It's ten o' clock at night. It feels later. The darkness hours. The center of the moon's reign. I lose all sense of time in front of my computer. I merely become action, without a before or after, just this during. It never helps to watch a movie. Our bodies are trained to believe that the end of the movie is bedtime. My brain knows better. The clarity obtained by watching something for so long is not false simply because the object of our observation is. I borrowed The Weatherman with Nicholas Cage. At the party last night, we watched Groundhog Day. A much better movie for a room full of college students, especially at one in the morning. The Weatherman was interestingly written. I hated the cinematography, though the music is good, and the writing isn't terrible. The point it makes is that in our lives, we boil and boil until all the possibilities evaporate down to one person. And that person is who we are. It's partially true, but we can always add more water, add more ingredients, add more heat and work with it some more. I don't know. I don't care that much. I feel expansive and restless and empty, intensified and solidly sensitized or electrified. I want to fly away through my hands, typing. Other things, letters, books, cleaning, putting things away or taking things out, they all seem so far away, even things resting under my wrists or sitting next to my elbows. I hate talking to people; I can't wait for Florida, to no longer have vulgar interruptions by my parents or brother, even by friends calling. I mean, right now. Last night was wonderful; I was in the mood to party until the sun rose, but no one else was willing. My dance performance went really well. I burned both elbows, a knee, and a bad spot on my foot from falling during one of the pieces, on purpose, in the choreography. I'm not used to clean marley (sp?), the black strip flooring used on the stage. Our rehearsal space is always taped there, so it's gummed and dusty. This was clean and freshly lain, turning was quick and light, my feet sliding easily out from under me when I needed them to. I stuffed myself to the brim of this hollow vessel on Mexican food, and then made it to the party at midnight, still 17 attendees in three groups. First, I sang with several seated around a guitarist, mostly classic rock and pop-rock, easily thrusting myself into the midst of them to see lyrics. Then, I played a game at the pool table that involved throwing the cue at a ball to keep it moving, getting a negative point if the ball stopped rolling on your turn; I won 2 of 3, to the irritation of one person. The third group I never joined, ironically, as it included everyone at the party that I knew; they were playing a strange board game that involved colored shapes made from squares placed on the board. I have no idea. Then a couple people left and we watched Groundhog Day. It made me miss Lara. Oh what I would do with infinite time! I would not have gone through a suicide phase. I would, however, have deplored the necessity of memorizing everything, as nothing written survived, no writing except that upon my heart and upon my brain. ...But now, I am alone, silence surrounds me. The typing of keys as natural to my ears as the sound of my heartbeat. The speaker emits a buzz of slightly-disconnected wires, and it offends me. Music, or a voice, would profane this space, this moment. Oh, how I wish I could share it, but you, reading this in your normal space, you cannot feel any bit of the sacred. Life intrudes too much. I am afraid, I look around and know that this room will not exist to me much longer. It will be cleaned up, some of the furniture taken, the rest moved. It will no longer be a sacred space, surrounding me with knowledge and words and colors and angles and shadows. The words come much slower tonight than the speed of my fingers. I find myself pausing between sentences for the words to catch up, for the silence to speak as thoroughly as my inner thoughts. I am aquiver with tension between waking and dreaming, between moving and staying, between impetus and action. I realize why people have drifted away from me. It's because I finally let them. Charles, so close yet so far, will I see you before I leave? You checked myspace this evening, so you're probably home in Houston. But I don't think I'll call. I've called twice. It's your turn. And you won't. Grace, it feels like a sin to stop reaching out. Toward you, after you. But I wasn't, really. I wish I could have been someone you wanted. Natalie, you were a foolish youth. I couldn't stand your drug abuse and selfishness anymore, so I let you go. You turned your life around, but not your selfishness. Congratulations, and I wish you well, but to you I am just someone passing by, someone to whom you won't turn your head. Michelle, I wish I could have talked to you. But I never could say anything, I never could make myself clear, or understand things from your perspective. I don't think I'll again get to try. So many others, hiding behind their jobs or their insecurities or their distance. I miss you already, and I'll miss you more later.