20 August 2000

"...And speaking of which, you came up in a certain conversation with a certain group of people the other night..."

"...I'm sure I did... What did he have to say?"

"Oh... Well..." And now he was trying to protect my feelings; had he said too much already? He paused, trying to be delicate. "Well, he told me about your email. And he said... he said just basically that he's done with you..."

That he's done with ME? After everything and HE is the one calling the shots now? He's done with ME? I'm done with HIM, Nathan... It's the other way around...

I still feel like I want to cry.

Peter's things are still all over my house. He moved out four months ago, and everything except his CD's is still here. I can't escape from him. Even supposing I could just forget about him, even supposing I could avoid all his social circles and pretend he doesn't even exist, I come home to his presence every night anyway, via clothes, books, pictures...

Nathan told me while I was at work that Peter'd been talking about me. Yes, there I was, cleaning my beloved espresso machine, and thinking about Peter. Peter is not welcome in Java Joe's. He never has been. His energy doesn't mingle well with Java Joe's energy. As a matter of fact, Peter -- and talk of Peter -- is what David might have called (well, what he DID call) Java Negativity. I've pledged not to let Peter infiltrate Java's anymore. Not at all.

And you know, if he's so "DONE" with me, perhaps I'll just not bother to let him infiltrate ANY facet of my life. Perhaps I'll clean out the rest of his things and give them away or something. I can't stand to have them around anymore...

"...Always something there to remind me... dum, dum, dum..."

To remind you of WHAT, Helena?

He's got postcards hanging all over the walls of his old room... Most of them are from me. I've always been a notorious postcard sender. The postal service loves me...

Postcard of Seurat's "A Sunday on La Grande Jatte." August 22, 1998. Chicago. Sent to Peter c/o his mom's house.

Dearest Peter,

Illinois! I love Chicago! I saw places filmed in The Blues Brothers, E.R., Chicago Hope (Mandy!), and *gasp* Ferris Bueller! And! I SAW THIS PAINTING! It is so beautiful, Peter... I got goosebumps looking at it. Really, I walked into the room and got this really creepy feeling -- and looked up, and there was THIS. I also saw the city from the Sears Tower and had some amazing wings for dinner... Gahd I miss you! Love Always, ~Me*

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Homemade postcard with a picture of Snapple-bottles on the front. September 17, 1997. From my dad's house in Binghamton. Sent to Peter c/o his mom's house, even though I knew damned well he didn't live there; he lived with David. I couldn't send it to David's address. That was too much like invoking all the spirits of Java Negativity.

Dear Peter,
Hi. You alive? Yeah, I know [directing] "Cabaret" is top priority. Sorry, I forgot. Listen, I'm not going to waste words; I'm feeling bitchy and sarcastic and I'm not wasting time TALKING about pushing you into a bonfire. We need to talk. About my play if nothing else. ~Helena*

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Postcard of Drew Barrymore kissing E.T. on the nose. Sent to Peter c/o his apartment on Main Street, aka Crack Central. March, 1999. From Santa Fe, New Mexico.

I miss you. That's all.

Always your favorite psychic extraterrestrial... ~Helena*

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Card from Meg: "I'm sorry I lied." I don't remember all of what that was all about, and I don't really want to remember...

Card from his mom. "I'm proud of you, don't give up your dreams" or something. I don't know what that was about either.

I can't do this... I can't take all of this and just shove it in a box somewhere...