This one strikes me as the most personal one yet. Forgive me. As is usual with me, I focus too much on the wrong side of the coin. But this is just another rendition of my basic error and folly.

4 March 2002

Matilda is a star.

I am confident she can do whatever she wants, but afraid she'll let things stand in her way. She is so smart, quickly sees the weak link in arguments and runs with it. But though she sees the weak link, she isn't old enough to know what to do with it, or understand our explanations. (I am not sure our explanations are always genuous, either.)

She's lazy and will try to get away with as little a possible. At the same time, when she is interested in something, she doesn't settle for half measures. I guess she needs to grow into herself. She needs to look and see the strong brave kid that doesn't hesitate to leave her parents for weekends, is matter of fact about the world around her, and looks forward to being on her own. Too often she is cowed by stupid fears, refusing to go to a friends house because their Jack Russell jumps up on her, or running terrified from the shower when it's time to rinse the shampoo from her hair. The way she howls and bucks, you'd think she turns to dust if water gets in her eyes.

Are we all this amalgam of personality? Conflicting characteristics showing up at different and irrational times? Melina expresses her relationship with the world with angst and anxiety. I do it with anger. Matilda does it with fear. The difference is her age. Perhaps the fear will pass, but what will replace it?

Is it possible to interact with the world in a healthy way?

J.ponders.

M. is anxious.

Dave watches.

Mary tries so hard, she's all stretched out inside.

E. appears together, but is terrified. He also appears completely sober after he drinks a lot and then surprises you with his id-less comments.

Steve hides. He negates his own charms and strengths behind retorts. (This is perhaps outdated? Nash Equilibrium is certainly not hiding or retorts, or perhaps we speak of other things to hide our deepest feelings. -LJH)

Melina, as I said, is anxious, angstful. She compares herself with the titans of our collective mythology and wonders why she doesn't stack up. If she would not put so much pressure on herself, she'd be happier. But she doesn't listen to me. She thinks I don't understand her, and she is partly right. I don't understand why she is like she is. But I know how she is. I know what will upset her, I know what will make her happy. I know what I can expect from her and what is unrealistic. Little she does surprises me. Little she refuses surprises me.

(She probably knows me just as well. What can I do that will surprise her for the good? How can I step out of myself and make her glad I am her husband? How can I make that step a part of myself?)

What is success? Asked many times and many ways, but always relevent.

I write poems. Good or bad, they are the product of my restless mind. Sometimes I think they are good, and I am happy. Sometimes they are hideously bad, hollow, pompous, pointless, or too pointed. But I don't despair here. I just stop writing until the feeling passes. I am not better or worse according to my poetry. I am the "REAL THING". I am the judge, not the judgment. I act upon the poems, they do not act upon me. They are elucidations of me, of my thoughts and feelings.

I strive for perfection. Why? Here is my great downfall.