The New Jerusalem

If this really is the beginning of the end for american democracy, if this is the moment when the republic crubles, how wierd is it that when historians study our time, our cato, our gaius junius brutus, our last outspoken critic of a decaying political system, is rosie o'donnell.

I haven't blogged forever, so no one is probably reading. That's ok.

I exist in an almost constant state of uncertainty and discomfort. it's how i work. I didn't get past it after adolescence... it just sort of persisted and got worse.

But then there are the strange moments of kinship and certainty. For most, i guess, adolescence begins with these moments, helping you form a group of peers, solidifying into group membership. it's why people ask what kind of music you like, they're trying to figure out who you were when you became a person.

i didn't ever really have things in common with people around me until college, and by then, music didn't play into it.

but it's still so surprising to me when i meet someone and they seem great and it comes out they spent too much time playing text adventures in 1988, or that they know enough Quenya to get by. it's like breathing air when you thought you'd spend the rest of your life under water.

it's similar when i encounter art that's just right. so very right. i'm listening to John Cale's "Paris, 1919", on a mix cd from ryan, a guy who spent too much time playing text adventures as a young person.

it's nice to remember that art is bigger than words. when you're a writing type person, you can forget the line between an essay and an expression.

The time it takes for me to go from grinning uncontrolably to fretting and fearing, in the context of a crush, is, it seems, somewhere near 36 hours.

i am ill equipped to negotiate such things.

if anyone reads this anymore, i'll update it, cryptically.

and then he did not get the girl. the end.

There's a boy at work. His name is Ryan and he's very, very, very smart and funny in ways i don't quite understand. I hope we'll be real friends for a long time.

Going through west hollywood really intimidates me. Like all these guys with fashionable clothes and great bodies, i'm like, these guys are sooooo gay. Maybe i'm not gay enough. Maybe i'm not gay at all. Maybe i'm just a really big Carly Simon fan.

We just got new interns at work, and now i understand why they don't let gays in the military. Because i should not be allowed to be in charge of 19 year old boys. I try to control myself, but every now and then i'm like "hey steve, could you go find these tapes for me. and also, pout."

sometimes i feel like i have to go through puberty every 3 years or so.

I am really good at crying in public. there's a bus to teh eastmont mall outside, i just saw a guy who reminds me of me in college- poor fashion choices devision.

The girls of berkeley laugh at things like men. I can no more clearly express it than that. It hurts to love something this much. It's not the algia of nostalgia, unless it's the pain of not understanding why i'm no longer the person i was. Not that I want to be that person, but I envy some of the things he had figured out.

This place is strong, and the people in it are too. They're dumpy and beautiful, like i've been.

It's good to be here.

also, i want to write an existentialist murder mystery.