2:19 p.m. - November 16, 2006
If I am not presenting out of town, Thursday is a writing day. Most of the time I actually get some writing done, but not today.
My desk is L-shaped and abuts part of the sliding glass door to the back yard so I can look outside and be distracted. The books and papers needed as references to whatever I'm writing are placed on the small leg of the L (I think it's called a secretary, but I'm not positive). Right now I'm working on my third book (I still get a thrill from being a real writer) but am feeling rather lost and direction-less.
You can see the spiral notebook and yellow sticky pad - these are my absolute essentials. I carry that black notebook with me wherever I am and jot in it all my ideas as they appear in long narrative run-ons or short one/two/three word summaries. The yellow sticky pad is for noting sudden inspirations or ideas that I place into the spiral notebook where needed, so that if you flip through the pages, you can trace the evolution of nascent, unformed thoughts into what eventually is laid in front of Barbara, my editor.
As for backgrounds and screensavers, I am a cliche. Nature scenes that reflect the outside seasons are covered up by shots of space and the cosmos.
You can also see part of my magnet board - nothing special, just notes to myself: Books to read (green paper), promises to self (yellow paper), things to do (blue paper), and the occasional postcard. External hard drives (3), networking equipment, scanner, and printer are to the right, over my supplies drawers. Above those are shelves with specific textual resources relevant to my current book. The shredder, my pleasant companion, is under the desk beside the rat warren that is my most pressing fire hazard: Tons of connecting cables attached to daisy-chained extention cords.
Two less cords tomorrow, though - my new printer arrives Friday and needs only one cord. I already love it.
There is much on my mind today, the kind of weight best lifted by talking things over with a friend. Not Aundrea or Shannon, but a deeper friend, someone who knows me better than I know myself.
Ken II is HIV+ and all I can think about is that I just cannot catch a break. I am uneasy when I think that we kissed and rationally I know not to worry - but tell that to my insides. Is it impossible for me to feel compassion towards another? He said he wanted to be honest with me, and I steeled myself to hear you're too fat / ugly / fucked up for me but he just said he is positive and the first words out of my mouth shocked me: But you're such a nice guy, how can you be?, as if HIV is only for that kind of gay guy who skulks in bath houses, swims in semen showers, and sleeps with anybody he can. It is true, that is how I view HIV and gay men. Judgmental, scornful, disdainful, a hearty dose of you-reap-what-you-sow, or in this case, you reap-what-others-sow-in-you. Dirty. Filthy. Fist-fucker-type. Anonymous orgy type. The very worst of the seedy [editor's note: unconscious pun?] wantonness that is liberated gay sexuality. In a word: Just not me.
I didn't say any of this, though - I've learned that much, at least, to keep my mouth shut. I asked questions and he answered them, and we hung out. But that interest I had for him, that desire, dissipated, and I know he picked up on it. Those mini daydreams of finding someone who would like me, want to date me despite me, and hoping he could be the one, froze and just fell apart like a bird dying in mid-air and plummeting to the earth. Daydreams because I am not his type anyway and we know my track record on man-man interactions. But still, I did kind of hope. He asked if it creeped me out and I said yes and no - an honest response - and I said that if he would be willing to put up with my ignorance and a steep learning curve, I'd be willing to learn.
Later after he left he called and said he didn't think it would work out.
Was this me, or was it his own shit?
And he is such a nice guy, he really is.
I say that about every gay guy who'll talk to me, so perhaps my perspective is warped by now.