*

It feels as though my world is shrinking smaller and smaller by the day. No (real) work, no LR, far too little of Benny, less and less Julie (absolutely no Marjan), more and more Jules Riley. Remembering how afraid Cryssie was of losing me. I wish I could tell her that none of this was MY choice, that I'd NEVER have crafted some paper closet for myself on my own, that this wasn't about personal shame or being ashamed of my friends or where I come from or ANYTHING.

But that all goes back to the fact that Walter did this to me and I just let him do it. Maybe I did have a choice? Ugh. I don't know anymore. The idea of telling anyone about how that happened feels so impossible. The thought makes me want to vomit. I mean, I CAN'T tell Nate. Telling Nate would mean telling him everything else, it would mean telling him about me, and we've been getting along so well again lately, I don't have to worry about Jeffrey making him think too much about himself or about Walter twisting things into what they aren't. We're nearly finished with that song we've been working on, maybe we'll even do another one; there's something routine about it now that feels so relieving to me. He wants to be here, too; he wants to work with me, he wants to let me help him get better, he wants to make ME better-- it's just everything I love about the songwriting experience. Even without Jeff's automatic lyricism.

And if Nathan knew about me that might just be it. No. It WOULD be it. That innocence, the way he'll grab me, hug me, slap my back, get so close, laugh so hard, so free-- if he knew, he'd slam himself shut. He'd go over every interaction with a fine-tooth comb and find something disgusting in each one. All that kindness and openness would turn to violence and revulsion. "Walt was right about you". I can hear it, I can see his face twisting up as he says it.

When I was a kid, I felt like a monster, or maybe some kind of changeling (the real Jules was taken from his crib in the hospital and they left me there in his place, and Mom knew it, and that's why she broke down after having me, that's why Granddad never liked me, that's why my father couldn't stay, etc). I would pretend after awhile that I really was some little monster, and that I had to do my best to pretend to be a human child so that no one else would see what I really was. Succeeding felt good at the time, but looking back, the "good" was just relief. I passed. No one looked at me like I was some gross bug they wanted to squish under their heel. No one called me anything. No one tried to grab me or hit me or shove me. Praise G-d.

I feel like that again. I'm like that gross bug but under a microscope. Everyone can see me and I'm praying they don't actually see ME. It makes me want to curl up somewhere small and dark and hide, chant "go away go away go away goawaygoawayPLEASEgoaway" until I know they're all gone. That's always there, somewhere. With everybody but Ben, and Ben isn't here.

The nights he can call are so far and few between. Always after Shann's in bed, always on the cellar phone so she can't hear the ring. We try to do everything at once. Business, friendly affection, romantic affection, sex. And ugh, phone "sex" has always been so silly to me, I would always tease guys who used those hotlines, and there we fucking were using each other like one of those hotlines and even jacking off felt better than doing anything sexual with poor Shann (Ben has always been amazing at dirty talk, at least). --He has to be back by September. That's when we're holding votes for Phil's replacement. I'm looking forward to that day more and more.

*

Visited Mom, she's doing alright. Or at least, not too badly. Relatively speaking. She's been going thru chemotherapy, so did look weak and tired. Frail. She can walk, though after treatment days she needs a cane for a week (eventually, apparently, she won't be able to at all-- walk, that is). When I call home on Sundays she can't always come to the phone or speak well when she does (her voice frail, quiet, tired... ugh, just terrible). It's already made quite a bit of her hair fall out; she has no eyebrows (she penciled them on-- she's still able to do that very well; I've always loved the way she shapes her eyebrows), and her head was completely covered in a wrapped scarf. That part crushed me. She still projects so much beauty and poise and strength, all the things I looked up to as a kid, have always wanted so dearly to emulate in my own way, but that beauty and poise seems more like a facade now than it ever did. Putting on a brave face staring down hell.

Shann's been very good with Mom, thankfully. She said she was nervous being around her at first, that she wasn't sure Mom would like her (imagine!) or want her around, but of course Mom loves her. Shann's also genuinely sympathetic of the situation and tries her best to be comforting. Moments like this I can almost pretend I'm someone else, that I really am some straight man with a real girlfriend he loves, living some life still foreign to me but so very understandable. I truly appreciate Shann's presence at times like this-- family visits, Mom visits-- and I thought I'd always resent it no matter the circumstance. I mean, Mamaji and Granddad are so relieved that I "finally found a woman" so it gets them off my back, but beyond that-- not just the tangible conveniences but the emotional support.

She still doesn't know. I still don't know how to tell her. I still have no guarantee that if I tell her, she won't ruin my life (or Walt won't if she doesn't). It's like playacting a relationship with a gun to my head. I must be doing a good enough job of it, 'cause everyone's just been happy for us. Well-- Nate isn't happy, exactly, not in the same way everyone else (including Jeff, of course, ugh) has been. It's just a "well, of course" sort of thing for him. Then again, it's not like Shann likes him. She says he takes up too much of our time lately, that I've been working more and more when I landed this time for us to relax. But work IS relaxing for me. Thankfully there's a decent amount of work to do around the house and the garden with Shann, too. And it's not like we've been arguing about it or anything. Still yet another plate to balance, though.

*

The song Nate and I have been working on is just about finished enough to start recording it, though I'm not sure if we'll do that 'til after everyone's back. I mean, we still need real drum/bass/keyboard parts. I know just enough bass from my time with Ricky that I could come up with a rudimentary bassline for us for now, but Rory'll obviously be far better, and sometimes I can even hear his bass tone while we work on it all... sometimes it's Rick's, though. That's a strange feeling. Bittersweet. Sad, but also almost a little like he's there with us.

Maybe that explains it. And by "it", I mean... ugh. Sometimes Nate and I will be deep into something, completely wrapped up in it 'til the sun moves to the west, fills my living room window, catches his hair in a golden light. I'll look up, see it, and the first time my breath caught in my throat. I didn't know why. I mean, it was beautiful, but in a very objective way. Like his playing. Not knowing why made me panic a little. But it makes sense, now. I'm in a sort of head-space where Ricky's present in an emotional way. He had hair like Nate's... well, not quite the same. Darker. The curls were tighter, somewhere between Nate's and Benny's. But the fullness of it, the way it looked like a halo around his head when the sun hit it...

Writing with Nate isn't like writing with Rick. Rick was closer to Jeff. Words weren't quite effortless for him like they are for Jeff but they were still easier for him than for me, and he was always so calm, careful, collected. Nate's playing is effortlessly beautiful, of course, but his process is a lot more slapdash. Spontaneous. When we're both trying to think of the start of a song, he'll just play until he lands on something we both find interesting. It can make things frustrating when both of us are going through creative mental blocks, but so exciting, thrilling, when even one of us is on the ball.

I get it now, but it's still stupid. Well. We're almost done. It's like I said before, right? There's always a little emotional lingering after the end of a session or a gig. That's just how it is.

*