yes, i'm here again...
today, we went over to the farmer's market, right at the end. just as i was walking in, one of willow's teachers recognized me, and stopped to talk to me (i'm not sure how he knew it was me, as i was wearing my requisite face mask). the teacher is very friendly and seems very dedicated. he is one of the few teachers who seems to make repeated efforts to contact and engage students. i know there are some teachers out there who haven't reached out at all- and we are more than a month into this quarantine!
anyway, i got my french dip sandwich from the lady and the pig. it is so much that it accounts for my breakfast and my lunch. i eat half of the sandwich in the morning, and then later, when i start getting hungry again, i consume the second half and drink the "dip." great stuff...
***
i don't know who i perform for. margaret atwood speaks of an ideal reader. she says that we aren't writing for readers en masse. we are always writing for a particular reader; a reader who, as she says, cries when s/he's supposed to, laughs at the rest... someone who understands. someone who has both the intellect and the heart to understand... i also appreciate her citing emily dickenson, who felt that writing is our "letter to the world." separated in time and place from that environment of the reader- reaching across this abyss- like some unspeakably risky bridge, being built into above some fog shrouded emptiness- never knowing your construct will find relief in another shore.
is all of life for this?
who do i perform for?
***
i thought, as i was walking the dog this evening, of doing a meditation on the koan of love. how there are people we should love, and yet, have a difficulty loving. why is there often no congruence between our hearts and our heads (and maybe other parts)? why is there always this dissonance and even resistance? i often cite that quote from haruki murakami, something about how fairness is a human construct, a fiction imposed upon the universe. true, but so what? how can we convince ourselves of that fiction? how can we make that apply through and through? i guess it's important, because- well, because i don't understand why i can't be- consistent.
i also don't understand something about how i treat musubi, our little dog. i tend to be cruel to him. not abusive, necessarily, but mocking. i know i've had this problem before. i recall once, on a trip to japan, when i happened to be one of the elder kids, i sort of befriended this younger boy. i thought i was being jovial and showing my camaraderie with him when i joked about him, teased him about some girl or something or other. but it turns out i really hurt his feelings. i've also done that to other people- abused them, without really meaning to. why do i do that?
i think of my brother, and the way he dismissed my feelings. is that way of thinking imprinted on me? that way of discounting weakness, of belittling it? i hate that. but there is something in me that rejects being too kind sometimes. it forbids me from being too gentle. it's complex, like a knot, but it, on the one hand, makes me less masculine, and- i don't know- there's a sense- a warped sense- of justice about it all. like the world is cruel, and i'm going to show that to you...
as musubi gets older, and i notice he gets more and more tired- i realize i should be merciful.
i also realize that i have a jealous heart. and if i can't be the one that is the "favorite," the true love of someone, then i push that person, that dog, away. i reject it first. maybe it is because i am used to that. how everyone fauned over my fucking brother. if they only knew, i would think. and i would push them away. because it hurt, having the world only see him. always see him. and only always see the bright side of him, while he pushed my head into the shit. i learned to hate the world for that. maybe i still do.
there's this fantasy drama in my head- that, when i am, as i feel, unjustly ignored- then i stalk off into the emptiness and train. maybe that's my whole fetish with monasticism. was it really to be strong and find emptiness, or did i- do i- always think that someone will feel sorry for me, maybe even long for me, maybe even feel regret for me? (and maybe, secretly, feel desire for me? no... that is an entirely different register- again... that contradiction between what is just, and what is the plain, bald-faced truth. lust/desire/love occupies a different register from respect/admiration. i think i will see this soon with sydney carton. i don't know the story, but i suspect he will do something grandiose and self-sacrificing- but no matter what, he will NOT be loved... just as i will not be loved. just as the world will always love my brother, but never me. never me.)
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