this life; It really is none of my business.             
I know that, I do.           
But sometimes I think I spent the last two months keeping myself from contacting him, and trying to get through to him.            
Through to them.

It cost a lot of energy and I’m still not “done” or at peace about Bear or Slash.             
I find the whole situation extremely unsettling. But two months is enough, and I am no longer going to wait for them to change their minds.            
I need to get on with my life.     
Especially after news came about Slash.

It is tempting to go into detail as to how I found out about either one of them.             
What was going on with Slash, what with Bear. Who told me what, what I heard from others, and what I picked up intuitively or even paranormally.             
But it doesn’t really matter.       
The stories are similar. 
Both could have chosen for me, and both didn’t. And I didn’t do anything to change their minds.

Technically Slash doesn’t even know how I feel. I never said anything. I can still see his jacket covering my coats at December 31st when he came in to eat oliebollen but I never said it.     
I still only think about Bear when I think of sex, but I never told him.
And besides, wouldn’t that be a reason for him not to see me?    
That I’m all about sex, and that it’s superficial and that he now wants a real woman with whom he can have a future together?

I think the difference between me and the men I’m in love with, is that to me a man I have sex with, or want to have sex with, is automatically extremely meaningful to me.         
But they are different, they have broader tastes.
Slash dated many women before he was married for sure, and maybe even now. He could be having an affair with the bar lady from Warhol. It certainly seemed that way.

And Bear has always had other lovers throughout the five years we were seeing each other.        
He seemed to have received a calling to settle down and get serious, but I don’t understand it because it’s so not him.    
Or is it just so not me?  
Am I projecting how special these men are to me, and my conscious choice for a tailor-made, unconventional sex life, instead of working within the boundaries of what it is society wants from us?  
Is this all me?   

After two months I’ve decided I’m done caring. 
I’m done thinking about it, done worrying about it and if they would actually need saving, I’m the last person who should be doing that.          
Because it would screw up what we have. It’s an entirely backwards power dynamic if I start interfering, claiming I know things better.
I always had faith in Bear making his own decisions. Always. There is no exception that says:       
“Except when you don’t choose me.”

It is so simple that I can’t believe I actually spent two months wondering if I had to offer or say something. Or if they were going to turn around.        
It’s so disgusting.          
Almost as disgusting as getting a saggy ass, not publishing my own books and having to write basically the exact same diary entry twice, two months after you already knew what you had to do.

Let’s get to work.