Float

Not sure what to write about today. Maybe about the idea I have for the novel. Maybe about my thoughts on poetry. Maybe about connection with others. Does writing connect us with others? Houellebecq says writing only divides–the written word only deepens the separation between us. Is that true? I don't think so. But you have to be willing to put yourself in a vulnerable position if you're going to overcome separation and loneliness. And that's true whether you're writing or living in the real world. Others are only real to us to the extent that we don't control them. And one of the ways we try to control them is by playing whatever role we think they want us to play–by pretending to be kinder, or gentler, or more violent or callous than we really are. I try to control you by disappearing behind the veil of what you expect me to be. Or at least I keep you at a distance that way. Prevent that unbearable longed-for moment where we encounter each other as what we really are. Put you down so I can relieve the terror I feel for you, or so I can feel powerful for that brief moment before the shame and self-contempt catch up. Or puff your fragile ego so you come to depend on me and never fully realize I'm a human being. Or combine the two at random so you'll keep coming back, never sure if I'll give you what you want or deny it to you. I used to know a blue-eyed girl. "I want to know you," she said. We drank Miller Highlife whenever she came over. She would talk and I would listen. Then we'd fuck and smoke a cigarette or two out in the cold (it was winter then). Maybe drink a little more and then she'd leave. I kept quiet, mostly. Didn't want to lead her on. Didn't want to give her any reason to think this was anything more than it was. But on this particular night, she wanted to know me. What to make of that? I had no particular desire to be known by her. Quite the opposite. I try to avoid the question. Change the subject. Make a joke. Pretend to misunderstand. But she's insistent. "Who are you? I want to know you." What makes you think I know myself? You've read what I've written. I'm whatever-it-is that produced that. Tried saying both of those things. Did not try saying what was really on my mind: "Just what the hell makes you think I want you to know me?" But it's hard to be that frank with a woman unless you're angry at her. Even if she is a complete masochist. What if she gets angry? What if she cries? What if she leaves without sucking my dick? (Just a few of the thoughts that cross my mind.) Or what if we go even more honest? I don't like you all that much, but you're a pretty good, pretty reliable lay, and it feeds my ego to have you around once or twice a week. Try that and see what happens. All just memories now. But maybe those memories give some perspective on the question we started with: does the written word only separate, or can it also connect? Years ago, after I got my DUI, I had to take a four-part weekly course to get my driver's license back. As you can imagine, it was one of the darker periods in my life. And I won't get into it here, but at one point it came up that I wanted to be a writer. The counselor asked why, and all I could come up with was, "Because it's a way of connecting with people, without having to connect with people." Which is a paradoxical answer, but also a true one. Writing is a deeply private thing, a way of confessing and exposing our deepest selves and interrogating our contradictions. When we read a writer who resonates with us it's an invitation to a kind of intimacy and encounter with the other that none of the other arts can provide. No other art can so thoroughly draw us into the balance and measure of another soul. But even here there's a will to separation. Once we write a thing, it's dead to us. By mangling our private impressions into the public language, we objectify them–literally, we make our private impressions into an object for public consumption. We confess, we interrogate, we disclose… and always our self-disclosure runs away into another contradiction to hide behind. What makes you think I want you to know me? Love is the answer, probably. Love the other enough to state even the painful truths outright. Love the other enough to be willing to be known as we are, without veils, without walls, without unnecessary cruelty. You'll notice I write a lot about women. As much as about any of my obsessions–about God, about magic, about anxiety, or about poetry. Sometimes I think I hate women. But there's a fascination there that goes much deeper. And maybe there's love at the bottom of it. ~~~ I wrote that yesterday. And today it seems strange to me. All too serious and angsty. Today I don't feel angsty. Today I don't want to hide behind contradictions. Today I'd rather kiss you on the hand, or the cheek, or the mouth, or the foot. Life is beautiful. Why waste our time agonizing over what it all means? Everything I wrote yesterday about confessing, interrogating, and identifying… it's all nonsense. The point is to give pleasure. In writing, in living, in everything. Life's a soap bubble and you reflect the light while you're in the sun. Separation, though. The little film of soap and water that divides the world into you and not-you. Hold onto it if you want, or let it go. It'll pop soon enough and you'll see just how real, just how unreal, all that separation really was. I tried my hand at growing Morning Glories this year. Didn't do a great job, but no matter. I'll do better next year. They're supposed to start blooming in August or September, but my plant didn't bloom in August or September. But now? In a chilly October? We see some flowers, opening up to the wide world. Opening up to the wide world. ~~~ Right now I'm thinking I'll go back to writing poetry. The music of the words is growing on me again. Music is growing on me again. Beauty is growing on me again. You know how it is. You'll be going about your daily business, caught up in a thousand and one little things that all seem so big at the time. You're absorbed in your worries, your hopes, your plans for the future. The Earth turns narrow and overcast in your narrow, overcast eyes. But then a cloud shifts and you see the sun. How did you forget? Always you were naked in the light of the sun. Always you were floating on nothing in the wide space of a billion light years. Always you were nothing, or everything, or a sensuous surface that registers the tensions. Darkness? Heaviness? No. Light. Lightness. You're full of gratitude. Tears come to your eyes. Real life tears. Remember those? Wet. Salt. Beautiful. What a gift to be here. What a gift to be anywhere. Separation? No. There's only the gratitude for all you've been given, and the yearning to give back in return. Float, gorgeous little soap bubble. Float.