Not on their level at all April 20, 1985

 


Saturday, Hazy, cool

 

I recognize the signs of depression.

When I catch it, I get resentful, towards Pauly, towards Michael.

People expect too much from me. I hate the idea that I’m not the genius I ache to be.

Writing demands a certain kind of suffering, if not starvation (my weight gain proves as much.)

We have to struggle with our art, wrestling each word, each syllable, correct spelling and such, thorns poking me each time I turn.

But the break up with Fran plagues me most, finally dawning on me and leaving me in the same state of non-existence I suffered after my breakup with Louise more than a decade again, after which I gave up women (and men for that matter), Isolating myself so as not to get hurt again.

I don’t know which is worse, since both scared the bejesus out of me, feeling empty or wounded.

Going back to that state makes me feel as if I’ve failed again and exposes me to all my other inadequacies.

I am nothing; I have done nothing; I will do nothing.

 Being with Michael and Pauly last night only underlined all this, each of them talking over my head about things I don’t know and most likely never will understand -- have no time to understand without sacrificing time from my writing.

I can only imagine what Mary Jane thought when I arrived at her house in Paterson with those two still trying to outdo each other after having them battle it out in the back seat for miles.

Michael insists that I “think clearly” and present logical arguments, citing sources as if I am writing a term paper.

Unable to defend my position makes me feel small and inadequate among real giants like those two.

Pauly gets upset with me for other reasons, particularly when I make observations about his life. He seems to think I think he’s being dishonest. Maybe I am.

Pauly tends to take from the world what he wants and rarely gives back.  He manipulates people and situations and gets defensive when I point this out to him.

He talks about “true love,” and yet contradicts himself when I ask just who he means when he says it.

Maybe I’m just annoyed by the position I put myself in when I allowed him to move in with me after he got tossed out of Towaco.

I rented the large apartment with the idea that Fran would move in with me when she got back from Texas. When she got back, she refused to move in. So, I gave the spare room to Pauly for his helping me pay the rent, after which Fran decided she wanted to move in with me after all.

I was forced to choose between Fran and keeping my obligation to Pauly.

He assumed the worst and was already packing when I surprised him and told him he should stay – a contributing factor no doubt to my breakup with Fran, suggesting I had not lived up to Pauly’s ideal of “true love.”

I said he was surprised, but at the same time, he didn’t appear grateful either.

Michael and Pauly both appear insensitive to other people’s feelings. While Michael goes on about antisemitism and such, he tends to walk over other people’s ego in much the same way Pauly does.

Both of them are elitist, both men walk around with a sense of superiority that irritates me.

Maybe I’m jealous because I’m not as bright as either of them, and struggle to keep up with them when they go on the kind of rant they went on yesterday, walking and talking in intellectual clouds I could not reach with a life time of study.

I admire them both; but they intimidate me, knowingly.

Maybe I’m just too blue collar, a schmuck that drove a truck for years, who missed the boat when it came to getting the right kind of brains for that kind of thinking.

I’m depressed about not being part of that club, not belonging, not understanding, not having any real direction the way those two seem to have.

So, I write journals like this in secret and wonder how I can elevate myself while at the same time avoiding offending two people I consider my closest friends.

 

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