One In-a-finity (1/03/09 Saturday)

An emotional nightmare of a workday yesterday. There seemed to be no escaping Julie. I couldn't stand to hear her voice or even know she was in the same room. The one time I had to talk to her I froze, staring in her face for a million years before finally geting the words out. But I nearly lost my grip entirely after Billy dropped off the mail. "He is such a nice man," Julie said. "There aren't many of those around." She couldn't have stabbed me any more deeply. I spent the rest of the day burning in a bitter, angry, sensitive stew. I'd brought in Oranges and Lemons to play while I processed holds. I listened to it sneering and laughing cruelly. "One of the Millions" earned special attention. Besides the entire song defining life as I find it, "All my schemes come to a humiliating end" elicited a barking amen of a laugh; and at "Kiss goodbye to my hopes" I kissed my fingertips and swept them through the air. By the end of the day I was morose and listless. There didn't seem to be much point in anything I was doing there. I was missing James acutely.

Tammy returns Monday. She may have hoped that in her absence my desire to leave would have died an impulse's death, fading with the emotion that bore it. She would be disappointed.

With how much validity has this endeavor been labelled "obsession"? How much different has it been than passion? Of course, I would like to distance myself from the first term, but can I do it honestly? I referred to it enough myself as an obsession, but never with clinical consideration. The negative elements, of frustration among them, connoted "A Bright Ironic Hell" as a negative endeavor. And as passion, to me, has always been a positive thing, this writing could not, therefore, be passion. But what I believe redeems its positive status is awareness. I was not blind to the effects of the crush on me. I was aware of the conflict within myself to reconcile my feelings with reality. As I understand it, obsession does not allow for doubt and conflict, and has precious little room for reflection. I fought obsesion tooth and nail every step of the way. Who do you think The Fool was? It wasn't my heart; it was obsession. What I did for The Fool was obsession. Did I obsess, or did I think out loud? I sought to solve a complex problem, and it required almost constant attention from my rational faculties. The Fool convinced me of many false indications in order to keep me from giving up hope, but The Wise Man never stopped trying to make sense of this undermining, and the battle raged.