I saw Jon last night when I went over to get my DVD player and some more of my things. I want to give him a huge hug and kiss and tell him I love him... Something in him has always looked sad to me and I wish I could make him completely happy. Maybe it's an unrealistic thing to strive for, or at lesat--to hope you can accomplish. He's still incredibly gorgeous to me and I know that in him is the sweet man I got to know who told me things about himself that made him vulnerable in the world--vulnerable like everybody else. Maybe he got afraid of those things, or maybe by accepting he had them, he felt he was more exposed and therefore, has to protect himself. I don't want to stop caring for him and I don't want to stop trying to make him happy, but at the same time, don't I have to feel that it's not my job to do that because it will only add to my own unhappiness about us?

When will we have all the answers?! That's what I'd like to know.

My apartment is coming along very nicely. I'm going to post a picture of my favorite room in my weblog later this morning. I have to make the link and upload it and resize it and all that other jazz.

I got stung by a wasp two days ago above my eye. I thought that maybe I had gotten bit by a spider while sleeping, but Jon and another person (can't remember who) suggested it was a wasp sting. I think they're right. The swelling is a lot less than it was yesterday, but still feels bruised.

Yesterday, I had a moment at home when I thought "am I going to get bored?" I've always wanted company. I've always been content to sit on the couch if someone was there to sit with me. But if Jon were to go out somewhere, then I'd panic about what I would do. In Vermont, I didn't really have this problem. My house on the hill had no cable, no computer. I was in my room, listening to music, writing in my journal or writing letters, crocheting or making collages. I rarely talked on the phone and I rarely wanted to go out with friends. I wanted to be "poetic," which in plainspeak means "DRAMATIC." I'd take long walks in the woods and imagine I was living in a fantasy frontier. I'd figure out which patch of grass would be considered a "clearing in the woods" and which pine trees would work best as tents. I'd hope to read Robert Frost and Blake, Shakespeare and Faulkner. But I never really did. I'd read them, sure, but if it was immediately understandable, I'd skip it and not think on it.

At home, I sometimes just want to cuddle under my blankets and half close my eyes and just dream, only I feel it's a waste of my time. I want to read, but can't bring myself to open the book (right now I'm reading White Oleander, which I've had on my shelf for two years; I read 60 pages and put it down...).

I'm sure it will all work out; I really should write again. Maybe I'll call Trudy to come over and join me. That would be fun.