welcome LL riders to this strange little world of words... I love it when somebody get here from there... and welcome back everyone who's missed me while I was away... the previous entries that suddenly appeared yesterday will be completed in time, but for now, let's get back to our daily drivel... or dribble... or whatever it is to you... to me, well, it's just me... or at least parts of me...

and in related linkage (that the universe provided as the next link in the chain of windows open on my desktop at the moment), since, of all the places I left my heart, I left my heart on the LL Line most of all, I still relate to the lost wanderings of dodging the pendulum between apathy and depression brought on by love gone wrong, agony as expressed by jilted soul... and I'd like to offer the comfort or relief and acceptance that may come in time, but I am not time and can not give time... only a moment of potential understanding and what relief may be found in trusting that... I relate so well in my own ways and times, yet I can only wrap my arms around myself and bring myself out of the hiding closets to the place where love is not warped anymore...

and I too find pieces of my past (never completely left behind) expressed in your words... you will be mentioned in an entry about this (one of the catch-up entries soon to be suddenly uploaded all at once, hopefully before the end of the next weekend)... I hope you find it... once, I sat in a closet and waited to die... another time, I sat on cold cement and waited to die... I was too numb even to care if I did or did not, so I took no action against myself (no feeling left at all, not even self-loathing or depression, just numbeness)... that was yesterday, though the weight of the experiences remain part of me always... today I just wander hoping someone might understand that damaged goods, that a broken, beaten, betrayed person with hideous inner scars might be somehow beautiful in someone's eyes, might still be understood and loved unconditionally like never before... I have many places to write and candoor is not where the depths come out, but candoor is where the mundane daily experience is recorded along with all the superficial games that make for an endless stream of diary entries that laugh at themselves and wonder how many, or if any actually notice the depth between the lines... to find the one who might understand it all, yes, that is why I write and publish dozens of diaries (most linked together, some not) waiting for, hoping for someone who will... see, feel, touch, heal, know... all this long note to say hello, welcome to my consciousness, and may you survive to share more of the dream you seek...

as a matter of fact (though that sounds better to my ears as matter a fact, but that, in fact, is just one more distraction from the depths), it was way back on the LL line that the first loss, the deepest, occurred...

and did I repeat myself?...

ah, though the words are beyond my linguistic comprehension, Brazilian (Porteguese?), perhaps, the images are strong enough to call me back to see what comes next... I have her to thank for the image blog, another diaryland writer who reads (having just read all entries) so familiar that her diary being less than a month old seems inconceivable (and an odd diary to read while listening to Jessica Molaskey's Pentimento, no doubt)... another writer I'd like to see in the flesh to explore the hands that press the keys, the eyes that see the screen, the lips that might say the words... but if, as so often is the case here, we remain limited to words... I shall read...

just like this...

for all the banal crap I write in all the many places I put words, what I truly relate to is so seldom here unless, perhaps, lost somewhere between the lines... there is just never enough time, or so I tell myself... is that consolation or excuse for not caring enough?...

I think I want someone to fantasize about... I mean, not just fall in love with as I do so often (it's probably nauseating to most of the world, but then, who knows, I may be wrong about a lot of things)... someone who appears in my mind, an image of a face, lips eyes, nose, skin, a body... visual images of a flesh and blood someone... someone who opens up for me and ravishes me... someone who wants to be with me when I masturabate, when I make love...

maybe it's the last few CDs in the current random CD Stack (old old songs) that inspire this... or the images I recently saved to my hard drive... or the words I've read that lead me to long for understanding, intimacy, truly feeling loved for just being me...

does anybody get that anymore?...

I wonder what the point of life is without it... and I shudder to think that many just go on living without questioning, without wondering, without it...

maybe I just need breasts...

standing on the platform below the E. 105th Street sign, in the semi-desolate landscape that immediately surrounds so many lonely, seldom used train stations, I recall the afternoons we'd share between school and work, the few minutes of passion, the brief moments of cuddling, the kisses that opened life up to a whole new world we'd never known before except from afar, like watching it on TV...

and on cue, or queue, the TV goes on... a movie, a video played in bored moments by the teenager of the house, Drive Me Crazy, and she sometimes does... but more, the teenager in me is the crazy one, or the one driving me there... there lives the hunger we're supposed to leave behind, or at least subdue when crossing the imaginary line into adulthood... I never liked that hood, personally...

I see fat tissue and wonder why (fat is so unappealing to me... it represents waste, laziness, apathy, carelessness, and all that is destructive in life)... living in this country of fat and neglect, or waste and abuse, of facade and angst, or emptiness covered by glitter and glamour and paint and designer cloth... maybe the simplest solution to the hunger problems, and many other problems in this world is to eat the Americans...

oh, for that visual masturbatory fantasy, don't bring fat, ok?...

I know, I've turned most readers off now... few eople are comfortable with their own fat to face it, no less be poked at or joke about it... why anyone would choose to live in a body that is uncomfortable is one more puzzling aspect of humanity I do not grasp, but then, I don't like touching fat so why would I ever want to grasp it?...

when I was little I would puke at the taste of fat... that is why I did not like meat... the texture nauseated me... the taste was only palitable when barbecued... almost anything can be palatable when barbecued... or fried... but then, fried fat is a sickening too in it's own way even if my taste buds learned to enjoy it...

maybe the Americans need to be deep fried...

love it or leave it was almost as popular a T-Shirt philosophy as make love, not war... maybe the word love makes a motto more popular...

given the fundage, I'd travel the universe in search of intelligent life... not quite fat-free intelligent life, but I have doubts that there can be much intelligence in life that is more than 10% fat... there's no scientific evidence for this hypothesis, at least none that I know of... in fact, I have no evidence at all that there is any intelligent life in this universe, but I'd look for it...

if you are not amused, then maybe something is in your way... look up... can you see the stars?... if not, then something is in your way... or maybe the sun is too bright... look down... can you see your toes?... if not, then something is in your way... if it's an erection, wow...

remember those innocent days when life naturally was energized by beauty and passion, I find much of these days boring... that's why I would like to find a good physical fantasy... someone who would actually want to be drooled over, or on, even... someone who understands the private passions of the imagination and the secret stimulations of the skin... someone who wants to do it just for me...

that last part might be ego...

I wonder what you think about... or if you even remember... tonight, when you are alone in your bed touching yourself, reach for a pen, preferably a soft tipped pen because it could hurt if your passion gets carried away and you have a short pointed stick in your hand... write down what you are thinking, feeling, imagining... you could put it in your diary or email it to me...

I think I need to get back to running daily... there's apparently way too much energy bubbling over inside and without a passionate lover to inspire and release it into, it could eat away at my innards... being quite oral, foodcould consume me... I could grow fat... lazy... would that make me less unAmerican?... I could be fried...

I almost was friend out at the festival this weekend... I have no intention of being a bad person... in my heart I believe I am a good person... I give all the time... I ask for little, often nothing... I am silent a lot... maybe that's why I write so much... I want people to be happy... fulfilled... passionate about life and love and whatever it is that inspires them to be good...

I wish more people were comfortable with their nudity...

were all these thoughts found on that old train platform on the LL line... well, not all, some came along in my browsings through others diaries and some from revisiting my own... how seriously you should take all this is up to you, I just write the stuff...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)