Sunday, June 7, 2009

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For the past month or so I've started a number of entries for this here thing.  I start typing on some idea then, inevitably, my interest wanders away or I assess whatever I've written to be of embarrassingly little interest to anyone and I close the browser window.  

I guess I guess I want to share with my friends and not my enemies, the latter of which are defined as anyone who wishes me harm and the former as everyone else.  This is not paranoia or an inflation of self-importance.  There's a lot of why, why not, why, why not, why, why not in regards to writing continually about oneself.  I've recently concluded that it's kind of become what I "do" with writing though, more-so than poetry even; small vignettes of things I think, or things that happen to me, colored to amuse.  I have found examples of success in similar genres, like DF Wallace; he knows more complicated words than I do.  I am not on this level and know I probably never will be.  Anyway.  This style feels uncomfortably of narcissism.  Aside but not-Aside: Last night I was on my guest bed in the dark guest bedroom in the lightning and hail storm, ill-obsessed with the idea of what it's like to kiss me, the person, and hold me, and love me.  What I know of my face I assume is a carefully staged series of expressions tailored specially for mirrors and photographs.  You know this, I know this, I'm just saying I wish I had some kind of hovering playback camera to show me how I'm seen; what I feel like.  This is brought on by being baffled at the motives of others.  I'm getting too deep in here.  Writing about things that I experienced is like that delayed playback, for others, from within my head.  
I could not eventually envision making out with myself.  I would get close, but the barrier between my self and Myself remained thick and sinuous.   

Always I feel I am missing some sort of larger trend in my selfness.  Here I am here I am here I ammmmmm.  I've probably written something very much like this before.  I feel frequently empty of newness, just a slow, turning, shell-less cephalopod in the ocean deep, worried with its own minor troubles.  

1 comment:

what said...

i saw a seph ah low pod episode of iron chef america last night. i mean, you're just lucky your not in the pot, pressure-cooking away amongst the quick zooms and mic'd culinary banter.