Late - because I’m a little worried about why it is that in the morning, before the sun comes up, when cars drive by my house I see the headlights illuminating things in patterns on the wall that clearly prove to me that there is something that moves faster than light. It bothers me because nothing is supposed to be faster than light but I can see that this is wrong, I can see it happening, they’re wrong, and so I'm frozen just trying to untie it. My inability to understand physics confounds me. And so I’m late for work. There is no way to be honest about things like this. Being hung over is easier to forgive. These thoughts are distracting... occasionally make it hard to function properly. I censor all these things out and your having access to them is very, very strange.
These are things that no one can deal with in daily life. So I try to keep it to myself, and when I can't, they learn to leave me alone.
It’s hard for me to imagine circumstances under which I would either ask you to shut up or to leave. In fact, although it seems inevitable that you will eventually grow bored of this and do both, I’m rather apprehensive about that fact. I’d really prefer that you stay. But what if I start writing about tile grout again?
I don’t find your self-portrait is accurate, particularly. At least, it isn’t the version of you that I remember. The way you seem to know things might be Brando-esque but I don’t think it was your main strength, just a disconcerting quality, the ability to appear unphased by surprising things. But I’m sure it’s not what interested me most because you were always like that; and for most of the summer it only seemed funny. It changed as summer was ending and I'm certain the generosity you deny played in then, too. I have trouble with the chronology but in spite of that, a lot of my memories of you are vivid and clear. What you selectively hold back reveals more than what you choose to share, and that’s why I don’t believe you. The contradictions are the finest part, when someone can recognize that you don’t know a damn thing but wants to know what you have to say about it anyway. In that way I have always acknowledged the acuteness of your limited excellence because you don’t actually have to know everything, or even very much, to remain interesting or important, or even trusted. If you weren't here to read it, I'd take off in a whirlwind of adjectives. If I try to touch you, I do not think you will conclude that I’m stupid.
(I’m accepting the terms of your production conditions; I only have one of my own and that is that you say goodbye when you decide to quit so I can tell you one more important thing.)
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3 comments:
I absolutely want to know more about what it is you see, but my questions come off as prying, voyeuristic or worst of all Oprah-esque. I would love to know what you think this is, or what it means to you, but I think the choice to expand is best left to you, my clumsy efforts are probably going to offend. At your leisure, madam.
What I am selectively holding back is certainly not a conscious choice, so lay it on me. This I not only have to know, I would appreciate the candor, honesty being so rarely found in my life these days. The fact that you don't believe is not at all insulting. At the time I don't think I was dishonest with myself but I was inexperienced, immature and some of my choices that summer and the following year were woefully idiotic.
Your conditions are insulting, but that does not change the fact that you are probably right. Wandering off and then wondering why I was stupid enough not to value what I wandered away from is kind of what my bold, and slightly rude, interruption began with. That said I'm going to have to find some balance, the amount of time I have spent contemplating what was, and what is now here is going to leave me looking very, very bad next week. Please don't confuse my Project Balance with absence.
I can't help but feel like you've taken on a slightly melancholy flavor the last few days. If you want to take this to a different venue, and have this space back for your real life it can be easily done. I am more than a little nervous that your candor will lead to specifics that I'm not sure I want to share with whoever wanders past. I admire your confidence in writing, even though it was not meant to be read, but you could easily shatter my facade of being unshakable.
The mental picture of Oprah asking me about the patterns of light and darkness on my kitchen wall makes laugh. Her careful eyebrow arch says she knows this guest is off her nut. I especially laugh at the enthusiastic applause that follows my responses because of course I have every right to think I know more about wave-particle duality than Einstein does. I imagine how sage I look challenging his theories and proving him wrong... but I swear he's wrong. Seriously. You can test my theories yourself with a flashlight. (Can you imagine being obnoxious enough to challenge Einstein? I can.)
Candor makes me think of condors - the bird, not the airline, born to fly - there's something about the word that seems obscene. Which also strikes me funny.
I'm not sure if your question is meant to be answered or just noted. You've probably seen how little traffic makes its way through this place, but I don't mean to make you feel exposed at this point after being thoughtless enough to use your real name. So you'll have to tell me how to reply with candor but without leading to specifics. Do you want me to post a letter? Would you rather write to my email address?
I believe you were very very generous with me when I was 22. It's the unexpected things that stand out more sharply than the things I already knew about you. You were not only the guy who already seemed to know. I wonder if I wrote down all my memories of you if you would recognize yourself in them at all. I maintain that if you could not, it would not be because I was mistaken about you- but because you are mistaken about you.
I'm not melancholy exactly. Just thinking a lot - which is why it's more healthy for me to become obsessed with tile grout sometimes. The physical occupation lets the mind rest. It's why I run it's why I grind my teeth it's why I bite my lip and so forth.
You see.
I'm sorry, for real, if I insulted you, which was not the intention. I'd just hate for you to leave before I told you the last thing but I can't tell you the last thing until it's last. So you see it had to be asked. It's easier *by far* if you just don't go at all. I'm not going to mistake balance for absence. I missed you for thirteen years - so I'll be okay for a little longer.
(I think it's far easier to accidentally insult people in writing. If you had seen the stupid look on my face when I wrote it I'm sure you would have known what I meant.)
By the way, I don't know anything about how the speed of light is altered by vacuum versus atmosphere. This may be where my theory falls apart.
*yes*
Email would be brilliant. I get why you're not concerned about the traffic, but the searchability thing is problematic for me. Just because I'm paranoid does not mean they're not after me. Email I can tell you the story of how I found you. If you Google my name you should be able to find an address for me without much effort.
Besides I'm sure there are a gaggle of spectators who need to know how the floor turned out.
And out of nowhere I suddenly need you to tell me who I am, I think I believe you already.
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