9:48 p.m. - July 31, 2002
2
Last night Marti became the third person I told, fueled by heady security and the intoxicating desire to take chances. It was a natural part of a free-flowing conversation, though when the night was over I warned her I might be cold and distant today, and her reply was Try It. Spunk and sass.
Today it was not uncomfortable; it was not weird; it was a non-issue; I had lunch with her in the new activity center and we sat on the couches and devised ways to steal furniture and not once did I consider having lost my security--anonymity, blandness, oversight--at all. This is how I want to be more often, at ease, instead of on guard.
Even here in this journal I'm not at ease, fluctuating between highs and lows and not writing about the thing I wish to write most out of some visceral disinterest towards adding another experiential layer to the equation so as not to seem unifocused or hyperdramatic regarding the events of a childhood. Please, assault me with the MLA Guide to Writing. What I'm getting at in my own roundabout-let's-avoid-talking-about-what-I-want-to-talk-about routine is finding a balance between analysis and dwelling, confrontation and denial. I have yet to find a balance with the (taboo) subject yet feel the need to inquire has developed permutations so that regardless of what I'm doing, I'm thinking about it.
Torturous prose has me hog-tied tonight. Not a pleasant image unless you're into that kind of thing.
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Today's train was a double-decker but I didn't sit up top; tomorrow I shall, even if it is far off the ground and Amtrak doesn't have the best of records at the moment (thank you for worrying, Wanderer, but I was not injured in the wreck; I ride the Camden line, not the other one, though apparently the Camden train has had its share of problems as well) and that, these small acts of rebelling against the Control Master, feels reassuring.
Good night.
