Blast from the Past, 15 Years Back, Part III

The other night, I was flipping through an old (15 years old) journal, and posted pieces of an entry from July 20, 1995. Since I was a great deal more prolific when I was (lonely and) single, without a family to distract me, one 1995 journal entry equals three 2010 blog posts. Here's the gripping conclusion:

I like to underline things I read in books. From 'The Fatigue Artist:' "the Tai Chi teacher says the universe is a great system of vibrations we dras to us by our feelings: fear draws fear, love draws love." Sounds a little like Napoleon Hill. Think and grow rich. I always like new or consistent interpretations of how thing work... just as Nietzsche convinces me there is no god, I say a silent prayer for my plane to stay in the air. In the morning, as I walk to work, Penn Station up Seventh Avenue to 34th, east past Macy's, always past the Empire State Building, then I zigzag around to Park and 51st depending upon red lights, I use this time to think positive thoughts and get the positive energy to start the day right. Sometimes the vibe doesn't last very long... it's hard to work in an office on a sunny summer day. At The Firm I could lose track of the time of the day, day of the week, the seasons... but in the morning, I weave my fantasies about my career. On the way home, I dream about finding a husband to go home to.

"Because of what he showed me, he is mine forever. I can forgive him almost anything."

I can say that about a lot of men, most significantly Johnny Moneybags. Johnny helped me to believe in myself when I needed to most. The night he propositioned my boss' wife pales in comparison.

Also the Spud Stud. The Simple Life. He did a lot of things that hurt me, but he didn't mean to.

Mickey, my Vancouver Sex Slave. The Edge. He showed me how to give in to pleasures that wouldn't last, possibly because he believes that nothing lasts.

Even Curtis the Scuba Dude showed me things that I am grateful for...that I could forget Johnny Moneybags, at least for the moment. That I shouldn't take everything so seriously.

I guess that ties in to Mickey's theory that people who are not as driven and ambitious and intense as we are appear more youthful. But would I call it youthful (desirable) or immature (undesirable)?

On SUnday, thanks to Mickey's inspiration and Ellyn's reminders, I am taking a sailing lesson with Melissa in Atlantic Highlands. I look forward to the adventure, to discovering a new activity that I enjoy for itself, and to the opportunity to meet new people.

"I have no design; I make opportunity my design...I have no friends; I make my mind my friend."

I used to be that kind of a loner, but now I do need friends, I do need love. Someone to confirm that our existence means something. That the path I choose makes a difference (the road not taken would have led to a different, not necessarily better or worse, result, and the sum of these choices matters!)

"This was a juncture when life begged to be lived as art. That way, it could be tolerated." Almost midnight. Time for bed. I will continue tomorrow, in my beautiful new notebook. I have a lot to say.

Blast from the Past, 15 Years Back, Part II

Earlier this evening I was looking through one of my old journals, and happened upon an entry from almost exactly 15 years ago -- July 20, 1995 -- when I was a much different person... single and searching, having just purchased my first home in Somerset, New Jersey, and done some renovations including a deck and a hot tub.

Continued:

So tonight I am out on my deck, hot tub burbling in the background, a single candle burning on my table while I write. Drank an Anchor Steam beer in memory of another time, another love, the Spud Stud. Wonder how he's doing, moved to Fresno now. We've tried to keep in touch, but he doesn't have much use for the telephone.

If I could have anything, what would it be? Love. A soulmate. But wuold i be willing to give up what I have? My career? My home? My intelligence? Not that one is always required to give up one thing to have another, but determining what I'd do for love is one way to place a value on it.

Everything else I have or truly seems within my reach.

When I wonder where people find love, I can only seem to come up with where I won't find it. Not at a bar. Not in a personal ad. Not through my current set of friends, but perhaps through the people I work with. Maybe at the beach. But that TV writer I met on the beach in Pt. Pleasant Beach last Saturday never called.

The bugs are making a lot of noise flying into the floodlights on my deck. At least they seem to be leaving me alone for the most part.

Of course, so do my friends. It often occurs to me that if I stop calling most of my friends, it is entirely possible that I would never hear from them again.

Ellyn, for example. Not that I want to talk to her now that I know how freely she talks behind my back. But I hold onto these high school friendships that I have outgrown... because sometimes they feel like the only ones I have. The ones I must turn to when I need someone to go out with on a weekend, or talk to in any depth about girl stuff. For the most part, they're willing to let me drone on with my mini-dramas. One time Melissa said, correctly I think, that I need to turn every situation into a drama.

Amazing what a new notebook can do for the writer in me. Four pages have been covered in words. "Is there a wordsmith in the house?" That line goes back to my days of wondering about the Slaughtered Lamb, caring about him and drawing intricate parallels between our lives and careers (Eddie Murphy in Trading Places, anyone?) Now he doesn't even bother to return my calls. That would hurt if I let it.

Blast from the Past, 15 Years Back

I happened upon an old journal entry from July 20, 1995, 9:15pm and thought I would share it with all of you:

Sucked in by another clever marketing scheme, I have a new notebook. Not that the old one was full, but, like Nietzsche, I feel compelled to start and stop, not necessarily chronologically, but wherever the mood strikes me. Today I bought three tiny notebooks, probably manufactured by the same people who brought me this one. I bought them... because they were small, with tiny pictures on them... a coffee cup, a butt-naked cupid, and the moon hugging/engulfing the sun. I'd burn incense tonight if I remembered where I keep it.

Finished 'The Fatigue Artist' by Lynne Sharon Schwartz tonight. Knowing it would run out soon, I bought another new hardcover, 'The Romantic Movement' by Alain de Botton, along with my bounty of notebooks, at the Barnes & Noble on 53rd and Third. I love bookstores, have high hopes of meeting my future husband in a bookstore. Hey... you never know. But today, no husband.

Speaking of husbands...

1. Larry is having lunch with Bachelor #1 next Wednesday. Bachelor #1... tall, blonde, 37ish, VP/Development at Client K. Probably gay. I had my hopes up when he agreed to September 9th as our wedding day, but I haven't heard from him since.
2. Bob has stepped into the husband search, possibly to offer up Bachelor #2, net worth $15-$25 million, a partner with financial player Client C.
3. (dare I say it under "speaking of husbands?") I spoke with Johnny Moneybags yesterday. He's free again, must have recently kicked Stewardess out of his townhouse (or moved out just to get away from her?) We're both going to the NAB Radio Show in New Orleans. I still miss the days when we could talk forever about anything. I guess every woman has someone like Johnny Moneybags... in her life, in her past, in her heart. Certainly Erica Jong. In 'Fatigue Artist,' Laura had Q. Ayn Rand would write about men like Francisco & John Galt & Howard Roark... but were her words inspired by a muse she could not tame?