2006-02-23 - 8:55 p.m.
The Stigma is about ADD. Those initials spell add, which is what your attention does when you have ADD, it adds to what is already there. So much attention is added that it becomes a deficit to a single stream of attention. Anyway, the book took me eight years to write and it seeped into this diary which was supposed to be about Circles and then there is an excerpt from the ADD book. Well, I am back on task and here is the proof:
Magic Man Casts the Same Spell
Prologue
He awoke in a strange room. Was not the first time and probably would not be the last. A quiet purring was the only sound in the dark room. His latest conquest made the lonely noises and those small coos of pleasure made from a delicate mouth soothed him. He stared into the dark ceiling, smirking like the man who was pleased. Pleased with himself in abundance with any pleasure left over admonished onto his sleeping lover. This time was short. The time for satisfaction gave way to the need for space, the search for his decreasing freedom. He would look back lovingly to the past in these brief moments. The regret and bad feelings did not exist. He would think of the times his mother put notes in his brown bag meal, playing football on lunch break and all the girls who grew into women. His childhood memories were so vivid in their innocence. He actually dreamt of flying to the moon. He wanted to float in the weightlessness and feel the freedom cascade over his body.
Pleasure time slowly faded. It was now time for his trademark: a stealth exit. He dressed in the dark from the neat pile of clothes he had made hours before. He wondered if the women saw his peculiar style beforehand and expected him to leave or if it was a total shock to them. Either way was an unsolved riddle to him. If the fair maidens wept for days after his flight then it was merely time from their own lives.
He threw his pants on with the left leg going in first, cinched the button, leaving the fly unzipped and left his shirt unbuttoned because he liked how it flapped behind him. It reminded him of a cape. Socks went into the pockets of his suit coat, which he slung over his shoulder, and the underwear was a parting-is-such-sweet-sorrow souvenir. He grabbed his shoes then tiptoed past the bed, mindful of the creak three paces in front of the door. The door stood closed but the bolt had not settled back into its groove so the slight nudge it received from his left index and middle fingers was all it took for him to be free of the lioness den. Never shutting the door behind him, he crept to the front of the apartment with a delicious smile on his face. The beam of a boy who once again stole a cookie from the jar. A slight pause at the door to put his leather shoes on his bare feet followed by his exit from the suite for a taxi ride home.
