All people have this naturally healthy, joyful, creative instinct beaming in them, even as they try to put together good lives within workaday realities. We all wear the concerned, urgent faces of… parents… and the nervous, earnest face of the incipient artist. We live best when we provide for both sets of needs.

It had been a long-fought war before I finally realized this bit of wisdom for myself, although the conclusion had never been completely, solidly cemented in my head. More:

Fulfillment lies in balance, of course; but many people over-rely on the protectors' priorities. When the vulnerable creative impulse is overlooked, or not guided well, it gets pushed, battered, demanded and twisted into serving a source that depletes it. Sadly, we can end up dancing to every tune except the quiet one that is our own.

I pulled the remaining boxes out of my apartment, unloaded my books, and took out the few garbage bags that had amassed in my dining area and, upon returning, was struck by a novel idea to skip investing in a dining room set and transform it into a mini-studio, noticing it's convenient access to kitchen sink, ventilating front-door, and adjustable track lighting.

Just another advantage to sole occupation of one's living space: creativity is allowed free reign and virtually limitless expression.

Until that houseboy proposition comes available, I've been looking for ways to keep myself entertained and content with my current profession by walking to work, taking off early, and getting outside as much as possible for breaks. I've somehow convinced my department that they need to take work off Friday to go see a movie with me. Summer fever is taking over, and no one is immune to its indolence-inducing effects.

Journaling has not slacked, however, and I've kept up over the past few days at home by using a text file that sits on my computer desktop as "Untitled Document"?a serendipitously appropriate title considering life as of late?and carried it with me to work today on a blank disk. Those entries follow.

Not really the best of things to have said, but it wasn't exactly a lie. I'm not sure if I could have put it any better. Maybe I was trying to say I wasn't attracted to him anymore, although there is certainly a side of me that continues to try and convice myself that I am. Maybe I am, too. This banter draws me to one conclusion: I simply don't know.

And that's what I told him; I don't know what to do about it. I feel sad about telling him. I called him tonight and told him that we shouldn't see each other for a while, which he seemed to take fairly well at first, but it became quickly obvious that his level-headedness was on a downhill slide as his voice turned shaky and unstable and he fumbled for words.

All I wanted to do was hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

Derek's here at the moment and I'm thankful for his presence, though not necessarily thankful for the reason he's still here. His new car, a 1995 Acura Integra, is not running like it should. In fact, it is not drivable at all, as the clutch seems to have disappeared, turning gear-shifting into an impossible task.

We sit alone in the quiet apartment, one nursing a broken heart, the other, a broken car and dream of better days.

I feel as though I'm on the brink of something, some sort of decision that needs to be made. I can't tell if it concerns Chris or not, but I think that's part of the puzzle. Most of the wondering stems from all this time alone I've spent at the new place.

Part of me doesn't want it to have anything to do with Chris, because I just don't want to face those feelings that keep resurfacing in the back of my mind... that we are not right for one another (when have I not had this feeling in past relationships?) and that I ought to brake it off now before things become more serious.

That part of me that is resisting those thoughts is also the part that is telling me to keep up with the relationship and force it through?break through this cycle of failed relationships, all of them due to the same reasoning?and to perhaps find some sort of success, relationship-wise.

It's always been known in the back of my mind that committment and a successful relationship is a decision that is made in one's mind. I suppose that the ultimate factor here is whether or not I want to make that decision to commit to Chris at this point, based on what I know of him. He certainly has a lot going for him, and I do like him a lot.

I'm doubtful that this will work out, but also hopeful that something turns things around.

I've spent a large portion of the time eating and unpacking. It feels really weird, because I had always imagined it would be somewhat similar to staying at home and simply being alone in a separate part of the house, but it's not at all.

It's a stretch finding things to keep me occupied. For one thing, I don't have an internet connection or cable or a telephone (besides my cell) and those are the three things that would normally keep me busy during a typical weeknight at home.

I ate some pasta for dinner, which is really the only thing I have in the apartment at the moment and, most likely, will be the only sustenance available until next Friday, or at least when I get my reimbursement for London.

