MONDAY. 5:19 PM. July. I am starting my fifth month of homelessness. I am still at my sister's apartment. It's a little crowded right now because Brian, my sister's significant other, and his mother just got into town after driving across the country. My sister's happy to have Brian in town. Brian's mother leaves by plane back to California tomorrow I think. Then Brian is following next week for some time to take care of family things.

If everything remains on schedule, I'll be able to move into the Calverton house at the end of July. I am hoping that things move faster than that but it's really not up to me. I am longing for my own space. Every day is an exercise in patience and an exercise in taking life as it comes. It's not an easy lesson for me. It really isn't.

I'm not sure what else to say. I have a lot on my mind. I'm not really willing to talk about it much. I'm finding that sharing hasn't produced the results I've wanted. So, I'm mainly keeping to myself and keeping to my pen-and-paper journal.

More later.

WEDNESDAY. 11:57 AM. Go make yourself out of lego.

FRIDAY. 10:27 AM. Well, the universe didn't blow up yesterday despite warnings and such. I think the only real warning was the smoggy air quality and the heat index. The weather was hot and humid and oppressive. Imagine that?

I went to a BBQ near Baltimore with Kate, Skinner, and Meredith. After a quick jaunt to the local grocery store, we drove up in Kate's swanky (and newly acquired) Mercedes-Benz. Leather seats are not comfortable when you're entire body is hot and sweaty.

The BBQ was chill, laid-back, with lots of food. It was an interesting mix of people, most of whom I didn't really know. The others are friends from years back, from Archaea, whom I haven't really kept in touch with since I moved to San Francisco. I drank entirely too many "fine malt beverages" and "hard lemonades." And I got to set a lot of things on fire and watch them spit colorful sparks and jets of flame. I think I celebrated my latent pyromania more than the birth of any nation. In fact, I ran around wishing everyone a "Happy Anglo-European Colonization Day!" I don't think some people appreciated it much.

The drive home was punctuated by the fireworks show at the Inner Harbor in Baltimore plus the fireworks in outlying cities. There's nothing like a smooth car ride, air conditioning on a sultry night, and the gentle fade of an alcohol buzz.

I am glad I went. I needed to get out of the house, get out of my sister and her boyfriend's way. I needed to break my hermitage. And I need to keep the best face, best foot forward when I can. I had fun and mostly because I found ways to make it fun for myself. (Oooh, fireworks!) I recognize that I haven't been very much fun for myself or for anyone. Depression is extremely selfish and self-absorbed. And being around someone who can't see past the edges of their own lives can be tiring, exasperating, and just plain lousy. The emotions and experiences I am going through these days are real, valid, understandable, and unfortunately miresome. But I can take responsibility for making the best of it.

It's the same old demons again: loneliness, insecurity, fear, and inertia. But change is hard. Real hard. And unfortunately I want instant gratification. But all I have are baby steps, right? My life is paradox. I want things to change and I set these towering expectations. But then I have no energy or motivation to meet my expectations and I find myself disappointed in the end.

I grew tired somewhere along the way. Some part of my life, my vim, my fire just dwindled, starved, suffocated. It would be neat if I could just flip through the pages of my past and find the moment when it happened, when I lost my drive. Then I could fix it, surgically repair it, or maybe just kiss it and make it better.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I grew tired of myself, of who I was, of who I had become. And those little flags, those little railroad switches built into life either failed or didn't whistle loud enough and I didn't change. So instead of becoming a new me, I just chugged along as the old me. I can't quite jump tracks now and just fix it. I have to lay new track, make new connections, and start living who I want to be, who I see myself nowadays. (Of course, without undue expectations of course.)

I apologize to myself. Many thousand pardons. I forgot that I am my own champion. And I kick ass, damnit!

After all, I might be Mary Jo, but I'm also Sophia. I might start out a little timid, but in the end, I'll kick ass! For real! I think I've watched Bring It On a few too many times on cable.

TUESDAY. 1:28 PM. I am at a loss for energy today. I woke up around eight o'clock this morning feelin pretty chipper. But somehow between then and now, I've lost all my motivation. I think I need to get out of the house more and do some worthwhile activity.

