I wrote the scripts for Eliza Dushku. I love her and they were meant as a gift to her. I asked her to marry me. She did not say no, but she did not say yes.
The attempt to save Dollhouse, for Eliza Dushku, failed.
I tried every method I knew or could think of to try to save Dollhouse. I tried everything from handing out fliers and collecting signature petitions to internet organizing. I tried to get help from a lot of people. Some people were willing to help save Dollhouse, while others were very reluctant.
The effort to express my love required enormous sacrifices. Losing my car was only the beginning. I lost many friends and even ended relationships with family members. I found myself railroaded in mental health facilities and without support from allies. Love is madness. This simple fact was understood and accepted thousands of years ago. Even in the Illiad, Homer wrote, “O immortal madness, why do you have this craving to seduce me?” Today, this is lost on us.
I became homeless. In some respects, this was a good thing. I have a better sense of who is my friend and who will be there when I need them. I also have a better sense of my capabilities.
Many people did support me. Some of these people, I have been able to thank. Others, I have not been able to thank, in part because they have supported me in ways I do not know. Do not think I do not appreciate that.
I was disappointed by the recent judicial decision in the legal challenge I brought. It is not the first time a judicial decision has not gone my way. However, it left me unable to justify the continued investment in my bar membership. In other years, I found a way to justify continuing to pay my dues, despite the lack of financial return. I no longer feel that such an investment is justified.
In any event, I did what I could do.
This is not the first time I have failed in a campaign.
This is not the first time my legal opinions have been ignored.
Still, I cannot help but feel the arrow of every regret. An effort like this recalls every failure and shortcoming of one’s entire life. I found myself haunted by the ghost of every mistake I ever made. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
I tested the limits of freedom and love and discovered there was not enough of either of them.
There remains the question of what to do next. For me, at this point, love is simply out of the question. Love asks, “What are you willing to give?” I gave everything, so I have nothing left to give. There are so many beautiful and intelligent women worth appreciating, but none that I can love. Consolation, but not love. I find myself exhausted. November is coming.
I will also take a break from blogging. I find the experience invites too many negative elements into it. (I know, dear Krishna, that where there’s fire there’s smoke, but I need to breathe.)
I find myself without inspiration and simply continue to do things in a rather joyless manner. My scripts sit behind glass.