Time to unpack some more.

Regardless, I was on the phone for twenty minutes attempting to set up my internet connection at home and discover that it won't be available for another 7-10 days, leaving me with the trusty pen-and-paper as my only journaling outlet. A sad state of affairs? Perhaps not. Then again, I always have sporadic hours of inactivity at work with which to journal to my heart's content.

I used to hate moving but I'm enjoying this particular relocation, due in large part to the euphoric autonomy that I've been experiencing by finally living on my own. And the place looks great. It's an amazing feeling to be responsible for everything in your living space, to be king of your castle. I can't imagine giving up this independence, not for a boyfriend or an ailing parent or a needy friend. At least, not at the moment.

The couch arrived today: a retro, squarish, slate-colored sofa with chrome legs and a cushy back. None of this whalish, overstuffed crap. Clean and simple... and expensive. Time to go out and find matching furniture. I am currently researching a cure for buyer's remorse.

I'm sure now that I wouldn't have finished packing, had I not taken the past two days off work, and I don't know how I figured I'd complete this in one night. As I said before, this whole moving thing had started out rather noncommittal and I figured things would get done as needed; then there was the imposed postponement due to the trip to London.

Chris and I are talking once a day—down from twice a day when I was away—and it's patently relieving, especially with this work load but as much as I'd like to say that is by no means related to my feelings toward him, I'm definitely sensing a cooling down on my part. Whether that is because we've been apart for so long or because I'm losing interest is yet to be seen, thus I'm determined to wait and play it by ear. The universe knows nothing of obligation, yet I feel I owe it to both of us to see this develop further. And I like the guy.

I was a razor's distance from a hasty decision last night to quit my second job, what with all the weight of moving and work and relationships. Here's another example of me committing myself to one thing and nurturing the side of my ego that is forever wandering. After a lengthy discussion with Chris, I decided I'll present an ultimatum tonight: meet my requests or I'll have to leave. It forces the decision upon them. And as unreasonable as that unspecific demand might sound, there's really a lot more to the whole situation that I can't divulge due to time and space constraints. Or is that redundant, since time and space are the same thing?

Regardless, the laws of time/space are leaving me with little left to finish this packing and so I must away, but not before leaving one final thought for the day, which also happens to be my personal mantra of late:

Do not travel far to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place; if you cannot find the truth where you are now, you will never find it.

-- Dogen

Specifics are always preferred. For instance, I'd rather read something along the lines of, "Today, I came out to my coworker, Steve, at lunch and he took it rather well in spite of blowing milk out of his nose," instead of, "Work is good." I've done enough journaling to know that simply saying, "Work is good," will mean absolutely nothing to me ten years down the road, let alone have any particle of entertainment value.

Gossip is always more interesting when it involves nasty rumors or sordid detailings of disreputing engagements. My favor goes to the "I had my first threesome" entry, rather than the one that starts out, "I had my first traffic ticket today." These accounts have a large downside when made publically available, however, as everyone who knows you will ultimately read them. People have a way of finding gossip. Dirty gossip has a way of finding people.

Journaling on a publically available site such as this is restrictive since specifics and gossip are kept to a minimum to maintain both privacy and pride. In a way, I wonder if this self-censorship has a similar effect on the quality of my writing here that restrictions on early 1950's television programming had on the content of shows such as "I Love Lucy." Taboo subjects were addressed via more creative avenues when they were not allowed to be talked about up front, making for some hilariously entertaining situations.

I suppose that if disclosure is the ultimate goal and recording events true to life is the ideal, I should throw pride and privacy to the wind. I'd be free to detail some of the more interesting events and thoughts taking place in my life right now. Not that my life is a fountainhead of drama or I'm continually having to censor myself, but it would be nice to know that, had I been engaging in threeways, I'd be free to talk about it here. You know.

Two weeks in London. Neo-classical architecture. Grey mornings, sunny afternoons. Red, double-decker buses. Cobblestone streets. The din of the city. Hour-long rides into the city via the London Underground. Union Jack. Green trees. Tired, beautiful people. So many men wearing short, mohawk-like hairstyles. Walking. Yellow backpack. Techno everywhere.

