2001-06-10 ± 2:04 a.m.
“How realistic can a painting of Jesus be? I mean really, it’s of Jesus.”

What a strange and somehow glorious past few days I’ve had. Eight hours of driving all by one’s lonesome leaves room for nothing but time to think. I truly believe that I’m happiest when I’m feeling. That is to say, when the things going on around me elicit cerebral or emotional responses. So much of that; so fast – too fast, lately. I recall telling Rebecca on the phone a few days ago that my internal world is just too big. I spend so much time coming to a conclusion about something and then my focus shifts and I lose sight of all previously concocted hypotheses. If I were a film major (which I sometimes not-so-secretly wish I had been) I’d delight in likening my self-perception to a telephoto lens. That which is right in front of me is in sharp focus, whilst those things in the background exist only as soft and colorful blobs of matter. If only I could adopt a shorter (and therefore wider) lens. I need deep sharp focus and panoramic capacity. I want it all to flow together like a desert landscape shot in a John Ford Western.

I spent Thursday and Friday night’s on Mackinac Island with Jessica, visiting Rebecca; the last time the three of us will be together for months (assuming they keep their promise and spend Thanksgiving with me in Houston). We were drunk, we were disorderly; I spent Friday afternoon visiting all of the restrooms on the island attempting to induce vomiting (and finally succeeding, thank Evolution), which I insisted on referring to exclusively as “booting.” We met some Irish lads from Dublin; I haven’t a clue how one ended up sitting beside me in the bar; but I harassed him for a good twenty minutes in my horrible Irish accent and told him that he was not in fact from Dublin…only after showing me many forms of ID and introducing me to his accented friend did I decide to believe him. But somehow I couldn’t abandon the accent, and I now sport a deep seeded (though newly planted) desire to call apartments “gaffs” and things that are shite “panse” (I haven’t a clue if I’m spelling that right; funny talking Irishmen). I’m fairly sure that Jessica and I are still the talk of the Island (Mackinac, not Ireland) being that two cute foreign boys slept in close quarters with us our first night in port (I was a good girl – Jessica? Not so much). Saturday, after taking the Ferry back to the mainland and getting back on the expressway I was assaulted by the realization that part of the reason I love these girls so much is because their friendship exists regardless of our proximity. Jessica will say “I was thinking the other day about how you…” or Rebecca will tell of a time in her day when she’d wished I was there. I’ve always had this with Allison; and now I feel thrice blessed. Today I told Al that I didn’t believe in A soul mate; but that I put a lot of stock into “soul connections,” and I should be happy to think that I’ve made some, regardless of my fairly solid belief that rationale mandates that the soul be finite and intrinsically tied to the body and therefore to the physical world.

Tonight I went to see Moulin Rouge with Allison. Afterward we went to the coffee shop to chit and chat. We sat in the back on couches and the conservatively dressed male who’d been behind us in line (and had ordered, I’d observed, a large glass of soy milk and a brownie) sat near us and pulled out a paperback. Not five minutes after sitting down he got up and moved to a table, I thought perhaps do to better lighting, which put him in the perfect position to hide behind his book and peak at us as we indulged in our characteristic random finishing-the-other’s-sentences conversation. I noted out of the corner of my eye that he leaned in a bit as I read our horoscopes aloud from the Metro Times, and each time I threw my glance his way he reacquainted himself with his novel,

which must not have been very interesting, as I don’t recall him ever turning a page. He got up, but left his book behind and Allison and I debated his predicament…should we invite him to join our estrogen-centric chatter? What was his motive for sitting so close and saying nothing? He returned and proceeded to remove his neutral plaid button down shirt to reveal what is commonly referred to as a “wife-beater” and resumed his infatuation with that page in his book. We gathered our things to leave, and he started to do the same “do you have the time?” he asked. “It’s one am.” I said and busied myself with coffee cups and muffin wrappers. “Do you know when this place closes?” it seemed as though something inside of him was forcing him to interact with us. “Um…not really. Usually they stay open until after the bars have let out.” “Oh…(we start to walk away)…wait. Do you come here often?” Allison steps in “sometimes.” He proceeds to ask us our names and introduces himself as Gerald. He asks where we live. Al responds “Pontiac” and he looks to me…”Kelleigh’s moving to Germany” Allison offers and I laugh a little…”actually Houston” I say and he blurts out “right away?” as though my life had just started at the moment he saw me and now I was leaving “right away.” “Thursday” I said. He asked if I had family there…I told him I was moving there to teach; “alone?” he asked – “yes alone” I confirm. “It’s hot down there.” Yes Gerald it is. “I take a lot of vacations out West and down South; I work construction and there’s not much work from March to December.” That’s an awful lot of information Gerald. Maybe a bit too much…maybe almost a thinly veiled attempt to invite yourself to visit me. “Well it was nice to meet you Gerald.” And yet he’s still walking with us toward the door. “Kelly!” (Salvation!) I see Jennifer sitting on the steps next door. I, perhaps a bit rudely, jump in front of Gerald and give Jennifer a hug. I don’t look back; he’s gone. Al joins us and we chat for a bit. Make sure the coast is clear before we head toward our cars. Either Gerald (who will now affectionately be referred to only as “scary Gerry” by Allison and myself) was nervous to no end, but felt forced by fate to communicate with us; or the boy’s a few cards short of a full deck. I wish I’d seen what book he’d been “reading.”

I wish normal boys felt drawn to me in clubs, pubs, and cafés…I guess neuroses attract.

what's love got to do with it? - 2004-09-29
noquierosoyabogada - 2004-09-21
I do not aspire to be cast in a lawyer joke - 2004-02-10
update - 2003-11-04
girl...you'll be a woman...soon. - 2003-08-12