Tuesday, 09 March 2004 | Rubberband

The problem is that I want to be and do everything. (That used to include wanting to have an array of personalities, until I realized that my brain didn't change as easily as my clothing.) I want to be successful, poor, surrounded by people I like, and alone. I don't even mind bad experiences, as long as they're not too terribly bad and that they're somewhat reversible. I like absorbing it all, and recording what I can of it. I want to know a lot about a library of subjects and learn them from the ground up. I want to be a member of various social and ethnic groups and a member of nothing. I want to live just about everywhere, in big cities and in remote corners of the world. On stage and totally invisible. I stretch myself from the beginnings of my days to the ends like a worn rubberband, hoping to encircle everything within reach. Lately it's been worse, and I'm really, really tired.

Which makes it even nicer that when Z. met me at my place, he quietly surprised me by doing the overdue dishes and making me pita and hummus mini-sandwiches when I complained that I was about to pass out. He listened to me babble and set the cat on top of me while I rested my head on the arm of the couch. Later, when I mentioned a tiny desire for chocolate, he slipped out and bought me some plain M&Ms. Now I feel silly for complaining about anything.

Like minor but impossible things such as not having a million lives or enough time or that I can't train my body to live without sleep. Though it's certainly not for a lack of trying.

You know what? I'm never going to know what it's really like to be one of the black guys who breakdances at Union Square, or a Scottish bagpipe player, or an Aborigine on a walkabout, or a trapeze artist in the circus, or someone from the distant past, and I think that sucks.