Wednesday, February 28, 2018

The Must

           
So I’m typing under my electric blanket. Yes, a nap. I do love an IPad. And I was thinking about the film Reds. Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton. And of course I remembered the scene. The train. One of the most powerful scenes on film. Exquisite. And I thought how many times in my life I've felt exactly the way she felt. And I thought about how many times in my life I could so easily identify with the emotions of a woman. Matter of fact, bareass truth? That’s what women like least about me. My ability to really identify with how they feel. I'm effortlessly and quickly put into the friend zone. And frankly, it caused me great heartache as a boy. I always worried because I cared; in the 70s, boys who cared weren't prized. Anyway. I've thought about it. I've spent a life aware of my emotions and my motivations. And frankly, that awareness has gifted my art yet burdened me with moral responsibilities.

Yesterday, I rode the exercise bike at cardiac rehab and a nurse did a “30 day” reevaluation of another patient. And she asked him whether or not he had stress in his life and he replied, “No. Everything’s okay. I don’t really have stress.” And I thought, “What? Heart stents and you‘re middle aged and you don’t have stress? Don’t you love anyone? Don’t you interact with anybody?” It’s incomprehensible to claim not to have stress.

I feel like I’m standing in front of a glass wall. Smashed against it. And I see insights into the human experience and they’re just so close. I can see them but they’re still removed from me. And I’m afraid. I’m learning things and I don’t know whether or not I want to be responsible for the knowledge. But I’m getting there.

As a writer I think it’s harder in this digital age. So much instant feedback. I’m not afraid of the feedback. I’m used to living raw. I write raw. I’m accustomed to encountering people who feel I’m uncomfortable. It’s hard to begin to learn the process of the endings when you have someone beside you slapping the pencil out of your hand and telling you you’re wrong because they feel uncomfortable.

I won't edit myself out of fear of humiliation. My #metoo piece was the last piece of my puzzle. I wrote it. I've got nothing left to protect.

So I’ll write.

There are sexual ejaculations.

There are spiritual ejaculations.

There are emotional ejaculations.

There are creative ejaculations.

And none can be contained.

One cannot contain the must.