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March 9, 1995
Last Visit: 11 hours ago
Nichi nichi kore ko nichi.
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For many years, S. avenue has been the city's well-known redlight district, at first by word of mouth, and then by the prowess of advert. Yet it is neither distilleries nor tradeposts nor coalmines that postulate around each bawdyhouse. This long stretch separates the most diverse corporate offices, cringing beneath the sun as to fawn upon their Bauhaus flair.
My father always jokes about his office being the finest of brothels, definitely the most brothelly in the avenue. He spends his morns in the comforting slateness of staling tobacco (probably left alight since last Friday), moulding invoices and the occasional rat turd. Not a pleasant goodday, especially considering he has never smoked a cigarette in his life.
Next to the office's main entrance crawls another burgundy avarice - some say its quality is superior to the rest, possibly due to the experience of its strippers;
it is called the Alcatraz.
I've never seen it work, to be entirely honest. But I've passed beside it countless times, entering the offices with sloppy oils in my eyes and leaving with the stomach of a dreamer. I've always wondered what could lie beyond. Similarly, I've somehow always known it would be too much for my violet bile. One needs at least some sense of humour to honour such an establishment.
I like the offices. They are cool, bright and relatively quiet, assuming the cigarette ashes are tolerable. Nick calls me mad. Mothered in Astoria, rhymed back home on a ship, trained beneath the Parthenon by a woman who grows paralyzed by the minute. I haven't seen him cease to smoke, if momentarily.
Let's be a little more ernest (earnest, Ernest, Ernst, ernst) this time.
It has always struck me as an incredibly powerful force, perception. In my language perception is a "she". Let me question this gently dame. How is it that observances and limitations lie hand in hand in Flanders' fields, staring at the flowering sun and its windy petals move about in inescapable, though inexplicable harmony? To put it bluntly, how can I notice things about you that you don't see, whilst you do the same thing for me, whereas we both already know them, but don't, all at the same time?
Well, it simply can. Just like that.
It is the most terrible thing I have ever felt, to reach a point of chance in which you experience rejection from the only thing in the world you thought held you up. Of course, this is the surreal real, the real of the soul. I am not seeking targets, neither the scapegoat to which I might bestow the entire fault in my stars. I am merely traversing the vast eldritch fields between my senses and the interpretation of my senses, between what I see and what I feel I see, between what I am told and what I feel I am told.
(I am not being obscure without reason. I don't want this entry to become a declaratory self-laudation, a sort of mandate sung by the king's dischordant criers; I simply wish to speak, not necessarily in voice, but definitely in language.)
So, I am certain that I was not rejected. This is a logical truth. I feel - or at least, I once felt, this week - that I was. This is a psychological truth. Let me add here that, even though I have chosen to keep the by whoms out of this entry (out of fear, mostly), I will add that, in both logical and psychological levels, there was no sexual love involved in the entire process. This is a plain matter of "I don't want you!". Or, should I say, "I don't want you."
The more I delve deeper into my repressed memories in the process of my weekly psychotherapeutic sessions, the more I realize that there has been a very specific fear that has plagued me all my life: it is a fear of rejection, a fear of dissolution. I feel I have to be accepted in order to be alive, or else I will die, one way or another; reaching an agreement with an aggressive party (say, an old man on the bus) makes me feel I am forming a compound body with said party, that I merge with them into a cluttered mass of tungsten. And, for the richness of examples, not being welcomed into a group showers me with mercury, wrecks me, squashes me on the floor - dissolves me.
That's precisely how I felt, one of these days.
It is also a satisfying enough answer, in my opinion at least, regarding my extensive use of certain phrases as "I didn't want to do x,y,z - I am sorry if I did x,y,z" or "In my opinion - As I see it - From my perspective - I believe - I think" et caetera et caetera. You see, it is this abnormal fear that guides me, not merely courtesy or kindness. That's why I'm not simply fond of using them, I am obsessive about them.
Anyway, I recalled certain long-pitted memories, after cleaning them of dust and tar. There have been two dipoles that constitute the field in which my aforementioned dread develops: "I don't want you." and "You do everything wrong." These have not necessarily been spoken with voice. I took up their examination only yesterday, so I haven't gone too far. But I am more than sure of their significance (not their semblance, not yet) in the introduction and gardening of my neurosis.
My, this has turned out too weird for a "hello again" letter (letter, kletter, klettern, Kettern, Kattern, Katrin, Cathrin, Catherine, Yekaterin).