I dyed my hair pink tonight; I’m digging it. I’m uploading video on a sunday night/monday morning and should really get some sleep; tonight is a strange post-weekend video housecleaning after seeing “my guy” with another girl on top of him, unexpectedly, hearing him say things to her I’d only heard him say to me. It hurt so bad it surprises me. He emailed today and told me not to blog about him. He told me a month ago he wanted to ‘see me’ but that he never wanted ‘to end up on my blog.’
I’m a curiosity. What I do, and represent is, too. For the Chronicle, for the boys.
Now I know that someday I want a very certain type of love who is not just proud of me and my work, but also in touch with reality; who loves what I do as much as my obsession and passion for it and what it all might represent. Until then, work and fun. After that, work and fun and blogging and more machines — and whatever love is. It better be as good as writing, educating and the Running Machine.
My stomach hurts. Before I went to PME last weekend, my stomach hurt really bad and I was alone and just lay there on my bed texting friends when they sent me messages; I couldn’t get up to get water it hurt so bad. Hacker Boy insisted he come over; I acquiesed and he came and brought me Pellegrino and made me soup. Being a hacker, he was cat-like; they seem to all have this feline sensibility in common in this town. Lanky and long limbed, scary fucking smart and young, pale, black clothes — and if you pet them just right they *bite* you, or if you find the spot they like scratched they push you for more — but of you make them feel *too* good they either attack or turn away from you, though while not moving *too* far away.
He came over and — took care of me. He gave me whimsical security and privacy turorials and history of Vidailia lectures while I curled in a ball on my bed in pain from stress. I asked for more information and he crawled onto my bed (with permission), fully clothed, in his black. His body made a half-moon shape around mine. He fell asleep fast, having coded all day.
When I packed my belongings saturday afternoon in Ontario, fighting tears and being strong and all that bullshit we tell ourselves, I unconsciously performed a reflex — in garbage bags, I tossed everything fast and went in a routine circuit of my stuff, a mental checklist I hadn’t circumvented in years, not since I lived on the streets and had a few trash bags to my name for belongings. I mean, when I got home at 2am sunday after a harrowing solo drive, it was like unraveling the frayed knitwear of my life and hope for love and a whole weekend, all tossed hapahzardly asap into Trader Joe’s paper sacks like being kicked from the squats and abandoned cars I slept in during my teens in SF. Quick; escape the pain and get it all in a bag, hands shaking. Go. Now. Don’t let them see you hurt.
But the way my stomach hurt before I left, and now, I curl up — and strangely, with my Blackberry in hand on my bed I deny all pride and vanity and tell him, yes. Be here for me. It’s hard to ask for help. The Hacker Boy comes right over from the Haight, and lectures me on privacy, spoons me like a kitty in his black clothes and sleeps on top of my covers and blankets.
I found out he talks in his sleep. On top of my comforter, he whispers of packets and tor.
In his sleep, he tells me he loves me.