Good gahd, what an amazing day... What a fucking fantastic day.
Spent two hours tonight working on my book. They kicked me out of the computer lab at closing time, so I packed up, walked outside, and proceeded to have something diametrical to a breakdown. Stood there in the drizzle, lighting a cigarette, maybe talking to myself, staring wildly out at Red Square, maybe laughing, maybe crying... I don't know. Just felt so damned alive that I didn't really know where I was. It didn't really matter where I was.
Louise told me not long ago that she's not sure she really has an "artform." She likes to paint, and she's pretty good at it, and she likes to write, and she's pretty good at it, and so on... But she doesn't feel she's got a specialty. She asked if I'd ever felt that way. I said: "No," and meant it completely. I write. Maybe I'm not even that great at it, maybe I've got a long, long way to go before I feel my finished products are any good at all. But I'll be damned; NOTHING is more ME than me writing. Oh, I can make cute doodles, and I can carry a tune. I can make the prettiest latté you'll ever see, and I don't think I'm too bad at making crazy love, but I am, at my core, a writer. Doesn't make me a GOOD one, but it's what I am; that's my artform. Doesn't mean I can't do lots of other stuff, but... but this is me. This is what I do. This is where I am.
I left the library building (inside of which is the computer center) shaking violently, literally trembling all over. The sort of spasms you get when you go outside and it's thirty degrees colder than it was inside, and your body adapts itself to its surroundings. The sort of spasms you get when you've just had a nice passionate time with someone, and your body has to reshape itself into its own form, rather than the form of yourself and your lover. For a minute, it scared me. But then I guessed it was just my body's way of snapping back into the real world, reforming itself to fit Olympia, Washington, 2002, a place and time I'd left for two hours. It's not an easy transition. I thought: where have I BEEN for the past two hours? I was not aware, for two hours, of anything but the story. I wonder if Olympia existed during that time. I wonder if I did anything weird that I'm not aware of. I wonder if I actually even wrote anything. I guess I could go and look at the papers I printed out and see what's on them, but... I'd really rather just leave those papers alone, and bask in the remnants of ecstasy that are slowly drifting away... Damn. I haven't felt like that since the last time I made love with Norman.
Whew.
Norman. I spoke with him on the phone tonight -- I called to wish him a happy birthday. So I fucked up, and his birthday's the 8th, not the 9th. I did the same thing last year, too. Norman is now (allegedly) 28, and not a day more adult than when I met him. I wish I could have been there the other night, bought him a beer and kissed him 28 (or so) times. I love that man in ways I can't even begin to explain. Just imagine me saying his name and smiling.
I'm telling you now as I've told you before: I don't believe in Soul Mates, don't believe that there's "ONE" for me. Maybe for other people there's such a thing, but I think for me, there are several places in my life that are half-vacant, that require the presence of somebody beautiful to be full and satisfied and all. Norman is one of those people, those very, very few people, who occupy one of those gaping holes in my life, and who just bring me joy. He's got this weird idea that because I'm 3,000 miles away, I'm going to forget him, that I'm going to stop caring about him over time. I don't see that happening. I have a very strong hope that Norman and I know one another, and can talk to one another, and can tell one another "I love you," until one of us kicks the bucket. I hope Norman is a part of my life until they shovel the last of the dirt over me. I don't foresee anything really getting in the way of that on my end. I just wish we weren't so far apart.
*sigh*
He told me he'd been reading some of my journal entries. He said he'd been reading one where I was describing the guys at Otto's, and asked: "how would you describe me?" I smiled at that. Have I never described Norman here before? It's past five in the morning now, but I still can't sleep, so perhaps I'll do that now...
Norman reminds me of a tree... A tall, thin, sturdy, tree; kind of imperfect, maybe with branches jutting out in weird directions, as trees are, but still nice and balanced. We had a tree in my backyard when I was a little kid; my mom called it a Tree of Paradise. I don't know if it has a technical name, but if Norman was a tree, he would be that tree. Norman also reminds me of sunshine. You know how some people always look happy, and some always a little angry? Some people always look businesslike, others always kind of whiny and pathetic? And they can move through a thousand emotions, but that same overall aura of happiness, or anger, or whatever, just stays? Norman is one of those people with one huge, overwhelming aura. No matter what the look on his face, no matter if he's frustrated as hell and smashing shit around, he radiates this sunlight. Cheesy, yeah, but I MEAN it. It's just this gentle, pleasant, smiling way he has about him. You can see it in little gestures: he lifts his eyebrows and looks up into space when he's thinking hard about something, instead of looking down and glaring, like most people. It gives him a look of innocence. I swear, he could live to be 104, but with that sweet way he opens his eyes very wide in order to think, he'd still pass for 20. And (I know, I know, Norman, this might not be what you want to hear...) Norman has a distinct disability to look dangerous. It's a damn good thing he's not in a metal band anymore; there's just no sense of anger, or hatred, or bitterness, or any of that. Not to say Norman never gets pissed off, and not to say he might not be holding a few grudges, but you'd never, ever know it unless you were very specifically told. Norman's passions just don't come out that way.
