drunkencynic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- quixotic I can't believe how sweet all of you have been about this. I feel so loved. Every comment I get makes me feel so special and helps make me feel much less despairing. So thank you. Thank you so much. I've decided to just put that thought on hold for a while. Why worry about it if I'm not gonna know for weeks anyway? Might as well just forget about it until then. But I fully intend to ask him about it when he comes back. I sound calm about it, but really I'm just trying to be optimistic and realistic. Despair is tangible, within view, but I'm just going to sidestep it this time. It's going on the back burner for now. I have noticed that I'm becoming a CD addict. Not just music, though that's the biggest part of it, but I love to buy CDs, I love to have them, I love to touch them. The problem is they're so fucking expensive! Have you ever noticed that? "Gee, people are downloading music for free, that's bad, we're losing money. I know! Let's make the price of a CD almost $20. That'll reel 'em in." The only method I can come up with to keep myself from burning money is to research each CD I want. Listen to the tracks, compare it with other things, etc. That way I won't end up with something I'm lukewarm about. My method of choosing CDs has been quite serendipitous, which is fun (there is little more calming than pawing through slightly dusty CDs in an empty music shop, eager for anything to jump out at you), but can get old when you've got an $80 pile of I'm-still-waiting-to-see-if-I-like-its. Today I was working with Mary, a new girl I haven't worked with yet. She's very nice, though apparently she offered Barney weed in exchange for one of the resturaunt's T-shirts. Not that that makes her less nice, just weirder. We started talking about a boy that Barney picked up hitchiking once. He was the last person to see him alive. Or dead, for that matter. He just disappeared. Being the typical cynic that I am, I sputtered, "Well, what could have happened to him? Someone chopped him up?" And Mary said, "Maybe the night marchers got him." It's a cultural superstition where I live. They're like ghosts, ghosts of the old Hawaiian warriors. They travel together, with torches, and the saying goes that if they see you lay eyes on them, they'll kill you or kidnap you or something. If you see them you're supposed to throw yourself to the ground face-first. And remove your clothes if possible, though I don't think that's a strict requirement. Lots of people have said they've seen them, including my friend's dad when I was little, though I'm pretty sure he was lying. They are supposed to have specific paths that they travel, and a room with parallel doors is a prime candidate for a nightmarcher trail. Mary's family is an old superstitious Hawaiian family, and her grandmother tells them about obake. That's a Japanese term for a ghost. They're freakier than normal ghosts, however, sort of like poltergeists. Malevolent. Mary's brother (who apparently has ADD and ADHD, among other things, which does not really help his credibility level) apparently sees obake all the time. He was bit by one on the back of his neck. Human teeth marks just appeared. His hair will not grow there anymore. Mary's grandmother says that to remove the pain of an obake bite one must get someone else to bite the bite (confused yet?). Someone strong enough to take the pain away. Sounds like it would hurt to me. And then. She told me that her brother was driving a car alone once, and his friends were in cars behind him. He started swerving violently, and they all stopped. Mary's brother looked at the passenger seat, and sitting next to him was a man with no face. I think I'll refrain from comment. I was all over Mary after hearing these stories. She probably regrets having told them to me. After work I went to the coffee shop and ran into John. It was one of those lovely, coffee-shop moments. He carries around a big black backpack, which is full of things I can only speculate about, though I do know that two of the items are a sketchbook and pencils. Once he looked at my sketchbook and was quite, incredibly, impressed. He commented on my grasp of proportion and faces. I am not really that great of an artist, it's just that people don't think of me as one, and when they find out I'm competent at it, the talent is magnified by the surprise attack. I had one of his strawberries, and he said something I thought was very interesting. I'd asked him if he'd thought of trying out for one of the plays. "No," he said, "I'd rather do art than be art." Interesting. I'd never thought of it that way. John is definitely someone I want to know about. I'm curious about him. In just a curious sort of way. Nothing erotic. Just interested in him. Life is made up of so many interesting components. How can I despair? 7:23 p.m. - 2003-10-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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