It's hard to listen to my own music. I still mean almost everything I wrote in the songs from the “One After Another” collection. “Indigo and Grey” is particularly hard to listen to because of its continuing relevance, all packed into five and half minutes. I push the play button and five and a half minutes later, the song is done, the point is made; supposed to have been made.
Five and a half minutes for years of poorly developed feelings. The song is not done, it isn't justice to myself, but it was the best I could do to express myself. Why am I even trying to put feelings into songs, cramming my feelings into these little bits of time and tape? It's frustrating because I know other people can do it. Other people cram and condense feelings into three minutes and the music touches people. My music barely touches me.
indigo and grey
I read the book Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. It made me feel comfortable about being alone. Not feeling lonely, the sentiment, but alone, the condition of being. Here I am, voyeur that I am, reading about the character in the book making observations and reflecting upon them the way I might if I were the character in the book. I live my life like someone is observing me, reading about my story. How would my daily life be described?
I finally screwed up the courage to call Joy tonight. I know so little about her. I have no idea what she thinks about me. She is the total opposite of Tria; the total opposite of what in Tria has been so important to me. I don't know why Joy attracts me. She seems serious, whereas Tria has saved my sense of humor. She's saved my life with her sense of humor, a sense of humor that feels like it would be wasted on Joy. But something about Joy touches me. Something about her can intuit and empathize with my feelings more than Tria ever could. But that's not necessarily a good thing, and not necessarily what I need in my life at this point.
I like talking to Joy and there is a lot that I want to tell her. Maybe that is what I need at this point that Tria can't offer. But telling Joy about me still feels like teaching her. I'm so buried in my self. It's so complicated. Still, something in her being, the way she exists. Something in her personality, the way she listens and hears. In her eyes and in the way she looks. Boy, I'm leaving myself wide open. We just met.
I feel tugs, and we talked for a decent amount of time tonight. She agreed easily enough to get together tomorrow. It was easy enough for her to decline if she didn't want to, but she agreed, and we'll get together tomorrow and I can see if what I saw in her was at all real. As if I have any idea what is real.