I think he's beautiful. Oh, and he has eyes about the color of this text. I use this font color a lot when I write about him. It just works.
(And I'll be damned if Norman didn't decide to start liking Radiohead... THAT revelation was just too much for me. I wrote on my door: "My lover listened to Radiohead and liked it. Helena is out seeking alcohol to quell her shock." Ha! After so DAMNED many times that Radiohead was used as the quintessential example of why popular music is inferior to the more highbrow stuff, and "it all sounds the same," and "it's all just really formulaic," and... And now Norman has decided he likes them. I was standing at a payphone, and I swear I had to sit down on the floor when I heard THAT!)
Radiohead. Spent a nice portion of my day reading, staring into space, and having a fairly interesting conversation while listening to Radiohead in a coffeehouse. Actually... okay, I didn't get any reading done. I read, like, a page. I did stare into space awhile, which was productive in its own way. And I did have a nice chat with the nice guy at Otto's: the dark-haired, kind of quiet-looking man, whose name is Matthew. I got to see him smile a number of times today; I was wrong before: he smiles quite frequently. And you know, for awhile, I kind of thought I was hitting on him, but -- and I could be very wrong -- I'm also fairly certain he was hitting on me a little, too. Oh, maybe he's just a really friendly person. But he did a very good job of giving me an excuse to come back to talk to him: he wanted to borrow my book. And I did a very good job of following through and bringing it down to lend to him. And both of us did a pretty good job of keeping the conversation going.
The thing is, you're never supposed to know very much about the people behind the counter. Any counter, really. You talk to them, they pretend to care, you think of them as your very best friend in the world, and then you leave their business establishment and forget ALL about them. It's the Bartender Syndrome. And by the time you've been working behind a counter for awhile, you figure that out, and the only people you really talk to are your co-workers and people outside of work. You never really give much real emotion to the people you're serving. Believe me, I know. I've seen it in me, and I've seen it in a hundred others. Matthew broke a few of the Bartender rules. I know where he grew up. I know why he came here. I know he has a dog. I know what book he's reading, and what he does outside of work. That's "first date" talk, not barrista/customer talk. And what clinched it: we ended up riding the same bus up to campus. And instead of waving a distant "hello" at me from the front of the bus, he switched seats to sit across from me. Oohhh, that's violating every Bartender rule in the world! If I was a bolder person than I am, I'd say I've made a new friend. And if it didn't kind of make me blush, I'd tell you that he's very attractive and has eyes the color of the Puget Sound in the sun.
Nothing ever really changes. I never change much. I'm taller than I was when I was eight, and I've read some more stuff since then. And I'm slightly more independent. But basically, I'm incredibly predictable. You could send me anywhere in this world and I would spend my days drinking coffee around lots of interesting-looking people, reading and staring into space, and hitting on the manager. Oh yeah, did I mention I'm pretty sure he's a manager. And that he's read everything Tom Robbins has ever published? Go ahead and laugh at me now; I deserve it. I'm too damned predictable. You think I've changed and all? Oh no; only the scenery and the soundtrack really change. Everything else remains pretty much the same. Come to think of it, other than the fact that Olympia is newer, and cleaner, and has lots more trees and fewer really crazy people than Binghamton, the scenery hasn't changed much either.
Class this morning. Er... yesterday morning -- it's really quite late/early now. Nothing much really happened. My professor still looks like a goat. If he were a goat, I'd bring daisies to class for him. As it is, I think I'll skip that, and just hope I manage to only call him "Pan" in my head. Maybe I'll take him out for a beer sometime instead of daisies; the guy really is freaking awesome.
I need to go to bed now. I'm actually beginning to get tired.
Goodnight.
~Helena*