This post will be deleted once things fall into place. Upgraded wordpress database (about two years overdue). Deleted old stylesheets. Using temporary one while making other planned changes. Do not be alarmed. (Though I am a slowpoke)
Addendum:
Several deletions, category changes, and edits. Just wrapping left to do.
I wish you would approach me with less kindness. Not for lack of gratitude or appreciation, not because I find it an unflattering characteristic, and certainly not for any question of value: But because, though it is far from charity, it dictates how we relate to one another and how, at the end of the day, I think of you (though this is generally with a smile).
An attempt to explain this would start with the basic dualism: Heart, it suffers a ridiculous inclination towards blindness. Some experience, however, has taught Brain to always carry a flashlight.
Would I prefer a touch of cruelty? No - but I would have known how to navigate around it: Kindness, like yours, is a fog, clouding my vision and blurring the edges, and while it doesn’t hurt me, a flashlight won’t help me through it.
I will respond to your kindness with smiles as long as it is granted to me this way; but I would feel better armed with a map.
At the other end of the line, she’s struggling to stop laughing, and just then, as you almost smile in triumph, you have become the clown again.
(Clowning, in its most basic form, can be described as one form of drama without a fourth wall. In other words, a clown acknowledges his audience.)
Nothing in your mouth is not honest. And everything in your head is huge; every concept a large painting, some full of looming shadow, some with too loose brushstrokes, just a myriad of coloured spots if you get too close.
This is art: Violet tree trunks, butter skies.
Silent man says he talks to the ceiling. And you, you talk to construction sites. Then you talk to other people’s voices, and here’s a different language, and there’s so many words, but give them the right inflection and they all mean the same.
This is art: a large sitting dog made out of 70 000 flowering plants.
The angles and inflections, do they get to trespass on the property of honesty?
1
(Hello) There’s someone I’d like you to meet. X does your job and does it better than you. X is well liked and we like X more than you. You may have expected us to be able to read minds, but allow us to demonstrate we obviously can’t: Mr X is on the cover of the metaphoric Time Magazine, love, tell us - do you mind?
2
A false memory is a memory of an event that did not happen or is a distortion of an event that did occur as determined by externally corroborated facts.
“Therapists who adopt a suggestive approach when the patient tries to recall memories, are at risk of creating false memories whose content is related to the suggestion used. This is particularly true of situations in which the therapist is trying to account for a patient’s symptoms in terms, for instance, of a possible trauma in their past.”
3
I’ve seen it before, he says. Yes, I’ve seen it before too. Frown, scepticism in the corner of his mouth. I made decisions last time, I don’t say. My new year’s resolution? It’s Don’t do stupid shit. I don’t say this either. Don’t fucking underestimate my intelligence, I don’t say. Just be cool with him for a while, he says.
I promise I’m nowhere near uncool, I say. You’re right, I don’t say. I was blind until you brought it up and now I don’t know who to be angry with, I don’t say. Are you overestimating me, I don’t ask.
I used to dream, I don’t say. I woke at 3:04 am as faces blended with each other and I wanted to scream. I don’t want to say much at all. Don’t do stupid shit.
1
Of course I don’t mind. Of course it’s fine. Of course, I’m not going to have you digging through your most polite ways to say I’m second best.
2
But I don’t know if this did not happen. I don’t know if this is a distortion. I know shitty and I know sleepless. I know no suggestive therapist. I know any number of suggestive news stories, everyday entertainment, noble causes. The suggestion is written in concrete if you decide to look at it that way. I don’t know if this is a distortion. Fuck you.
3
It all comes down to distance and dreams. I’ll leave it at that, hun, but I need a few promises: Do not tie my name to the virtues you need the most. Do not, in the face of overwhelming contrary evidence, view me as the saviour of any kind of heart. Don’t expect me to have a heart at your disposal. Don’t be drawn to me for my principles and then expect to be the exception. I don’t make exceptions. And know this: I know about blindness. It’s all distance and dreams.
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