cloudy with a chance of muse

Dear reader, I know that so many of my blog post don’t make any sense but then again, they really aren’t supposed to make any sense to anyone but myself and even I have a hard time rereading a few of them. One upset someone close to me the other day and my first thought was, "this is my life, my thoughts, what do I have to be sorry about?" Except that this kind of thinking feels so conceited and selfish that it is hard to hold on to, and I end up feeling like I ought to make a better apology... Incidentally the one I made was something like “I’m not sorry I said it, I’m just sorry you got hurt” and right away I knew that this apology was way crappy and that I needed to go back to the drawing board, but then so much of what I say and do is like this that the drawing board is full most of the time and I think "forget it, I’ll get back to it later."

J. sometimes says, half jokingly, that I lack in internal auditor, and maybe this is true, but most of the time I feel that the auditor is so busy dealing with yesterdays business that today’s doesn’t stand a chance. It's like one of those horrible New York Times articles that has some poor beleaguered S.O.B. sitting behind a desk with his out box empty and his in box full and the caption reads “I’ll get to that tomorrow” except that I don’t want to get to it tomorrow, not when it is important, and, after all, isn’t right now important? Isn’t why my inbox is so full and my outbox so empty because I have been neglecting this moment for so long. What is happening to me right now?

(Crickets chirping)

What is my emotional-self saying right now? I mean, other than, “I’m tired” and “why won’t you just let me go to sleep?”

“Pipe down!” I say.

J. and I got into an argument today. Apparently neither one of us was listening to the other. Or, at least, I was so busy trying to find an emotional center that I found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else, and the things that I was able to concentrate on didn’t sound like anything that I was talking about. In retrospect I think we were both working really hard on a solution and were impatient with the other. I know when I get impatient people tell me I look angry. It is hard to look composed when you are disagreeing. It takes skill. I haven’t got that skill. I feel all befuddled. Nothing makes sense. Part of me wants to run, the other part wants to dig in his heels. Nothing is accomplished here.

Someone recently told me that their blog was compromised by it readership. OMG! Yes! Yes! Yes! I know exactly what you mean. I mean, we want readers, but then when we have invited our friends, family, co-workers, the occasional student, and an internet full of strangers into our house that is our brain, how it is not compromised? It is all compromised. Still, can I say “Dude. I know where you are coming from but you are driving me crazy.” Or do I just let it lie?

(Pause)

So here is the thing. I know where my emotional-self is and most of the time it lives in the question, “Am I a failure?” Now before you rush to judgment or rush to type the heart warming comments to the contrary, you should know that a fear of failure is a huge motivator for me. It gets me out of bed, it usually pays the bills, it forces those half baked apologies from me, and usually allows for more heart felt ones, it makes me paint, it helps me teach, it drives me to read and to the grocery store and most of the time it keeps me alive.

Not that this is any way to live. It is not a philosophy I recommend.

“No shit” says the casual reader. But I tell you, it is a thought as addictive as any drug, as powerful as any emotion, it will not let you sleep, not let you settle, not let you doubt, though doubt you will, and all the time until you find some type of closure.

Some might think I am being sorry for myself, but I don't feel that way at all. In fact, I am really rather amused at the way in which my mind (which as it turns out isn't trying to kill me at all) has somehow managed to turn this blaring character defect into an asset. As sort of internal "try, try again." You might even say I am channeling my inner Holden Caulfield.

I stand before the canvas, the canvas yawns back at me. It’s bored. It wants amusement. It waggers a stiletto knife at me and taunts “is that all you have? Why don’t you give me your wallet and we’ll call it even. “ I recoil. My palms are sweaty. I don’t fear death. I fear ignobility. The hand wavers. The knife slackens. I reach out making a furtive gesture to wave him off but my hand makes contact with the blade and it snaps in two. I am terrified. My assailant doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand I should die, on the other I have to upper hand. The knife is broken. He sees into my eyes, and knows my terror. “I’ll let you off this time, but just until we meet again. Then you are mine!” As he leaves I bend down and pick up the broken blade and push it into the palm till it draws blood. I wonder, what was I afraid of, and in the same moment, know, with a dread certainty, that I will be afraid again.