I'm frustrated. sexually. emotionally. monetarily. intellectually. to varying degrees, but nutshelled - adverb anything, and I'm probably frustrated in its field. which isn't to say I'm not happy, or that I'm not moving forward, only that I'm frustrated. see, I wouldn't zoom forward to the end of summer or anything, because I feel it's more interesting to live through it. still, there's no denying the frustration.

frustration point uno - what I choose versus what I do, in my parents' eyes. well, moreso my dad's. what I mean: whenever he talks to me, or asks me anything, it's invariably about one of two things: the job I've made up, or the apartment I don't have for next term. he knows I don't have anywhere to live, but the job thing is annoying me. that'll be another whole journal, but for now, let's re-cap: he has never, in living memory, asked about my writing or how that's going or what I'm doing. the only interest he takes in that is the monetary aspect of theoretical grad school, which I suppose is something, albeit a frustrating something. since we had the gay talk many months ago, he's never asked if I'm seeing or dating or sleeping with anyone (okay, the last is excusable, since I probably wouldn't want him to anyway). this is another source of frustration, the least of which is based in the fact that I'm fairly certain I'm seen as a layabout who doesn't do anything useful. then, I tried incorporating those aspects of my life of which he never asks, and I realized, of course! to him, I am an asexual layabout. harsher than his real view, I'm sure, but still a source of frustration. my mom doesn't really get it, either, but I think that's more because she's given up on most everything besides getting through the day, seeing those (*urk*) babies on her job, and finishing the day's sudoku. in a way, my parents *are* good role models: I don't want to end up like them.
my family, as a whole, is even more frustrating. my brothers, when dom isn't working, do exactly two things (seems to be a recurring summer number here): play world of warcraft, and play ping pong. oh, and they eat. honestly, though, they alternate between those two (three) activities from the time they wake up until the time they go to bed. dom does work, but when he comes home, it's time to eat, play warcraft, and then play ping pong. no chance of change. isn't this how the stepfords started?

I suspect this summer that this, in the main, will become a journal of frustrations. there are some happy things, though. for example:

about two weeks (a week and a half? whatever) ago, I "got with" this guy (man) (dude) I'd been interested in for a while, and had (have) talked with since september. it was ... great. I mean, really, best, ever. I wrote a bunch about it, including three poems. I've been workshopping those poems, and I included melyssa in the last batch because, as a person who doesn't write poetry, I thought she'd look at the content rather than the craft, which is what I was hoping for. and lo, she said:
"TONY! Those were gorgeous, I knew you liked him but I had no idea it was that intense."
followed by
"I loved seeing them but I wouldn't send them to him, 'cause it might be kind of creeperish."
too late. I've used him as part of my workshop board on most everything else this year, so why not those? besides, I didn't know they were that intense, either. but now I look at them, and I think, "desire poetry." "infatuation poetry." "obsession poetry." "love poetry." I don't usually get what I'm going for, but in this case, I wasn't going for anything, just for harnessing the emotions that the whole thing caused. so, what? is that love? I certainly like this guy, a lot, but I've learned (am learning) not to project any aspirations onto him. he's a city kid, he's more a cynic than I am, he's leaving around the same time I am, he goes to a different school 100+ miles from both my flag-school and prescott-home, so so so what? but here's the kicker: I know these things, and still I want to try. but try for what? see, that's the problem: I feel like I've learned/been told/have assimilated that there has to be some kind of GOAL. I have to try and groom him (and myself) for boyfriendship or a lifelong committment or whatnot. but why? why can't I just get to know him? I *want* to get to know him, more than I already do. I'd like to see him (which isn't particularly feasible anyway, more than a couple times a month, anyway), talk to him on the phone, discuss any- and everything.
but, if melyssa's intimation is right, and the poems do something to change his mind about me, then that's just foolish. because, really, there isn't a person I would give up writing for, and I know that. hemingway's the one, I think (maybe frost?), who said that if you write well in whatever genre, you're going to lose friends over it, because you have to write them (at least their tics, their idiosyncracies, their whatevers) to make it believable.
so. do I regret talking to him, at whatever time? no. seeing him? no. writing the poems, and letting him see them? no. if I regret anything, it's only that ... no, I guess it's not anything. I would regret not talking/spending time with him again, but I can't regret something that hasn't happened yet, and even if it doesn't, I experienced it, saw what it influenced me for, and would go for doing it again. there are worse things than that, definitely.