The Wrong Way to Go About It.

…In the post section of the last entry, Melissa asks a hard questions. That’s ok. I asked it first. Maybe in my heart I wanted to answer it. The way we kiss someone the way we want to be kissed.

…I think about what it means to live.
To live is to perceive.
to see the sunthegrassthelionsandtherabbitsandthefishesandthestonesandthefreckles
to hear hemusictheheartbeatsthefallingthingsthebreakingthings
to feel theseathebreaththecoldthesplinterasitgoesin
to taste theplumthebitterthesugarthemetalherdeepinsideandherflesh
to smell therainthedeadthelivingthecandlesthewine.

All of these senses. Any of these senses. And for them to spatter on the brain, and for the brain to make sense of them, to find them: painfulorpleasurableorbeutifuloruglyorfrighteningormagnetic.

To live is to be aware.

…Naturally we think that if others perceive us, if they tastesmellseehearfeel us, in any way, in each way, if they are aware of us, our lives are somehow extended.

We will live more roundly.
And maybe longer.

Shakespeare’s immorality.

…We seek ways to project our voices.
We all of us belong to Pirnadello, characters in search of an author.

Me, what I am doing? What do I want?

It’s a good question, the best, and the most telling.
Kiss me the way you want to be kissed.

...My exhibitionism is like yours—anyone who reads and wants also to say—mostly internal.

I want you to know me on the inside of my skull.
I want you to rise and fall with my lungs.

But like an exhibitionist who once found it pleasing for people to see him posed ideally, in just the right light, with whatever imperfections hidden by turn of trunk and twist of neck, I’ve grown bored with that kind of writing.

That was the writing of my youth. When I tried to justify my life and suggest its exceptionalism. When I was the hero of every story I told, or at least every hero in every story I told was me in possibility.

…Bukowski tells us that the are no beautiful women, no strong men.
And as for the immortality, he tells us:
The lies of life, the lies of love
The lies of Blake, Aristotle, an Christ,
Will be your bedfellows, will be your tombstones
In a sleep that never ends…

That not through philosophy or mysticism or religion or love or anything shall we be made immortal.

And that there are not heroes.

Only people.

…In any case, I want you to know me for real.
I want you to see what is wrong.

And I want you to like me anyway.

…And what I bring up in you, hatred or desire, if it’s not spent, what is its value?

If you don’t want to kill me, or kiss me, or go on some long walk, or some short drive; if you don’t want to avoid me at all cost; if this doesn’t draw you to me or repel you away from me, of what value is it?

I don’t know.

…Can I properly answer the questions I throw out? Can I really kiss back the way I’ve kissed and been rekissed?

…Perhaps I seem to wax philosophical. Maybe I come across as if I know what I’m talking about. It’s hard to say. I don’t read my own writing closely enough.

But if that’s true--if I seem to wax wise--it’s only the truth of the tone.

It’s not me:

I know I know almost nothing.
There is almost nothing I can’t be retaught. And haven’t been retaught.
About much I am in the dark.

The bulk of my own mind, the character of my own soul, the depth of my own heart—these are mysteries.

Often, when small solutions accidentally present themselves, I’m not happy with what I learn.

That I could be so un-genuis.
Or so un-saintly.
Or so pained.

And I want you to know.

I don’t want you to find out too late.

I don’t want you to like my photograph, that particular pose.
Or my essay, that collection of craft.
Those false constructions.
Any spin I can give myself.

I want you to like me, opened up.
If it’s possible.
Perhaps it is.
Perhaps it’s not.

But one should try.

…And based on all that, even the first year psychology student would tell you: he writes this blog so that he can learn to accept himself.

And that student would tell you this is the wrong way to go about it.