From A Journal of Artifice, Entry 3

February 5, 1995

I awaken from nightmares of the lovely dancer I confronted last night, who appeared to receive my compliment indifferently. His face appeared in my dreams, and I pursued him desperately and feverishly in unconsciousness.

I write and smoke the last of my clove cigarettes with a plastic cup of orange juice and much tequila, though I doubt I will drink it. What prevents me now from alcoholism is that I only have a taste for expensive, exotic, sweet drinks, and my morning mixture for emotional paralysis is not very pleasing on the tongue. So it shall remain on the dresser, its pale orange color a contrast to the pink, mauve, and deep burgundy of its surroundings.

And although I am alone and sick with confusion, I am too indifferent to telephone Peggy or any friend I know of. I think of my Chopin and Bach awaiting practice, and I am just as indifferent to their musical rigidity, their expression being one I cannot identify with, for there are no overtones in their melodies of the sheer vulgarity of 1995, which I am veritably lost and unreachable within today.

I remember Veronica telling me I was not that different from others, and the paradox of my hate and desire for this truth amuses me in a morbid and maniacal way, as a psychotic laughs at a merry carousel in admiration and vengeance, want and the desire to destroy, warmth and loathing.

What hurts me is that I cannot spend an hour a day (at least) on my compositions as Dr. Bunch advises, that I touch them every now and then, sometimes work upon them furiously when I am inspired, but that most of my time is spent in constant thought, dreams, analysis. Am I a musician? Perhaps not. I am not brilliant at creation or expression, but undoubtedly I am a genius of sensitivity and emotional pain. Voila.

*

I catch a video from Live called “Lightning Crashes” and find it too pretentious.

4:52 a.m. I will visit Dr. Bunch at 9 this morning. Instead of sleeping, I am too emotionally hungry and watch MTV in the hopes of catching Bush’s video, which I do and record. The lead singer’s ethereal loveliness hurtles me into intense fantasy again, the fantasy that I am starring in a brilliant independent film and portraying a character of such mad female intensity that I am praised upon a heart-wrenching performance. I fantasize that Bush’s lead singer is compelled by my presence in the movie, that he is as deep and sensitive as I hope him to be. In my room I pretend I am playing a scene in which the male character begins to fall in love with my character because of her intensity and intellect. My real-life fantasy alive on screen.

I am so hungry for attention. I am so hungry for male love. I am neurotic and desperate, and amusingly I can hide it, do nothing but disguise my magnanimous need.

A surprise arrived for me tonight by telephone. Bert calls, and at the sound of his voice the familiar indifference leaps to my emotion. Yet, unlike all other times, I remain talking with him, and within two hours I discover an intense friend who has never forgotten me. He confesses to me he is gay. I tell him of the despair my outing to the club held. He reads me poetry he has written for me. I have a wonderful, warm time conversing with him. Unimaginable to me. For three years, each time he has phoned I have been repelled by him and the memory of our past friendship and its lies. I confess this, and all is atoned for. We have agreed to meet sometime for coffee. Strange how individuals resurface in my life, and as positive figures.

And all the while I am doomed for skipping my antidepressants for two days. It will take all my restraint tomorrow to not scream in the middle of a room, lift my hands in the air, and sob uncontrollably. No one knows what a body of delusion I am. I would horrify people if they knew the insides of my mind, the want that bubbles in my blood. An insane, silent-screaming little girl with wide eyes and soft cheeks and a polite demeanor.