6:47 p.m. - January 01, 2003
If it is not bagged, ordered from Taco Bell, microwaved, made-to-order or canned, I cannot cook anything. I will learn to cook for one with the goal of preparing a repast with my own two hands twice a week. It isn't about stretching boundaries and learning something new, it's about taking time from Doing Nothing to Doing Something For Me. There's a substantial paucity in that aspect of my life, the opportunity to do something without particular results in mind, an eye on the bigger picture and how everything must fall in line and fit into the big puzzle in the sky. I know well that my rush, the haste to engage in projects and take comfort in being a workaholic is a ruse to think that I have a complete, fulfilled life. It is a ruse because it simply isn't so. Things are off-kilter, in disarray and the ontological heart of the matter is the more fun-houselike, the more I view maddening imperfection and the dreaded loss of control, the more I realize a priori that there wasn't any control to begin with.
What I've been referring to as the Plan is nothing more than an acknowledgement that I can't sit on my ass and lament when I can do for myself. It involves finding a new counselor and checking pride and security at the door; I want specifically to investigate and work on my childhood but not end there, but to extrapolate and learn how to separate then from now because I fully realize that the quotidien is not only colored by the then but has been supplanted by looming insecurities manifesting themselves because I refuse to deal with things. It's about not letting people become close to me because I don't trust them, suspicious of ulterior motives behind the smile; it's about pushing those whom I care about the most the furthest away because I am hyperaware of my issues and don't want anyone to see them and pity me; it's about the inability to have a fulfilling sex life; the retreat into books and music and melancholy, the literal keep of my abode; relationships; being comfortable with myself; the list is long.
This is neither an occasion for idealism nor Kurt Russel-movie action but time to grasp for the straws. That's what I feel like, that I'm slipping further away just when I realize I want to stay and experience the vivant. There is so much I want and frankly, I don't know how to pursue it if I'm unable to state explicitly what I want. I don't know if I'd label myself fatalistic but I'm feeling that way, that it's today and tomorrow and one thing at a time. Cooking spaghetti is not much of a step but for one who lives off the frozen and canned and take-out, it's a lifeline.
Have a good night.