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13 February 2003 - 4:13 pm
taking communion.

415pm,

i used to have my watch on alarm at this time. middleschool i'd be in the library in the stacks as i loved to call them, dusty retreats of thick volumes and thin chapterbooks and stephen king novels collected on two shelves ... in the reading-room hidden in a cloying, thick silence.

so is jos right simply because i can't muster an opposing side to the argument that seems logical? i know these are free forums, and i'm as big a proponent of that as anyone. and no, i'm sure she didn't intend what she wrote to hurt, but it didn't particularly look like any sort of thought or process. or i'm psychotic. "GET HELP." her last two words in the guestbook. "GET HELP" which resounds darkly in this room. wouldn't it have been better had i never met these people? saying that they care and then shoving you off to some hinterland of "HELP" wherein they don't have to worry about it. it's that you're not close enough. they don't care enough. that's what it seems.

day's been going by well enough. "love letters" tonight. and why is this stupid thing such a focus of anger and hatred? i can't focus on anything else but that fucking guestbook entry now. "GET HELP" she says. so many things i could say and can't say to that.

//

feeling something. an uprising swelling a passion.

//

today in stanislavsky. rachel is my partner, we're instructed.

"take your partner's hand. explore it."

i am there holding hands with a girl; her fingers are delicate, her nails are trimmed but not ravaged, her hands are steady, palms slightly clammy, no shaking inherent. i explore. veins like bumps in the road, slow heaves on the back of the hand, the skin rising up to accomodate the gentle pulsing of heartbeat-ferriers beneath, like stationary waves ... following it with my thumbs, slow like an idling car, my fingerpads are slightly rough, i notice, in surprise. her hands are doing the same to mine, spelunking cautiously over valleys and peaks and through the dense tributary-laden jungle of my palm, where rivers and heartlines and headlines conjoin in a furious mishmash ...

"now imagine you are little children ... (my shoulders immediately slump forward. there is vulnerability) .. and you are walking through a dark, scary place with this person. you give them support."

i am walking. red and gray and black plains stretch out like macabre designs on a chalkboard, scrawled & scratched. trees waver in the eventual horizon, and there is a feeling of unsurety. nothing exists but the colours, the shifting landscape, the fact that we both are written out of chalk lines - rachel who has become an anonymous she - squeezes tentatively, and then a little stronger. i respond, but remain stolid, as though to be the Rock of Ages

"you stop walking - you've come to a place where the road splits ... one is convinced their way is right, you are convinced yours is .. "

i tug, almost instinctively, towards me, rubbing that vein-skin with my thumb, coaxing, tugging - she tugs back, insistently. i see her brow furrowing in the chalk-world, in the land outside of any land i have ever known - where there is no sun, just a shifting black sky - tug, tug!

"you have a disagreement."

the anger and frustration boils up from the inside, a tenacious insistence, and a nearly hot feeling behind my eyes. i want to open my mouth. no this way!

"you apologise."

and i didn't stop tugging for a bit until she had gone slack, and then i held my hands slightly at angles to one another and sighed through them.

"but you must make a reluctant goodbye..."

i couldn't. i froze, my mouth dried up, my eyes were sewn shut, dragonfly-darning needle ... (don't go) she slipped out of my grasp, and i tugged .. (don't go) and then .. slipped more. i grabbed for the edges of her fingers, snatched, almost, that ragged last gasp of breath, cats on fenceposts, one-eyed cats. the clouds are moving swiftly now - (oh please) ... and with mixed hesitation and reluctance ..

released.

i opened my eyes and looked at rachel, who was tearing. "you made me tear up!" she said, and most people were having the same feeling ... as tom the professor began telling a story about an oriental woman he knew whose eyes just brimmed with tears, those beautiful slender eyes half-opened and half-closed sliding with glassy tears ... i sat down and couldn't help it, lost most of my reserve. i was the only one sitting, crosslegged. some joined me. tom calls it "communion" and stanislavski does too.

i feel vulnerable discussing it now. honestly, i feel like this has become a place of ... competition. i feel like i need to be competing with josie for some reason. as always, this relentless competition that i set up. "GET HELP" she says

"GET HELP" like someone left a note on my mental refrigerator. "GET HELP, luv u, mom"

but this is ridiculous. can't let this inhale-exhale pull me down. frustration is rife. exploding inside.

"we don't hold hands enough," tom said before the exercise.

i want to ... go back? (don't go.)

why does life have to be a process of regret & confusion?

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