This is not me. Feeling lost. Uninspired. Solemn. Immobilized. Desiring isolated introspection for this unusually gloomy self, and finding the only acceptable company in these pages.
Down the hall, I hear my 16 year old son who does not know how to play, playing around with my electric guitar. I gave him a small amp and now I can hear him trying to imitate things he heard me do and to pick out melodies. He's "soloing" and it sounds strangely appealing. Not appalling. Now he's playing it like a bass. Maybe I should give him my bass to play.
My daughter pops up here every 10 minutes to implore me to do something with her. I can think of things we might do, but I cannot find the will to do them. She deserves better. It's not in me right now.
Renard is playing tonight. I don't want to go. I'll stay home. I'll think about working on songs and I'll tell myself I'll do it after Rachel goes to sleep. I probably won't.
Rache's back again. She wants me to make bracelets and necklaces with her. I don't want to go through the motions. What else can I do? She's so adorable. Maybe she can charm me back to life.
Something happened last weekend and I'm not the same. Probably temporary. I hope so.
Maybe my illusions of intimacy were shattered by the conditions set upon them— by conditions that have been there all along, but that I hoped would disappear eventually. Wishful thinking.
Who cares about real intimacy?
My mother was married to my father for almost 56 years when he died last year. He knew just about everything there was to know about her, but never really knew her. Well, he surely didn't know the most important things about her. This was the source of an ache in her heart that she tried to cure the only way she knew how until she finally gave up. Well, maybe she didn't give up altogether. I'm interested. I want to know her and she's been sharing the beauty that she is with me little by little.
Knowing about a woman is not the same as really knowing her.
Can anyone ever really know us at all? Do we dare reveal the things about ourselves that we believe to be too ugly for the light of day, or too beautiful, for that matter? I find the most beauty in flaws revealed. In the unglamorous weaknesses that are undisguised and undenied. In the naturalness of who we are as human beings struggling to find our way home. It's easier to accept these things if we remember our connections to each other and where home is. It almost impossible if we don't really believe such a place exists. I don't like to resort to trying to define home, but if I must, I'll call it The Ultimate Ground of Being.
I think it was the reminder of the need to censor my thoughts, to stifle my spontaneity and to hold back the 99% of what makes me tick that is of no interest to the one who claims to have interest in me. That's what did me in. There is a long list of taboo subjects and I accept that. But I hate having to pretend that large parts of myself don't exist or are not worth knowing.
Maybe the better question is, do people really want to know each other in that way? Does anyone really care about anyone else on that level?
Blogs may be the unfulfilled narcissist's great portal to pseudo intimacy. Despite the fact that it may be ugly, we all are narcissists to some degree. Just an unfortunate condition of riding around the planet in a human body with an ego. (They come as a pair.) Does this form of pseudo-intimacy still work if nobody reads what you write?
I suppose time will tell.