It's been a long time since the rock and roll.

I've been very absent. I got a little scared of writning for a minute. I'm terrified of honesty, you know? I mean, I say I'm afraid of commitment, but I think really I'm afraid of admitting that I like someone enough to commit to him. That's the big gesture- the step I won't take. I mean, I take it on here, but I find out more and more that I have a lot of fans out there. Anyone I'd ever hope wouldn't stumble across this journal already has. So I stopped writing for a while because I was afraid of who might be reading what. But do you even realize how many of my poems grow out of lines pulled directly from here? Since I stopped writing here, there's been a serious decline in my poetry, and I can't let that happen. Poetry is what I am. It's where my soul lives. So people talk about me and read what I have to write. Deep down, I'm kind of flattered that they think I'm interesting. That's really all I want to be. And if I don't write because it might spark gossip, the gossips win. Not in my life. I win here. So I'll keep writing and I'll give you something to talk about. Even if I don't know you.

I've become very conscious lately that this whole deal is a chronicle of my meager love life. God, shouldn't I write about something bigger, something more important? I mean, I've seen so much that is bigger than all that, but I don't know. My love life (or lack thereof) is, at the very least, interesting. Perhaps it's a microcosm of human nature. I think this can all be blamed on my mother who's made it feel like my self worth is based on that I'm at least some degree of pretty and surround myself with attractive guys and, if possible, break their hearts before they break mine. When I was a kid, I hung out with this guy, Chris. He played guitar and wrote a song about me and e was cute and mom loved him, and somethimes when e was around, I thought she loved me more. Nothhing changes. How's that for honesty?

So on the boy front- Mysterious James is no longer an issue. He kissed me one night, then asked me to come to this art show. His girlfriend was one of the artists. I asked a friend about him, and she confirmed what seemed suspicious, so I hung out, acted casual, and told my Fenwick the situation. As Ryan left, he kissed me. He kissed me like he was straight. And he knew it was staged and I knew it was staged, but Mr. Mystery didn't and the look on his face told me I won. Fenwick is always there when I need him. Besides, a bit of internet investigaton told me that the mysterious boy is someone else's werewolf. And every girl should have her werewold. I couldn't interfere. Can a werewolf be a unicorn? Furthermore, how can anyone still believe in love when everything associated with it is so mythical? I've been crossing paths with my werewolf lately. I never stopped adoring him. I would like to be again what we once were. Two writers drinking rum wrapped up in eachother. I have my rum right here. But he still only happens when he wants to. Nothing changes. Anna the Anarchist said she'd put in a good word.

On that note, I've been spendig more time with that particular faction of bohoemians lately. Cocktail parties, Poetry parties, whatever. They feel like home. Sunday night, I went to Ft. Balls and just talked to Daisy for a while. Not about anything important, but he has this uncanny ability to put me at ease. He's a good man, that Daisy Jane, and I'm glad to have him around.

My jazz is evolving. Open air is over, but Wednesdays are forever syncopated. I want a theremin. And maybe this one bass player I just met. Tonya and Craig, miraculously, don't smother one another. Together they smother me.

Highland Games happened as always and they were amazing as always and I spent four days drunk and dancing. No matter what happens with which musicians, I always come back to Seven Nations. The band that started it all is still the one I love the most. The first day, Crisco, who I've never really spent that much time with greeted me like his only friend, so I spent a lot of time with him. Everyone kept telling me I look great there. I went to Tyff and said, "This will sound weird, but did I get hot between last year and now?" She laughed at me. That's why I need a Tyffo around. My tartan became part of me and I was a fixture at Albannach chalet. I also caught up with some of those people from high school with whom I wanted to catch up, so that was nice. And people thought I was a professional bellydancer. Maybe I'm kind of good at it. Woah! But writing about such things is futile because if you weren't there, you don't understand, and if you were, I don't have to tell you. It's just so nice that for one weekend, magic happens on St. Andrews Field and anyone in a tartan is your family. That scene in Braveheart where the Scots meet the Irish and they hug- that's it. And the last line in Braveheart- not "Freedom"- the very last line- that's me.

