baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Curiosity, Empathy and One Iguana Squinting At An Imagined Bridge I ate lunch at Olvera Street today. Two wonderful tacos, the sound of Flamenco guitars, and a postcard-perfect 78 degrees all came together to form a sweet oasis in an otherwise emotionally turbulent desert. I have a feeling my life is going to change soon-and I wonder what I'll do when the time comes for certain choices to be made. It's a bridge I couldn't, or wouldn't, cross years ago-and, to be honest, I never thought I'd ever get the opportunity to cross it again. But, I think I see it in the distance. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Someone I know is jumping up and down and saying, *I see it! There it is! Can you believe it!* and all I can do is squint my jaded eyeballs and say, *Are you sure? Looks more like another pothole to me.* I'm curious to see what I'll do this time around. It's also curious the way I worry about some of the folks I read here in Diaryland. I worry about them as if they were my best friends or something-as if we're close enough for teary-eyed-post-midnight phone calls and reassuring hugs. But, all I really have to base my worry on are their diaries-and, well, it seems a tad silly to feel so much empathy for someone that exists solely through my modem. I envy those of you who have travelled across town or across cities or across states to meet fellow diarylanders in the flesh. I wish I could do that. But, alas, there's no chance. It's not as if I could get up one morning and say to Girl-Unit, *I'll be gone for a little while, babe-I'm gonna go meet Kuinileti.* *Kui-who???,* she would ask. *Oh,* I would say in return. *She's this great lady who wants to marry Eggplant Parmigiana. You should see her HTML. Boy oh boy...can that woman code.* This sooooo wouldn't happen. There are certain lines in my life that I can't ever cross. Late night gigs? No prob. Green mohawk? No prob. $3,000 guitars? No prob. Meeting people I've met through an online diary? No way. So-to all of you Diarylanders that I worry about that I'd love to hand flowers of reassurance to: stop being so damn addicting. Write like shit or something. I don't care. Help me deal with this empathy. Which brings up another thing. Why is it that I tend to prefer female-authored diaries? Most of my clinky-dinks are of the feminine persuasion I've noticed. I mean-I love John Irving and John Updike...two men I assume since I've yet to meet a woman named John. But here in Andrew's world-my tastes run a bit more feminine. I'm not complaining by any means. I just find this insight into my persona, like the bridge that I may be imagining it the distance, curious. And we all know what curiosity did to the cat now don't we? It's a good thing I'm more of an Iguana: sun, loving, dry-skinned and (almost) hairless. Curiosity can't do shit to an Iguana. 6:06 p.m. - 2001-05-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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