It's been a while since I last put up an entry. I'm doing fine. I'm trying to participate in things rather than just mull about them, which means I'm not really writing much or journaling much these days. It's a difficult give-and-take.

Let's see if I can recall some highlights. I went to see Reign of Fire with my friend Chris. It was nice to hang out with him one-on-one. We hardly get to do it these days and I'm glad to give him time particularly as he and his family grieve. The movie was entertaining. I don't think I would've seen it on my own. But Christian Bale was incredibly hot. Matthew McConaughey was pretty darn hot, too, even though his character was crazy (and uber-phallic might I add). There were some interesting hero-shadow tensions in the movie between the two men.

My sister took me to a little BBQ this past weekend held by one of her co-workers in the College of Letters and Sciences at the University of Maryland. The BBQ was at one of the fraternaties near campus. It was the first time I had ever been to "frat row." Her co-worker isn't a frat boy; he works as one of the building managers. But there were plenty of Abercrombie & Fitch moments as young men played soccer on the frat row green (which was used in St. Elmo's Fire) or jogged by shirtless or came back to the frat house still in their kit sweaty from a baseball game.

I have been trying to work on Tellings to little avail. I just don't have the right frame of mind or the right environment to just buckled down and work. Plus, I'm just way too good at making excuses and hemming and hawwing over certain sections I need to write. My gaming group has been playing Tellings the last couple of weekends. It's been fun as we explore playing evil characters.

Not much else has been happening. It's just a couple of weeks before I get to move into my house. Soon I'll have to start planning my semester and getting ready for teaching. I am trying my best to stay positive and keep a good foot forward. The exercise has been moderately successful. I am still trying to pin down some elusive things going on in my head, but for the most part, I just want to keep things simple, straightfoward, relaxed, and honest.

I say this in the light of some scary things going on in the United States government. First, I cringe at the TIPS (Terrorist Information and Prevention System), which basically asks Americans to spy and fink on one another. Frightening. Facism, anyone? The other things I've come across are RAVE Act (Reducing American's Vulnerability to Ecstasy), Bill S2633, which basically wants to prosecute "electronic music" venues and promoters for the activities of their patrons. It's similar to the CLEAN-UP Act ("Clean, Learn, Educate, Abolish, Neutralize, and Undermine Production" of Methamphetamines), which has a similar vein to the RAVE Act. Beyond the insanity of trying to solve problems by attacking the wrong people, I wonder how many people had to sit around and think of these acronyms? How much money is going to that very purpose?

I don't know what else to say. I guess it's time to fax a few Congresspeople.

FRIDAY. 12:13 PM. My week of ennui and lassitude continues. I had every intention of getting some much needed work done on a few writing projects. Unfortunately, I wake up each day and just have nothing to give, nothing to push myself, nothing to drive me. Part of the sluggishness comes from the fact that I haven't been sleeping well nor sleeping enough. The first is caused by the fact I am crashed out in my sister's living room, which is not very well insulated from noise from the stairwell or outside, and am prey to Nemo, her very active and at times vindictive cat. He likes to bite me to wake me up. The second problem--my not sleeping enough--comes from the fact that I go to bed too late and get woken up too early. I have started re-reading Piers Anthony's Incarnations of Immortality series. They're a wee bit dated, a wee bit sexist (in that Anthony way), but ultimately still enjoyable and conceptually satisfying (at least the first five books). The "just one more chapter" mentality has been keeping me up way past a reasonable bedtime.

Of course, then there's stress.

My sister and I had an argument yesterday. It started with her concerns about my plans for the near future, my lack of income, my debt, my near indentured status to my father, and just overall perceptions of responsibility. I am the "black sheep" of the family (as my sister jokingly pointed out at the very start of the conversation). I think part of me embraces that sense of "difference" and "rebelliousness." And I think the rest of me is hurt by the connotations of being the "less than perfect" son or brother or human being.

I know that my sister cares about me and she worries about me. My father is the same way. But both have a knack of pointing up my shortcomings, making me feel bad about what I haven't done or what I need to do and just leaving me feeling worse about myself than before. I understand they want me to take care of business, to take care of my life, and to take care of my shit. I just wish that they showed as much interest in the rest of my life as they do in my finances or my employment status.

