Alastair’s in bed and I’m doing what I usually do. I write that sentence, over again with another name, in front of the computer, alone in the dark. I want to go lie with him, enfold myself in warm blankets and unconscious boy arm, but I’m caught in this again. Writing because there’s nothing better to do, letting my fingers walk across keys because it’s three a.m. and even my flist is asleep. Outside is too cold for walking and the ocean too tempting a target for all the angst I never seemed to muster. I cried last night. I didn’t think and he tossed me off, leaving me a mindless ball of sorrow. We talked of relationships today and the echo of a hundred boys spoke through his lips. “I hope you meet someone who makes you happy.” He talked of us together in the past tense and I wonder if I’ll be coming back again. If he’d caught me before, I would have thought love was enough, but now I’m foolish enough to think I know better. I can hear him awake now, listening to me type. He likely won’t remember come the morning. Knock on wood that I can create in him some happiness.
I can barely believe it takes me so little to fall back into a nocturne pattern. Just one, “don’t wait up”, just one novel half interesting enough to stave off lying in darkness with a body next to me that I don’t quite feel comfortable with right now. I will when I’m tired, when I’m not feeling as if my belly is trying to dissolve me in terror of never having food again. Bloody thing. It will have to wait until tomorrow, when I foray off again, bringing the rice from our chinese food with me. If I eat it now, what will I have tomorrow, asks the mind. I don’t care, says the belly, you need to feed me now. Silly how the logistics of such situations seem not to impact the lower functions. Obviously we’re going to have to work on that a bit. Programmed bits of DNA to over-ride the lizard and the chimp. Base the base and drum the bass, thrum patterns in flesh with a transfer file built of bone. Both Josh and Warren posted something that particularly caught my eye; jewelry sculpted from living bone. They intend to create wedding rings from the bone tissue of each partner. I suspect that if they would let me play, I would. Pity I don’t have such a person. The old ways melding with the new almost gives them re-mixed meaning, but not quite and perhaps not enough. Too little too late for the walk down the aisle.
We reformatted the laptop this evening and now the interface seems clunky and outdated, the pre-sets giving the tactile awareness of an Apple II. I wasn’t prepared for the sheer unscalable tweaking that we need to placate the thing into maneuverability again. I’m not touching it much myself, it not being my machine to torment, but I’m trying to fix some of the more obviously painful changes.
There’s a storm outside with lightning and thunder thrown by angels. I must go to watch.