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"We all invent ourselves
and, uh, you know me"
-r.e.m.

what's funny to me is the things that remind you of people so strongly most likely would never occur to them at all. what if you died, and all this useless information (useless to everyone but you) just vanished? how i know the song that was playing (over and over and over) the night anthony and i first talked for hours, but since he wasn't there, he always gets the song wrong. he remembers the artist, but can never get the right song. and yet, every time i hear that song, it brings up everything for me. that entire part in my life, and no one would know if i i didn't tell them.

i've been thinking about so much - so much - since i started therapy three weeks ago. this therapist is amazing. i'm not one who usually goes for therapy; i think it only works when you need it, so therefore you can go for years without it, and then suddenly need it again. but this therapist amazes me. she told me last week that i think i'm so open, but i'm really very, very closed. it's been in my head since last thursday. the sad thing is, i think it's true. i go to dinner with people, or talk to them on the phone, and i realize how much people rate by quantity. that i can call carrie 10 times a day and for some reason that means to her that we're close, but all it means to me is that i called 10 times that day. although we are very close, carrie and i. since i'm really closed, i would have to say she's one of the closest people to me. she's gotten into the fifth layer of the jawbreaker. most people tire out at the second.

it's weird. all of this. i look back on the 90s, as a decade, as the first decade i'm formally aware of. i mean, i can remember 1990. i can remember where i saw beauty and the beast. but i couldn't remember 1980 in 1989, because i was only six. so. so i think about how scary this is. in 1992, when i graduated high school, 1990 seemed so far away. but now, 1992 seems not that long at all. people always say time moves quicker as you get older. but it doesn't. it's just you're more aware. day to day you are aware of how you spend your days. when you're young, the thirst you have for the next day is so strong that you are governed by the thought of continuance. now, as you get older, you're just happy you made it through another day.

i don't mean to be depressing, because i'm not depressed right now. i'm so happy bex is coming for christmas. she'll be here on thursday. and, being josh, i've art directed christmas down to a T. i've got the weekend all planned; who we're seeing, where we're going, what we're eating. christmas is my holiday, damnit, and it's going to go smooth. i finished most of my shopping; have a few trinkets to pick up here and there, but it's mostly done. and i'm looking forward to seeing my family. tonight, anthony, erin, traci, carrie and i went to see kiki and herb's christmas show at the fez. and at one point, kiki talked about being with her family on christmas, and erin put her arm around me. and i realized she thinks of me as her family, too. it's not just me. so i'm so thankful and greatful that dan, stephanie, carolyn, kelly, bex, carrie, traci, anthony, emma, sebastian, jason, amy, danny, ally, and erin and terence and everyone else will be able to share my christmas day with me, or the surrounding days. hell, i'll even call my mother to say merry christmas, like i always do. and she'll say "you're jewish", like she always does. and then she'll say "merry christmas, too", because she and i continue to grow together. and i think i really like that.

so everything seems good, even though i think about my mortality so much more than i ever have before. i think about it every day. isn't that revealing? not a day goes by that i don't think about what would happen if i were to die. i realized i could put myself in the moment that it happened, and what my last thought would be. it would be: shit. it would be i was almost there. i was so fucking close. see, i have this crazy need to make a name for myself. i don't know why, but it's what pulls me forward. and i'm in the wrong business for it, because movies and television are short-term. we all remember oscar wilde, we all remember noel coward, we all remember edna ferber. you don't remember who wrote the apartment, or imitation of life, or the awful truth. you don't even remember who directed them, if you've even seen them. fuck, you might not remember you even saw them. and yet, i'm in it for the name. i don't know where this horribly selfish and out-for-myself desire came from. i can't remember it as a little kid. my family never pressured me. my mother was so supportive, in fact, that she always pulled away at the right times. no stage mother tactics at all. i think maybe it's because i was so different as a kid, and that difference went away as i got older. i was no longer this protege, this precocious kid, always "the youngest ______ we've ever had working here". i was 15 years old, working for Columbia pictures. this leads to all the 4am thoughts: do people really appreciate me? do my friends know my worth? does anyone? do i? do they know and i'm just deluding myself into thinking i am more than the sum of the parts they paste together to make their image of me?

i talked this week with my therapist about how a writer writes, and my friends who call themselves writers and only write when they're forced to, or once a year, or hardly ever, can't be real writers. or can they, and i just expect people to live by my standards? we also talked about how i observe so much, so much and no one i know really notices. i forget who i saw certain movies with - i'll say to erin "did you see the frighteners" and she'll say "yes. with you." - but i can remember the sweater she wore tonight was her favorite and she's had it since she was a kid, even though she just tossed that comment off god knows how long ago and probably didn't think i was paying attention. but i'll show them yet. i'm stockpiling, storing all these images and thoughts and desires and drives for a winter that hasn't show its face yet. give me time. please give me time. i've passed a tiny milestone, anyway. every year or so when something other than the disney and paramount crap comes out of me i always think, "this is the story i was born to write". and then it isn't. why can't i remember there will always be another story i was born to write?

merry christmas to all, and to all a good night.

last update  judeschall@aol.com