i guess i finished david sedaris's master class. as a bonus, he included a reading of "a spirit world." it was an interesting story. sedaris is good at lightly stitching elements together to form a sort of gestalt. it is reminiscent of the go master (from yasunari kawabata). i can't recall the two players in the game, but one is the acknowledged master (from the old school), and the other is a player from the new generation. the challenger plays in an aggressive, systematic way. but the old master plays in such a way that motive is mysterious. structures and formation rise up like the morning mist (i'm paraphrasing here, but that was the impression i remember distinctly). it is difficult to do anything, much less write, in this sort of fashion, to lead the reader along without really hinting where everything is going. i would like to- i aspire to- write like this. even if it is lost on a majority of readers, that, to me, is high art.
sometimes, it would happen. i would write something without fully realizing things, or being completely aware of things, and then at the end, or even at a successive reading, i would see a pattern in what i had constructed. that is the magic of writing, or of any art... the construction of a higher order or pattern, through the mundane stitching together of lines or words. it is like- looking at the surface of the sea- and at first only concerned with the play of light upon the surface... and then, not different from what you are already looking at, you see the underlying world beneath... with all of its wonder and horror... and you realize that you were ALWAYS looking at it, it's just you didn't SEE it. i always think that that is what is so wonderful about drawing... how you stitch together lines, shade in different shapes... and then gradually a face and a form appear off the flat of the page. and maybe even a feeling...
*****
the dog doesn't love me. i'm not someone who particularly engenders love in others. i'm sure there would be people who disagree with that, to my face, but it's true.
if my wife came home, then the dog would practically whine with excitement just inside the screen door. and then he would circle around her, and practically jump and lean his paws against her shins... that's love.
and when my wife is not home, then there is an emptiness within the dog. a chamber of the heart is unoccupied.
even when the dog comes up to me, lying in front of the computer, and sidles up against my body... i know that he is just settling. and waiting for what is better. what is true.
i have felt this way for most of my life. aware that the world just settles for me. aware that the world is always tolerating me, and just passing the time, waiting for what they would really like. what would really turn them on.
that's, i guess, the main part of me, this sadness.
i wish i could be what people wanted. i think that's what i really try for. that's what all this busy-ness is about. to be useful, for one thing. to be helpful. to be kind. to be productive... but there's a line that i don't cross. i don't actively try to be wanted. because deep down, i know that it can't be true.
the dog always loves someone else.
*****
sometimes, i feel like i am wasting my time. but a part of me, this summer, doesn't care. i'm not particularly restless. i don't really miss being around people. i think i "go out" primarily for the benefit of other people. i go out just to make the people around me happy. i mean, sure, i get some collateral benefit from going out too. like, i appreciate seeing other parts of the island, and such. but i would never go out alone, for instance. my eyes, my skin, for some reason, they don't connect to any internal want. i literally only justify things by the happiness of those around me.
at the same time, there is this internal compulsion. this dream of being better. i can question the absurdity of it. i can try to break it down. but at this point in the game, like george jetson on the treadmill, i can't stop it. it's a part of me. to deny it is to walk with this absence and guilt. so i play this game, even if it has no end, and is without a purpose...
maybe that is my "someone else." it is to be that which i promised i would be. i don't know if that makes sense... but.
*****
holden caufield only loves people when they are dead. isn't that funny? that is similar to me. not that i only love people when they are dead, but that i believe that people will only love me when i am dead. as a living thing, it is impossible to see who a person is. but in the "safety" of death, when all is supposedly said and done, and all accounts are settled... when there is no "threat" of yet another final word to mess up the ending of the story... well, it is okay then to cry about a person, and to claim how much you loved them and how much you will miss them... because they're no longer in the game.
isn't that so ironic? and fucked up?
i say "i love you" whenever i can. but is it a habit, maybe something simply done out of compulsion? why can't we "feel" an appreciation for those who are alive, WHEN they are alive? (and sometimes we can't even feel that appreciation when people are dead?) why are we so dead inside?
i guess that's part of my quest, through all these routines... i said it before, but i want to melt. because in melting, all that is dead and frozen within me will be freed. i think i could remember again. and maybe in that remembering, i could feel again. feel the richness of being alive. WHILE alive.
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