Limbs I'd cut off if I thought I could bear the pain:
You can't change people's feelings, only their circumstances, and I don't have that kind of fucking patience. I hate that there is no order available to me in which what I (we) know as 'intimacy' can be experienced without the burden of secrecy and guardedness and defense. I hate the need to lie. And I hate that my inner and outer lives move at very very different tempi, and I spend so much time waiting behind my own eyes for the opportunity to join the two, if only for a moment. This is not the same thing as hating one's potential in the absence of one's achievement.
You know what? In my worst moments I still think of myself as a 'gifted kid.' I remember my woeful rural public high school and would give anything to be able to go back and let people know how fucking alone I felt all the time. More than that though, much more: I wish I could locate the complex at which my capacity for love and the social structure of Love might meet, and my own desire to give myself away could find full expression. Maybe that's on the page; maybe it's in a ring; maybe it's both and a number of other things besides. Whatever happiness it brings me, the answer is sure to underwhelm me. Answers always do. Facts always do.
I worry that I'm the sort who snaps.
During November and December and now January I've averaged more written words per day than at any other point in my life. By an enormous margin actually. Lately you've seen almost none of it, sorry Reader(s). Well or not 'sorry,' exactly. But some of it you'll see in time. Some of it I like to keep to myself though. From a few weeks ago:
start answering questions with 'i do' rather than 'i am' - you've already seen to one of the big ones following that form, that's a good start. 'i do take.'
From something else:
OK, question: Can you write your way out of things? Never mind your dismissive attitude toward writing-as-therapy and your related sense of hypocrisy about e.g. the second-person hectoring that you pass off as 'essays,' and never mind Tom Stoppard's whole 'drama is a way of arguing with yourself' great-intellectual-Man thing, the real question is, What is writing to a writer, in and out of the interlocking historically contingent social systems that make it a meaningful activity and not just doodling with letterforms? Just what's going on here? If you're putting this down on paper in a voice called 'second person' but every word is aimed through a gunsight at a shadow image of you, if you hear the words Ideal Reader and imagine not a 30th-century scholar with access to direct-neural-uplink full-colour holographic records of everything that's been written filmed painted or thought in the last 10,000 years but You with bigger pectoral muscles, then what are you and your thousands of words in a line capable of? And what accidents have to happen in order for it all to work? Note that we're talking about cognition here, yes, but given the sore limits of our understanding of brains and 'minds,' and given too the likely undesirability of demystifying human emotions too much lest we end up in a society where everyone feels what 21st century just-barely-beyond-cavemen know as 'love' but now we know it's not real, not even that you can take it in a pill like sunshine or sex feelings but we've even figured out what it's for, why we tell stories about it - in short the end of neuroscience is We are critics now and not lovers and that sounds like hellish abjection of the soul if there ever was such a thing...given all that, yes we're talking brains, but really we're talking magic, because I say so. If it seems unmagical to you don't fret; magic isn't real. But the 'you' I'm talking to is really me, and if I'm counterparty to my own literary contract, what difference does it make whether magic exists, or anything else? I made it up, didn't I? Out of my own brain I declare I made it up all on my own.
The universe isn't much bothered by you wanting; so do better and be glad of it. Well this was in the way of that, maybe, and if you'll excuse me I'm going to attempt to write like a grownup for an hour or so. Instead of whatever this is like.