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The sermon for Tuesday, Jul. 16, 2002 is: shit 9:52 p.m. fuck. I spent the last hour writing. I rarely like what I write, but I write nevertheless, compulsively. I'm doing it now, look: I'm writing about nothing, endlessly. But over the last hour I wrote something in an attitude I had always wanted to always possess. What I'd written was honest and meaningful to me. It was for Diaryland, of course. I was spilling my guts, and for once instead of cloaking it in pretty words and clever phrases, it was something sincere and yet durable (for nothing kills writing more than sincerity, look, I'm doing it again). Then I pressed SUBMIT. Then I screamed when nothing happened and everything I had written disappeared. It was about the first time I'd fallen in love. How many times will I be able to think about that again? I started calling people wildly. First other people who write. It turned out I don't actually know their phone numbers. And then I called Colleen on her cell. She was somewhat sympathetic, though she said things that were calculated to make me wail, Why was I ever infatuated with you!? to wit: - "Everything happens for a reason." - "You can write it again. You already had the idea, right?" GRRRR. I tried to explain to her the difference between creation and recreation. "I don't know what you mean," she said. (Tell me again, why was I infatuated with her?) I came up with this analogy: Imagine you meet this person, this new person, whom you instantly click with. You know you two are good. Everything you say is clever and brilliant, everything you say is funny, you can do no wrong. You know what I mean? Now imagine that suddenly everything changes. Do you think you could re-enact that feeling again, remake the discovery and the thrill of knowing something totally new? "I've never met anyone like that," she said. Oh, you must have. "No, never." That's not the point, what I'm trying to say is that -- "You're lucky, John, if you meet people like that. Everything happens for a reason, though. Maybe it wasn't meant to be." Tell me again, why was I infatuated with her? I hung up and desperately tried calling Young, whom I could depend to at least act sympathetic to my wailing. Then I got the THIS NUMBER IS DISCONNECTED message and suddenly it hit me: I can never call Young again. The piece I wrote was about falling in love and about being abandoned. I can never write about it again. Please, Diary, imagine you read it, and knew what I was talking about for once. Because I can never talk about it again.
 
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