A strange thing happened when I stopped posting here. Well, I suppose it is not that strange, or perhaps not at all: I also stopped scanning film or dealing with most of my digital images. There are three packages from Photoworks in SF waiting to be scanned. They sit on my kitchen table, untouched, waiting for me to set aside some time to deal with them. I am usually so eager to see the images, to get them scanned, to share them here and elsewhere, hoping that Paris Hilton will one day like me, or one of those Kardashcam women, the ones with those big, round juicy butts.
Over the last two weeks there were things that had occurred to me, sensations that I wished to attempt to relay here. They are all gone now. The desire to go back to sleep is all that remains. I won't, but I'll want to and wish to and dream towards, as the day gets up and gallops away.
I lost more than just the daily writing. It is apparently wrapped up with my interest in photography. My vanity requires at least two art forms to be adequately scaffolded, in preparation for the eventual hanging.
I once became involved in a conversation/argument in which I maintained that all art was self-involved. I stepped back my argument a bit, but I was never entirely sure if I was wrong. Most all contemporary or modern art that I have experienced deeply involves the self, otherwise it would not exist. None of it is for all, but rather only for others.
Yes, I am living in a charmed little bubble, one in which I am contented and pleasantly in love with a woman that I have loved secretly or openly for decades. I suppose that the desire, or need, to share exists even within contentedness. It can be therapeutic to write; perhaps it only seems that way. It does something to me, to interact with myself verbally, to take some pleasure in it and yet see more clearly the shape and magnitude of my own inner obstacles. I make them seem clear only so that I might better ridicule them, as if that helps me transcend their power over me.
Do not believe that I believe everything that I pretend to believe, either. What sort of monster do you think I am. It is only partial reaction to the polemics of the social media sphere. The love of argument meets departure from fact.
I was curious how my life would be different without daily writing and I'm not sure that it is. Or, not very much - I had more free time in the mornings, I was less occupied with other things, was able maybe to focus more on work before the boy wakes up, or to just lie in bed and watch tv in relative peace and seclusion. Though, I stopped framing the world. Or, at least insomuch as I do so for the purpose of relaying things here. All for a personal blog - nearly ten years of my life. Maybe I have an unhealthy mind, or one that relies on a nearly perpetual outpouring of noise. Of course I am enamored with myself. It is what nearly everybody suggests you should do, until you do.
Love My Way, and all of that.
They just want to steal us all,
and take us all apart,
but not in...
I follow where my blinds go.
That song, and those remembered lyrics, made me think of this:
The details of my life are quite inconsequential.
I don't know. I look around me and I see varying degrees of neuroses everywhere. People either learn to live with it or they struggle and scrape and demand towards others. Help is ever elsewhere, always on the way, never arriving.
I do not wish to suggest that love completes me, but my happiness over the last year has ruined my ability to write well, or in a way that satisfies me. I'm not sure if my best writing is what I like the most. Nobody should discuss their own creations. It is vain and wrong for the reader, eventually, if not sooner.
People seem to spend a fair bit of their emotional and intellectual energy just trying to be and feel and seem okay. Some insist they are, others act surprised that you are not but, you know... those ladies doth protest too much, methinks.
Love is satisfying. Why must it annihilate every dissatisfaction it finds?