sublingua

The heart with a mind of its own.

(Be present.)

The mind with a heart of its own.

(It's past.)

The dream that is your waking life.

(Go there now.)

cursive reflexive, or, cursed & reflective: less perhaps more than more
Friday, Oct. 17, 2003

dearest,

there is not a chance that you will see this email

before you get here and i can tell you about

everything in it my own damn self. (that sounds real

forceful, but it's just a curse-ive reflexive--which

is a new grammatical category that i'm trying to get

off the ground. pass it around, in other words.)

so the dreaded four person class went okay yesterday.

by okay i mean as well as can be expected. and by as

well as can be expected i mean that no one ended up

dead. cut dead is another matter however as there was

another attempt at connection from the matthew that

went something like this: i am trying to save my last

eunuchs of rage for a worthy occasion, and

consequently have been trying to be nice to smirka

(she, if you recall, of the "i work in a blab"

conversation). she, yesterday, was doing the crossword

in the campus newspaper (i know. don't strain yourself, right?),

and so i said, "the crossword? let's see what you've

got." and we bent over the little square of newsprint

together looking at clues. we started chatting about

some clue or another that prompted her to ask my

major. i answered and asked her hers. she is a double

major: english and art history. i asked her if she had

ever taken an art history class from a woman named

katherine waymire. matthew pipes up: "i took a class

with her." and the response (from both me and smirka)

was: "(insert silence here)." then smirka and i went

on chatting about the crosswords, and the professor

came in and joined us, and matthew sat there hiding

dejection. or rejection. or

whatever-the-motherfucking-ection. don't care. not my

problem. also? he attempted a lot of eye contact,

which, despite the vato paul lesson, i could not bring

myself to match. i suppose that's because it wasn't so

long ago that eye-contact constituted the only way

that we could touch each other and i don't want to

encourage that kind of thing now.

though

i still miss him, sophistica. if i'm being brave, i can

avoid admitting that, but even with all my unspent

eunuchs--which are burning a hole in my pocket even as

we speak--i still miss this man. i still want him to

notice me and to hurt when he does because he decided

not to be in my life. i want him to regret not being

in my life. i want him to regret his decision in

regards to that. i want him to miss me too. that's a

terrible thing, i think, to want for someone else to

feel, as i know firsthand that it hurts. ugh. and i am

also aware that i haven't given max's state of mind

half the attention that i give the matthew's. this, i

am sure, along with everything else makes me not a

very good person. i probably need to work on that.

but later, right? i'll work on that later.

anyway. so last night's conversation was interrupted

by lea, who wanted to tell me about dinner with her

new crush, lua. lua is this woman who works at

the school of natural therapeutics with leah--or who

did until she (lua) asked for more money and was

"let go." anyway, lua is a biker babe--babe in

quotes, as it's one of those things where lea sees

her through the eyes of lust--but honestly, she is not

bad looking. (lea had a picture of her, and so i got

to see her.) lua is 32, with dark hair, pale skin

and blue eyes, rides a motorcycle, is a recovering

alcoholic, and has a bit of a guarded look in her eye.

she enjoys long walks on the beach, alfresco dining,

and musical theater. dial 199 to leave a message for

lua. um. so it was totally girly to sit there on my

bed, eating chips from the bag, talking to lea about

her crush. i never really had those girly moments in

my life, so it felt a bit, oh, i don't know. unreal

maybe? or forced? but gently forced, if forced. i

don't know what kinds of questions one asks about

crushes. i don't know how to respond. should i be

encouraging? should i tell her to turn back, ala dante

and my recent experiences? i don't know. but girly?

never did it. but i suppose the situation couldn't be

more ideal for a maiden voyage into girly: a lesbian

crush, a bag of chips, a futon, and me. strange but

true tales from the lives of the girly inept.

later:

so i finally got to go and see my piece hung. it looked all forlorn and out of place amongst

the other pieces, as it is the only mixed media piece

and the only "non-functional" ceramic piece. but

still, it was nice to see my stuff hung. always a

thrill. (damn, isn't this exciting patter? really, i'm

trying to kill a bit of time until a review for

chemistry. today cary busted out the patented morrow

"you all obviously don't know this stuff" lecture.

deservedly so, as we are working on stuff that we

should ideally have learned in 301 and no one,

including me, knew a goddamn thing. at least i have an

excuse: i had ham for 301. and ham? well, he

wasn't too keen on making people feel badly for not

knowing anything, so his solution to this was to not

really require you to know anything at all. and then i

got my a in the class and then ham left, and then

i tried to take 302 from every other chemistry

professor who teaches it, and then i dropped it every

time because i had not the slightest idea what was

going on. and that is the sad and ignoble end of the

story of sublingua's career as an organic chemistry

student.)

days and days later:

god, this is turning into some kind of epic saga. i

mean, sans the epic and sans the saga part of that.

and by that, i guess i mean that it's just long and

meandering. so maybe i should have compared it to the

mississippi river sans the huck and sans the finn.

so four person class and the matthew conversation? i

guess i've had a day to chew on it (thank you, brain)

and i'm still a bit confused. my last words to him

were about how he does the madonna/whore thing and how

i have a few eunuchs of rage with his name on them or

some such nonsense. i say, get out with a bang if you

have to get out at all. but still, as he was telling

me about his parents' car accident and about his

brother's drunken stupidity and about his leaving the

church, i got the feeling that he hadn't told anyone

else about any of these things and that he hadn't told

anyone else about any of these things because he

hasn't anyone else to tell about these things. and it

was a kind of emotionally detached observation in

which i didn't stop to think, as i used to, that i was

an integral part of the proceedings because now i can

see that to him i am just a kind of listening device

that uses a different kind of fuel source than

ordinary electronic listening devices. and that was

fine, i suppose. i suppose it has to be. eight more

weeks, sophistica. eight more weeks and then i don't have to

look at this man and wonder if he still cares about

me. i can sit in the privacy of my own apartment and

wonder if he still cares about me. i can cut him out

of the loop.

much later:

this all has no more to do with anything than it did

when i wrote it and even less so now.

professor f said in class the other day: "more

or less. well, less perhaps more than more." and did i

say i love her?

am going to send this off to get it out of my hair and

start fresh on a new one in reply to your new one.

there's a light and it never goes out--

sublingua

retreat or surrender

More lies:
Waking Sleeping Demons II - Sunday, Oct. 30, 2011
Waking Sleeping Demons - Saturday, Oct. 29, 2011
time - Friday, May. 20, 2011
- - Wednesday, Oct. 06, 2010
The Return - Tuesday, Oct. 05, 2010

� sublingua sublingua.diaryland.com.