Speaking of family, mine moved back from Vegas- Beth, Grandma, and Grandpa, that is- and it's wonderful to have my roots close because they are so much of what I am.

And speaking of warrior poets, my next tattoo will be "poet" on one wrist and "dreamer" on the other because I am both and it comes from "Close" by B. Webb which is all I want to be and all I try not to be at the same time. Here we are the poet dreamers.

And speaking of freedom, I moved out. Tonya and I live at Speed and Chichester. It's wonderful because it's in the highlands and it's mine. If I were a prisoner on death row, my last meal would be Ramen because it tastes like freedom. Do you understand that? There's a drummer upstairs who happens to be a brilliant writer. Watch out.

That's all for this edition of Open Alex Transmissions. If you like to listen to music, if you like to play music, if you like to eat, drink, and tip large, I'll see you here next time. (hair flip)

I haven't written in a very long time because writing has had a tendency to get me in trouble. It's this odd catch 22 I'm in because if I write, I create drama in my life and in the lives of others, but if I don't write, I lose myself. I've missed you, viewer. Tonight, I went to a show and I think I managed to un-fuck up what had been fucked up. I called drummer about a week ago and told him I would like to be there tonight, but I wanted to give him the opportunity to tell me that would be a bad idea and he called me back and said he would be happy to see me. And tonight we hugged like friends do and he made it all feel so ok- like he knew it was all just a big mistake and wanted to put it behind him as much as I wanted to put it behind me. Then I talked to her who I once might have called my arch-nemesis and I told her I was sorry for all of it and she said not to worry and that she was happy I had come to the show. My arch-nemesis quickly became my hero. To be so kind to me, that takes a big person and I respect her so much. Everything was handled as well as it possibly could be and I am so relieved to know that we're all friends again in the name of rock.

There's someone new in my life. The mysterious one. People tell me to stay away, but I just don't want to. He's trying to beat a bad reputation. He's a brilliant conversationalist. Music fuels his heart. He wants so much for someone to care about him. Why not me?

            A long time ago, I stopped keeping a paper journal. I don’t know- I suppose I like typing more than actually writing. It’s not nearly as classy, but easier to sift through. And after myriad computer mishaps, I decided to launch all of that into cyberspace, because if it’s not really in my possession, I can’t lose it. Here, I write what is honest- those thoughts buried so deep in my brain, I don’t even want to admit them to myself. Why would I make myself so vulnerable? I figure the location of all of this is only in the hands of people I trust with my secrets- if you read this, you’re A.) close enough to know I’m an idiot or B.) far enough away that it doesn’t matter. I’ll admit, I’m often melodramatic. Sometimes I embellish. I think we all do that inside our own minds, but it is we, the truly stupid, who write down all of those embellished dramas. And the highest office in the hierarchy of the stupid belongs to those of us who put our most secret thoughts on the internet for all to see. It’s kicked me in the ass one too many times, this honesty.

            Why is it that I can not bring myself to tell someone when I have allowed myself to feel for them more than I should, but I can tell you, the viewer? Because I often forget that you are there- and I certainly forget that anyone other than you, my intended viewer, can stumble across my little world. Henceforth, I will lock this shit up, so only you- the very close and very far away- can read it. It is merely a precaution to protect the innocent. For there are innocent. So please, allow me and all of my petty drama to fade into the shadows. I’ll still write, but I’ll make sure it’s not goggle-able. This is the very roughest incarnation of my emotions- the things I think about saying but never will because I can stay in control of it all and know what’s inappropriate. So I will take away the risk that someone may read this without this knowledge. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to think I am so fragile. But when I’ve given no warning that certain feelings exist on some level, their surprising effects are entirely my fault.

