her one and only brother passed away on the 6th of this month, and she and i have not spoken since. condolences, in this case, were done by e-mail, and on this call neither one mentioned his death. what does this all mean?
while in the mist of compiling my expenses from 2004, i came across the printout of a note that i wrote to a friend of mine. here "friend" is a term that i am using rather loosely, if not exaggeratedly. i know him, i have spoken with him, we have flirted, we have had light weight discussions, and we have done some serious work. i call him a friend because he ends being a wonderful teacher, not so much only in his discipline, but in the way he is. with him there is what i like to call affinity, that is, the feeling that one has in the presence of another that gives a sense of familiarity and awe.
not only my mother yesterday asked "how are you?" just minutes before my brother had asked "how are you?"
it is summer, it is hot, the draft in my office keeps me comfortable and hot, but not sweating. after sitting out of training for over two weeks, the prospects of some really good sweating are starting to seduce me. i like that feeling of my body when it is pushed to the limit, and knowing that i am pushing it at the edge. most of the time, i am too much of a coward, and too frightened by pain, then i choose to stay within the comfort zone. am i starting to feel cold in the comfort of my pain avoidance? but i do not only tend to avoid pain, i am equally well versed in trying to avoid reality.
not only is there the question of how i am, there is the question of the stories that i write. "is it autobiographical?" they ask. they ask not just me, they ask any poor sucker who is into writing stories; the inquisitors range from nice neighbors to intelligent journalists.
on a good day, i forget and i lie. although on another good day, i would say that i am a moralist willing to dish out moral lessons to any ill advised person who asks me for advice, still i have not much of a relationship to truth. i write fiction. i write fiction, and i do not intend to deceive or create misleading impressions about who i am or may not be. perhaps i only lie in bed, and i sincerely do hope to one day, in all peace, die there in my sleep. before then i will keep on exploring the world of the relationships in my life.
the note that i wrote to that friend is dated from october of last year, and i have no clue as to whether i have mailed it or not. i suspect that i have not, if i did mail it, this man is so full of generosity and flaws that he will forgive me the intrusion of my emotional blabbing onto his life. to me the nature of true intimacy is forgiveness. intimacy is highly unrelated to something that everybody talks about and about which i have no clue: the truth.
"that my empty and meaningless life would touch yours, that, surprises me. that your being, that being who calls himself by an angel's name, touches this life of mine, is ecstasy."
now, how many men do you know who can deal with such prose? many, but few when it is addressed to them personally, and interpreted to be personal, like in "i want your soul and body and forget the poetry!" when such prose is not perceived as personal, it is assumed to be addressed to the intellect, and thus many can deal with such words in an abstract or figurative way. the very instant such prose is interpreted, some ugly little demon always wants to know what in this physical world i want from him. the only trouble is that those little demons inside one's head are just full of gibberish and fear. i want nothing, he knows.
psychology is that invention that claims to be the science of behavior and the mind. the popularization of psychology and its mélange with new age cacophonic esotericism always renders me rather skeptical in any conversation on the subject, even when those talking about it are otherwise knowledgeable people. with psychologist and psychiatrists i can talk and have constructive conversations, with lay para-psychologists, i have my troubles. when i myself start dabbling towards the latter, i get truly alarmed. the death of my uncle threw me right into the pits of my own psychology, and i was ready to do anything to just get it over with. i did anything. i went to the movies, i had a few debates with friends, and a few good cries.
i start adding all of this up, nothing makes sense: i am one lucky person to be alive. that is how i am.
the circumstances are a mess, but since when have i had much concern for circumstances?
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