Saturday, July 16, 2011

I hate writing sometimes.

Self destruction is interesting in the arts.

Art, music, dance, poetry... tortured self-expression can be captivating, mesmerizing, aching, enlightening, freeing and sometimes even hilarious (enter TFLN: "It never makes you rethink your life choices when you're breaking into my apartment at 3am to take a piss in my kitchen sink?").

But in blogs? No. In blogs, self-destruction is face-palmingly horrifying. It's a train wreck in words.


Because you get to see the whole picture.
"I smashed a lamp over my head. There was blood everywhere. And glass. And I took a picture." Penelope Trunk writes in a post on how to bounce back.
. . .
"I had basically been broken to the ground.  I had 16 out of 17 businesses fail, I survived divorce, losing a home, depression, people dying on me, not seeing my kids for long periods of time, investments fail, and I was fired from about eight jobs simultaneously. What was the point? I was just going to write how I saw it. Screw it." James Altucher in Do You Have to be Rich to be Honest?

You shake your fist at the screen and say "WHYWHYWHY are you doing this, it's so bad for you!!"

You want to see these people happy. You wouldn't be reading their blogs if you didn't care, right?

Granted, writing about awesomeness is boring as fuck. What's the value in self-exploration if you're only going to present the side of yourself you want everyone to see? Bitches, I'm in the trenches here. I'mma fuck up and then talk about it because that's what I DO.

I'm seeing the artist today.

I just saw you roll your eyes.

You want to say, "THIS is how people have shitty lives! They make shitty decisions. They see the choices that are shitty and then do it anyway."

You will say this and then get to be right when I lament my choices later through a haze of tears.

I hate writing sometimes.

I wish I could croon these dark impulses in husky undertones instead, using poetic verses to express the unexplainable. The thing I can't articulate. The need I can't shake for a sense of peace amidst the chaos. If I could sing about this, maybe you could join me. Maybe I'd bring you to that time you were a little reckless too.

We romanticize recklessness. The cost for uncaging our insides is normally tightly hidden. But the biggest vices in society belie our wrapped exterior: food, drugs, alcohol, porn, sex, fantasy, entertainment... these speak of the desire to be moved, awakened, soothed.

I agreed to see the artist to calm the torrents inside. I want to understand what happened. I want to heal and learn how to be friends. I hope this isn't a mistake, but here I go, trying.


  1. While you probably know it's a mistake to go see him after how it went down when he 'disappeared' when knew you were coming... it doesn't make it any less real a need. However, should this also fail to bring you peace, please ask for help to make peace from your friends without trying to be friends with him. He has already proven he really doesn't deserve the extra effort by how he lashed out... so in my book, you are being way too nice to someone that is likely to lash out and make you fall even deeper. While it's easy to say this, when you're IN it, it doesn't make it easy to walk away and not try. Especially when you're such a kind soul. We'll be here no matter how it turns out...

  2. "Granted, writing about awesomeness is boring as fuck." -- I roared over this sentence; laughed so hard that I spewed my tea! Ditto: "THIS is how people have shitty lives!" :-D

    "We romanticize recklessness." -- No laughing there. So true, and so dangerous.

    "Here I go, trying." -- Understood. Friendship may or may not come ... and it might be soon enough after your conflict that it's not possible yet. Too much raw hurt. The man who was my husband told me, in the midst of his leaving, that he wanted me to consider him a friend. Down the road, perhaps.