But I guess we talk about the things that are most pressing, most apparent, most wrong. It's much easier to focus on what's broken than give credit to what's working.

I don't know what else to say really. Rebuilding my sense of confidence, my sense of worth, my sense of security is slow and at times grueling work. I don't know how to express to my family or my friends that what I need from them now is visible, audible, tangible understanding and support--maybe a little above-and-beyond TLC, too. I don't know.

I also can't help wrap up this whole "black sheep" thing in with my sexuality. My queerness adds to the whole notion of being different. Now my family and friends may be accepting of me and I'm glad of that. But my own internalized homophobia (a thing I thought I had dealt with years past) rears up whenever I'm made to feel less than acceptable, presentable. Who wants a deadbeat son? Who wants a slacker brother? Who wants a fucking faggot for a friend?

Like I said, these are my insecurities. The internalization of fear, pain, and anger is the subtlest of poisons and the most deadly. I know only honesty of self, surety of purpose, and love of life is the only antidote. I'm working on it.

WEDNESDAY. 10:10 AM. I am one week away from moving into my own place. At least, I hope I am. Next Thursday is my official move in date. I am praying that there are no snafus or delays. I'm not feeling any excitement though. I think I've just been doing the same old same old for so long that I don't really know what to feel (or do). I think once I have the project of getting settled, of unpacking, and of getting ready for teaching come September, I'll be much happier and much more at home.

Being unsettled is unsettling. Heh.

We had some pretty heavy thunderstorms yesterday, which has scrubbed the air clean and cooled off the ground. The weather is pleasant today, not at all oppressive. I have the windows open and am glad for the breeze.

I find myself missing San Francisco a lot these days. I think the swampy weather of DC just reminds me that I really enjoyed the far more temperate weather of SF. I also miss easy access to the things I enjoy--mainly a healthy nightlife, fun and cheap restaurants, cool vistas, and just a community that reflects all the different sides of me. I know now that I should not have left San Francisco. Ideally, I should have stayed or gone back after I failed to get into a MFA program. But I also know that I cannot allow my leaving SF to become a regret. No regrets, right? There are reasons for my staying in Maryland and there are lessons yet to be learned here that I may not yet realize. So, I am making the best of my circumstances. Maryland is not worse, just different. Suburbia is not hell, just inconvenient.

So how am I settling?

This past Saturday I went up to Baltimore with my friend Stephanie and her girlfriend Lisa. We met up with a few of their friends at a restaurant and bar called The Circuit. Then we trundled over to The Hippo, my first gay club. I danced my first dance with a guy at the Hippo. The evening was fun. It was neat to spend some time with Stephanie again and to revisit the Baltimore scene, which is smaller and perhaps seemingly less pretentious than the DC scene. I'll have to go again.

I called my former client Beckham House Publications, a small local press that prints primarily books and resources for African American students, to line up some freelance work. I used to do a lot of desktop publishing and design work for them. Hopefully, I can get some income rolling in and supplement my whopping teaching salary.

I've been spending a good deal of time online locally. It's a mixed blessing, actually. The culture is still too grossly naive and at the same time grossly abusive of the internet. But I'm not going to get into the whole technology versus humanity conversation right now. I've been frequenting gay.com chat hanging out in the DC and Maryland rooms. Unfortunately, like my experience in the San Francisco rooms, I become quickly irked and disappointed by the superficiality, the immaturity, and the plain meanness of chatters. I've met only a couple of actually genuine people. I guess that's true of any social interaction. I'm only going to meet one or two people out of hundreds that actually develop into real friendships. I forget that gay.com is only a very very very thin slice of the queer community represented by the fifty or so people populate any given room at any given time. It's too bad that the medium cannot better serve an already disenfranchised population.

I joined a local online group called q.u.a.l.m., Queers United Against Laughable Mainstream. I haven't been to any of the group's get-togethers yet. So I am withholding any sort of review. Though someone I had met through gay.com SF (who is now living in DC) is also in q.u.a.l.m.. I guess great minds think alike. I am fascinated by any group that talks about "being indie" or "being progressive" or "being un-mainstream" inevitably demonstrates that definition of otherness through choice of music. I sorted through the two hundred some posts already in the group (since it's creation on April 3, 2002) and found over three-quarters of the conversation about music, what people were listening to, what people considered "good" indie, or what local shows people were attending. There is current impetus to create a "queer rock night" at a DC venue.

