22 August 2011 § 3 Comments
I’m not a very good blogger, apparently. The whole returning-read and comments and that sort of thing, I don’t do it often. Not that what you have to say is uninteresting or that I couldn’t learn something from you, which I’m sure I would, and in fact I’m constantly wanting to learn new things, but the whole internet surfing thing hasn’t had much appeal to me since Netscape Navigator was cool and AOL was still a viable company. Back when most websites were HTML-based and Shockwave was a hip thing, and we still received those ludicrous, forwarded questionnaires from people we didn’t know, filled them out with arbitrary information like what kind of pants are you wearing and who was the last person you kissed or blew, or whatever, and forwarded them to a bunch of other people we didn’t know. I’m just not that into it. So, if you’re here because seeing a higher number on your Site Stats page makes your heart beat a little faster, don’t bother. I probably won’t return the favor. It’s not personal.
Otherwise, thanks for reading. I’m still trying to work out what I should publish here and what I should keep private. The dreaded “so I read your blog the other day…” comments leave me a bit flummoxed, either out of disbelief that anyone actually reads this, or in disagreement that you should even read this. But I publish it, don’t I, to get your reaction, to be honored by your caring (or bored net surfing, stumbling, whatever), and to keep myself in check. The lack of detail I provide testifies to my lack of comfort with this concept, still. So, again, what do I say here? Everything? Surely not. Revelations? Things about people who come here and find their names in a poem? How would I feel about that? A little put-off, I think.
Maybe that’s why I don’t read other blogs. It’s a journal, like my black book. Whose cover is completely ripped off, and i’ve only a few pages left. I’ll be glad to get rid of the bulky ones like this. More flexible books. Fewer pages. So when I lose one, maybe I won’t feel as much grief. yeah, right. I didn’t need all those ghost letters I wrote in Europe anyway. They needed to get out into the world, not sit on my bookshelf. My book caught the travel ‘bug’ – which is not as much a bug as it is a somewhat obnoxious obsession from which a few are lucky to drive from their brains after a few awkward encounters with uncommunicative ticket agents and uptight passport control people:
Where’s your ticket out of my country?
i don’t have one.
i don’t have enough money for one.
So you want to work in my country.
no. I just want to look around.
You want to stay in my country?
no, i just want to look around.
Oh, so you don’t like my country?
I project myself as an enigma, and sometimes go to great lengths to ensure your intrigue. It’s not a trait I want to keep. It is a trait I want to edit. delete, copy, paste something else there instead. I want to be me, not just because I tell other people that they should be more themselves and I don’t want to be a hypocrite (too late), but because I’d rather participate in my life rather than simply observe it and mold it in ways I see as work for others, or in movies, which I’ve done for the better part of my life. Recently, I decided that my life is so much better than a film. Which made me want to be a part of it even more. I can do this.
Stop manipulating your relationships, Sean. Let them grow. When you cut ties and run, you’re only running from yourself. Have you ever wondered why you always end up in the same place when your travels are through? Guess what? you’re still you. and you carry all those things with you until you learn to let them go.
that’s difficult sometimes. I liked the me I was with you. Or did I?
Feel free to call me out, world. For fuck’s sake, I’ve been doing it to you for ages, and you’ve reacted so well, so easily, so flowingly and kind, to my harsh criticism. Why? I can’t always be right. I’m wrong quite often, actually. My vision isn’t bad, said the eye doctor, it’s that my brain never learned to see. I’ve been working with that idea for weeks. It was humbling, hearing that. The context was ironic. Someday, I’ll explain. I bet you’d like that.
So here we are, with an invitation to be truthful and real and raw and authentic and all the things I’d mistakenly thought I’d been doing and inspiring others to do.
Wow, said Kokayi. WOW.
I’m sorry, brother, but I’m a work in progress.