            So this boy- you know which one- Sean was right when he told me it’s all an illusion. And I knew he was. I don’t think I’ve really believed in any of it for a while. I don’t know why I let myself think we were so involved. He’s a musician. A flirtatious musician. And I am a flirtatious girl who loves musicians. And occasionally- long in the past- we have taken that combination, poured on a bit too much alcohol, and I have been both shaken and stirred. I don’t know why I would ever believe it to be more than it is. I think I replay scenes in my head the way Cameron Crowe would have written them, not the way they actually happen. And I replay them so many times that I believe that’s the way it was. I let myself see things as I wish they could be, not as they are. And I have always known on some level that it was all a farce, but it was a farce I so enjoyed that I let it go on. I am just a stupid little girl. A stupid little girl who wants to be a writer. So this stupid little girl takes what she wants to be and writes it in a manner that she would be interested in reading it even if it weren’t a twisted version of her own life. It often feels like I could paint something more beautiful than a photograph. The catch is that then it’s a lie.

            I can generally approach friendships with men very casually, keeping any attraction that I have for them to this level of innocent flirtation that entertains us both, but causes no harm. But occasionally, I meet one who is some sort of special. Someone who intrigues me and who makes me feel beautiful and who keeps me wanting to know him better than I do. That makes him fall victim to poetry and I feel what may or may not be real because it fuels me for a while, at least until it blows up in my face. Perhaps he could be flattered that he is the center of so much emotion, except he never wanted it and when he finds it, he is left asking, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with all of this?” And I don’t blame him. And though it may cause harm to me, it may cause more to him. And I never meant for that to happen.

I never write about someone with the idea that he may someday read it. But when, by accident, he does, I am left to feel that tingle of shame in my shoulders and neck for days. You know that feeling when you run a red-light or call someone by the wrong name or pretentiously assert your intelligence with a fact that is completely false? Sheer embarrassment so thick it very nearly throws you into a daze. That feeling won’t go away. I know that the things I’ve written read by the eyes that were never meant to see them paint me crazy at best. And I am humiliated that someone who matters had a chance to see the very craziest parts of me.

            My hope now is that he will see this as a closed chapter. If written about someday, it will be that pathetic kind of humor- you know, David Sedaris style. The kind that makes you laugh at the misfortunes of the characters, but also feel sorry for them because their misfortunes are brought on by their own stupidity. Or it will be pure fiction. Because it is.

I hope we can still grab a beer when I’m in town and talk about music, but never about my true feelings- because they won’t be there. I do enjoy his company, but I want to enjoy it without ulterior motives. I want to talk with him, laugh with him, and go home without thinking about him accept to say, “yeah, that was fun.” And though I write to entertain- I write dramatic- I’ve been feeling that way around him more and more lately. It’s been dying out, this imagined romance, and I’m turning off any spark that might have stayed behind. Because “meant to be” is something I only believe in movies and I have to admit that I’m not in one. I want to believe in love, but it’s never happened to me, so I want to stop pretending it’s there just so I can tell myself it’s real. I know we’ll have a terribly awkward stage, but I hope we can move past that and laugh about all of these misconceptions. I hope my friendship with the other members of his band hasn’t been ruined. I love them too much. In fact, the root of the problem may lie in that I love that band, that music so much I wanted to try to displace those feelings onto a person. I said long ago that I could never love a boy as much as I love music. That’s true and the only times I think it may not be are those when I try to personify music into a boy. But I can’t do that. I love music more than I may ever love any man, and that’s the way it should be. Let me go back to cold and skeptical. I don’t work as a romantic.

It’s interesting how much I am not sad, just embarrassed. I suppose that means I always knew what I’m facing and maybe the farce was never as important as I thought it was. My life will turn in a new direction tomorrow, I’m sure, if I let this bullshit go today. I want to see where everything will go, so the bullshit is gone.

            I’m sorry to have made things so strange.