A little froggy told me writing another blog was not a good idea, but it was in a dream, and it didn’t actually speak the words, so it didn’t give me a good reason, so here I am. If I could describe any better what I’m trying to accomplish here than I could with Satellite Dance and A Bright, Ironic Hell, I might know better if this were a good idea. Right now it doesn’t seem to matter; besides, I hate explaining myself. Yet I feel I have to try. The nuts and bolts of this thing is: twice a week, one paragraph of less than 300 words. The themes are the usual from me–alienation, social integration/connection, love and the pursuit thereof, personal improvement, guilt, neurosis, etc. This is not a chronicle–I won’t tell you what’s going on on a daily basis–but I’d still like to think that you could get to know me this way, and if you can you will know me very well. I’m trying to achieve a distance, to speak from a more even perspective. There is deliberately no continuity. Read these paragraphs in any order you like. The puzzle goes together any way you want it to. I won’t beg you to read it, desperately as I might want you to. I just think it might have resonance in your own life (and I like the attention). I don’t try to speak for anyone but myself, but I feel better knowing I’m understood, that someone else feels the same way. Not in a misery-loves-company way–I’m not fishing for pity.
What will be published at least through November of 2012 has already be written, hence the absence of temporal anchors. How much more I will write I don’t know. I haven’t designated a goal or stopping point, and I don’t foresee either being forced upon me as with the other two blogs. I’m aware of the publicness of a blog. I’m also appreciative of it. How candid should one be? and who wants to know what one chooses to disclose? What’s it worth? What’s the potential trouble? With whom is one trying to connect? I can’t choose my audience. I can choose my words, but I will choose them wrong now and then. I am not an impartial observer. Forgiveness is a grand and noble concept, but I can’t always pull it off. We don’t all always feel forgiving, do we? I will get angry; I will pity myself. If that’s how I am when I sit down to write, then that’s what you will read. Don’t take it personally. Whatever I say this blog is or is to be is likely to be tacitly belied somewhere along the way. I can be sure of what I want to do, but I can’t be sure of how it is to be done. The rules I set now won’t always apply.
I will name no one (place names are real), try to make no accusations,and be as fair as I can. I am not out to hurt anyone, and that is already an improvement over the other two. She will remain Herself. I hope that doesn’t get awkward, but I expect time to obviate that problem as she becomes less literal. I fell in love with her where we both worked. That was the first problem. The second problem was that she didn’t love me. The third problem was that I couldn’t let the second problem go. I won’t argue (yet) that I still haven’t. I haven’t the intention of doing so. I’ve tried many times, but I’m not to be trusted with that judgment. This was a new and important experience for me. To “let it go” (provided I could) would be to marginalize its importance or to outright ignore it. Isn’t that what we’re always told to not do with history? Isn’t that why people have the same bad relationships over and over? I don’t want this episode of my history to repeat. This method is entirely contrary to my usual style of learning, but the experience still fascinates me as nothing else ever has, if the intensity of scrutiny is any gauge. So if there is a goal or stopping point to this it will be an assimilation into knowledge. It might never end.
But, you know what? I’m tired of writing “about.” I hate writing about writing–at least in this context. Writing is self-indulgent enough without talking about itself. (Go to State of the Blog for that.) Read me. Write me. Love me, hate me. Tell others. (I abhor self-promotion, but I don’t mind you doing it.)