A weekend in Miami. Tactile humidity. Sun. Spanish everywhere. Frigidly air-conditioned buildings. Betty and Denise. The smell of Chris' deodorant. Gay beach. The Crowbar. Taxis, three in the back, one in front (usually me). All-dance radio station. Eating cheap American food and enjoying it, after the stay in England.

The majority of the week has been spent playing tourist. I haven't needed to work since the software load went so butter smooth and we had so few problems, and my supervisor told me to take the week off. I'm basically on paid vacation at this point and have become close friends with the Picadilly Line in the London Underground (the subway), taking the hour-long trip into Central London at least once a day?sometimes twice?to spend time with Bjorn or Glen, a friend I made on Oxford Street while waiting for one of my co-workers to get a haircut.

Now, everything is coming to a head as I prepare to do some last minute touring, spend time with everyone I've met, pack and get ready to leave tomorrow. It's been a great trip, but I'm ready to be home again. Pictures coming soon.

There is more simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who eats grape nuts on principle.

Work has been really light so I've taken it upon myself to tour as much of the city as possible, mainly catching the sights around SoHo and Central London (Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, etc.) and hunting out the gay pubs and areas. I managed to connect with a nice German fellow named Bjørn who was kind enough to take me out; Portabello Street for some antique shopping, bangers and mash (English slang for sausages and mashed potatoes), afternoon tea, miles of city touring, and dinner at Wagamama (Japanese noodle restaraunt). There are so many beautiful people here, it's dizzying.

The culture mix here is really incredible. It's about twice as diverse as any city in the States, with huge Indian, Pakistani, and Middle Eastern populations. In the U.S., it's mainly a conglomeration of black, white, hispanic, and asian but over here, in addition to those, there's a plethora of African ethnicities, South Americans, Europeans, and Middle Easterners thrown into the mix. Much due to the great impact of early English imperialism, but the location of London in relation to everything else in the world might have something to do with it too.

Driving is slowly becoming second nature to me and I'm finally to the point where I can drive on auto-pilot, manoeuvre roundabouts without a pause or second thought, and navigate this web of London. Some interesting things to note about driving in England:

• Traffic lights turn yellow before turning green again. Very handy.
• No left turns on red lights.
• Going "through" a roundabout means to go half-way around it and continue on the same road. Turning right at a roundabout means to go three-quarter's distance around, and left is one-quarter's.
• A crosswalk is denoted by a squiggly line in the road.
• All distances here are in miles, not kilometers.

Big circuit party last night at The Fridge. Great strippers. Lots of friendly people. It's been a while since I've been out clubbing on my own, and to do it in a big city like this felt rather awkward. After a Red Bull and a few long, sultry glances from a variety of shirtless, sweaty guys on the dance floor, however, I was finally able to get into the groove. Met a beautiful guy from South Africa who had short blond hair, brown eyes, and the thickest, sexiest... accent.

On the home front, it's been difficult being away from Chris not only missing him, but also being faced with the multitude of temptation here. I'm generally not very good about holding up under those kinds of conditions, but I'm making my momma proud. Keeping myself busy has probably had a lot to do with that.

Posts will be few and far between for the next week as computer access is limited and expensive in the area I'm staying and although I'm feeling a little non-journalistic, posts will occur when and where I have an opportunity; recording more by principle than by whim or feeling.

Driving on the left-hand side of the street took a little getting used to, but I'm slowly coming into a comfort zone. I rented a Silver Golf GTI with standard transmission; it's strange to be shifting on the left side of the steering wheel. The expanse of space to your left that includes the passenger side of the car is endless and it's difficult to judge where you are in relation to the left side of the road.

Everything here is smaller. I had pictured England as an older America, but it's more like Europe than the U.S. It appears that the only commonalities between the two countries are pop culture and the language. The majority of people here are cool and impersonal unlike the saccharine friendliness you encounter at most places in the States.

There's so much I want to cover, but don't have the time. I know it will be difficult to recall everything. Hopefully one or two points here will rekindle some memories.

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