I don't disparage how people define themselves, how they identify, or how they choose to or choose not to do a particular thing (unless of course those decisions or definitions cause imminent harm to someone else). But as a person without a musical bent, I am flummoxed as to how engage the conversation. It's not that I don't like music per se and it's not that I don't try to discover my own musical tastes. It's just that my interests lie in far more mundane and dare I say perhaps far too mainstream demesnes. (I like Green Day...sue me.) Granted, in the group, there have been concessions made that people don't have to listen to anything but what they want to listen to...I mean part of the indie-progressive-alternative movement is the pointing up of free will, right? I'm just trying to understand what else would we less-than-musically-literate folk talk about?

Independent film and independent publications are just too "local" by nature (in other words, economics). Maybe as the internet becomes more egalitarian and high-speeds become more accessible, things like video and film will gain the same momentum as shared music. But unfortunately music is just way too portable. Download, burn, carry, play. Film requires a few more steps and a whole lot more equipment. As for print--is it dead? Does anyone read anymore? A few friends from SF just started a 'zine called Slouch, which is on its way to its third issue. The 'zine is print-only I think as it stands. An interesting choice given the culture's predisposition to turn everything into its own website. Granted that 'zines are portable, the cost of a wide distribution are prohibitive. And if things get too widely passed around, clamored over, and popular, does that dilute its indie-ness? Analogous to print would be independent art. I guess it boils down to supply (though not necessarily demand because many folks create simply to create).

Is there anything else? Indie fashion? Indie food? Indie sex? Heh.

I have also joined my group of friends (and by turn their extended group of friends) for TuND, Tuesday Night Dinner, a potluck of DC metropolitan locals who gather to share food and frivolity and at times drunken indigestion. It is fun. I get to cook. I get to share my cooking. Last week I made my world famous bruschetta. This week I made jalapeno cornbread. It's also an very curious sociological experience (one which some of discussed turning into a weekly cable access program a la Real World). At first I was hesitant about attending Tuesday nights. It reminded me too much of the "Wednesday nights" I attended in San Francisco where a bunch of people gathered at a local watering hole every week. Why my hesitation? Mainly because the core group that started the weekly thing already knew each other, had history with each other, and automatically became a clique. Even though I knew people like Kate and Skinner, I would still be new to the group, the specific dynamic. Plus most of the group is comprised of couples, people with long-term significant others. It was almost too suburban, almost too domestic, almost too urbane-SUV-casual-chic-kiss-kiss-"honey, where's the fondue pot?" for me. Fortunately, the experience hasn't been entirely like that. And I'm not the only "new person" and I'm not the only single person and I've got to meet some new faces. Last night's TuND was quite fun at a very fun house (complete with happening basement bar and lounge that looked like something out of Real World) with a very cute kitten named Dingus.

Like q.u.a.l.m., no single thing is the perfect solution, the perfect catchall. But I think the aggregate effect will be what I'm looking for. A different thing for a different reason. All combined, it'll make for a marvelous life. Heh. If it were only that easy. But I'm trying my best to make it reality. I'm exploring. Trying new things. Tasting new things.

MONDAY. 10:56 AM. I am incredibly angry this morning. It hit me out of the blue like the sudden thunderstorms Maryland has in the summer. I think I finally am feeling the frustration, the helplessness, the seeming injustice of the continued bullshit in my life right now.

I am not moving into my house on Thursday.

It seems my prophecy has come true. The tenants in the Calverton house contacted my father last Friday. They're asking for more time. The two months notice wasn't enough and they have not been able to find a place to live. My father called me on Saturday morning to give me the bad news. It didn't hit me then.

I guess I kind of suspected it when I didn't hear any news from the tenants. I should have known better.

Well, it's hitting me now. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. It's totally depressing. Now I have to scramble in ninety degree heat and humidity to find a place to live.

I want to just leave.