Chrisonomicon

Sunday, June 9, 2002

Hold onto yourself. The thought echoes in my head and seems muffled as though swallowed by a fog of giddiness, spawned by the rush of hormones that flood my body as though I were a 15-year-old kid again. The reason for my elevated mood is sitting across from me in a light-green ribbed t-shirt.

If I haven't learned the lesson from my previous two relationships, I'll be doomed to repeat the same mistake. I have to remind myself to keep from slipping into instant attachment mode, to hold onto myself as an autonomously happy person, and to avoid leaping into the sea with both feet. Somehow the subject comes up in our conversation and we both agree that it's important.

We finish dinner and return to my apartment to take a hike into the valley across the road. An enormous blob of smoke from the forest fire in Deckers floats on the horizon and captures the sun in a red haze. The sun is a drop of blood. Conversation revolves primarily around this peculiar event or around Steve's job and we return home as the blood sets.

I find it difficult to talk with him. My theory suggests I've been conditioned by my father who's idea of a conversation is an interview-style, question-and-answer session, and I'm unable to employ a full conversation with someone unless they are digging for information. Like Holden, in Catcher in the Rye, I picture myself picking up the ball and tossing it back, pretend it is being played back and forth despite the absence of questions.

And maybe that's simply my reaction to silence, since it seems as though the lulls in conversation are because I've asked something and the ball isn't returned. Whatever the case, it's good to note now and good that I'm not overlooking anything. It is entirely possible at this point that I'm overanalyzing everything and just need some sleep. There may be more answers in silence than I'm willing to acknowledge.