Because I Don’t Want to Stop Writing

I've just been working on the memoir assignment that is due on Tuesday. I'm at 971 words and I hit a wall so I decided to come over here and type for a bit. Why not, I asked myself. My fingers are warmed up. You wanna know something? I'm going through a really rough time right now. But I learned something. If you're on the subway and you feel like crying, all you have to do is look at the floor.

The glasses on your face will catch the tears. And then if you can just hold it together as best you can until you get home to your empty house, you'll be fine. Because then, you can just let it all out without your glasses on. Thankfully my roommate wasn't home. I went to a bitchy place called Bar 6 tonight. Lorena's aunt and her partner are visiting and, as is the case with My Latinas, we all have to meet the relatives.

I wasn't in the mood to be there, but when we left the bitchy place for French Roast, it got a little better. It did take a while, though, because the last time I was at French Roast was a happy occasion. I was with Micah and we were on a date. So it was hard being there tonight. When the conversation finally turned to the Ph.D. program in theatre I discovered at CUNY, I lightened up. I was able to forget my sadness for a minute and go with that. And then, we started discussing casting changes on NBC's hit television show ER and I really gained some momentum.

The aunts were able to enjoy some of my entertaining character traits as I ate my mashed potatoes. And the evening ended pleasantly. I went one way to the F train, the others went the other way, and I finally had the opportunity to enjoy the solace that I so badly wanted all day long. On the train, where I learned my aforementioned lesson, I read an interview with Judith Halberstam, author of Female Masculinity and wet dream of just about every femme I know. I don't get it but whatever.

She's a kick-ass gender theorist whose ideas on gender I now know I share. (And I've only read one chapter of her book.) I then came home to an empty house and got into my sweats and made a pot of coffee, which explains the fact that I'm still awake at 3:30 a.m. And then I cried. Why? Because I'm sad.Because I'm confused. Because I'm learning too goddamn much about myself in too short a time. Because I don't know how to express my feelings. Because in my 30.2 years I have learned to bottle up everything that I feel in a nice little bundle of non-disclosed silence. Because I can't prevent my Derrida trip of personal deconstruction. Because I can't stop thinking of her. How I couldn't let her in because I didn't know how. But then how I started to understand finally and I did open up. Understood what it felt like to be so exposed and vulnerable but comfortable enough to keep talking, and kept talking, knowing that the person lying on my bed looking at me, listening to every word was not a threat -- was not judging me. How it was too late. These are what my tears are for. But thankfully my glasses caught them on the train.

I watched Ellen. She makes me laugh. I record it every day. I watched The West Wing. It doesn't make me laugh, really, but it's good for nights like tonight when I'm alone at home on a cold night looking for an escape from my sadness. Then I decided to write. This essay sucks ass. But it's all I've got. I was a little apprehensive to begin the assignment because I was searching hopelessly for a point to make with it. With what, though? What aspect of my life was I going to write about that would lead me to a larger point? I decided yesterday to write about the fact that I don't identify my race anymore. So after 971 words of complete suck, I decided to put it away. And here I am at almost 4 a.m. My feet are cold even though they're in my cool slippers. My hands are cold and wrinkly. And I don't have a down comforter. I paid rent tonight and don't want to consider making such a purchase. So I'll be cold for a while. How's everything else going? Fine, I guess. I talked to three professors this week. "Yes, please continue to talk to us," Margo and Elizabeth said in an enthused tone of voice when I asked them if they'd be interested in being my advisors for my thesis. When Christopher Hitchens comes to my Cultural Criticism class, we take smoke breaks. He's a smoker. I joined the group a little late and I stood next to Melissa, the prof. "Are you going to re-write your editorial and turn it back into me?" she asked. "Hell yeah," I responded with smoke in my mouth. She went on to tell me that I was arguing a lot of issues in a short space and that if I could narrow each argument I could get bigger pieces out of them. I'm not sure if she implied I could try and sell them. I don't think I would have gotten a B+ if she believed that. But I will re-write it anyways. And then, "I wasn't aware of that," said Victoria, one of my Sixties Movements profs, surprised when I expressed my disdain at the identity wars that exist in the gay community. But I know how I'm talking to them. There's something missing. I can tell in my voice. It's dead. And they can't tell. This is a good thing, I suppose. The shine is missing from my face right now, a shine that even the candle's flicker to my right can't return. (I'm not talking about my oily skin, which, incidentally, will keep me wrinkle-free for longer than most.) My smile is forced. My eyes seem to be growing comfortable in their downcast state. But I always have Ellen. It starts in six hours. And then there's work. I finished my third week today. I have only 400 more words to fill and then I'm done with the first issue of the Bulletin. Have I mentioned the last time I used Quark Express was about 10 years ago in Chico? I've been using it now for three weeks. Have I mentioned I've never been to a printer to see this aspect of publishing through? That's next week. I've spoken with Joel of Ragged Edge Press twice on the phone now. He's sympathetic to the fact that I have a hard deadline to make. The issue has to be back by October 20 in time for a screening of a film about TCDS' time in Cape Town. He told me this has never been the case before. Figures. But I'm happy he's sympathetic. And he knows I'm not schooled in Quark. I'm going to go stand under the hot water of my shower now. When I get out, I will throw myself into the warmest clothes I can find that are easy to sleep in. I will then try to shut out the day so I can enjoy some respite from the heaviness of the thoughts in my head. When I wake up, I very well may delete this post. It is too personal.