"i'm still alive and telling the tale"

finished Behind the Scenes last night and enjoyed it more than i expected to. there's something grand about the last page of a book, some combination of accomplishing something and getting to start something new (in this case, either Blind Assassin by Atwood or a book i've never heard of, lent by a coworker, Chalktown by Melinda Haynes), and to me at least, that now the characters are free, their existence goes back to having more than one path. which is all bizarre and dangerously close to new-agey of me, i realize but i'm almost as scared of narrative as i am of subjectivity.

light told me i needed speech more than anyone he'd ever met, and i tried to explain that it's scary and it's sad that everyone's trapped inside their own heads and there's no way to get out so you're always alone. even typing the sentence shows what i mean to me, if not to everyone else. i don't stop thinking, as far as i can tell, unless i'm drunk or asleep. and it's not always neurotic, it can be completely random. even at work, i'm wondering if i offended light last night when i talked to him, and how i kinda want to reserve a tablewindow at the thai place friday to celebrate him going to court, but we don't often end up going out to eat fridays, he gets here too late and i'm wondering if i'll ever actually see wary, i'm thinking about which book i should start next, i'm trying to determine which Kris Delmhorst song i want to add to the poetry web, and i'm thinking about the motif of secrets in the book i just read and the nature of secrets, and trying to make some sort of case for similarities between those i can and those i can't be blunt with. or at least that's what's gone through my head in the past couple minutes. and no one's going to know that unless i write it down, even if it's uninteresting, and i'm never going to know what trains of thought are flitting through other people's heads.

but narrative creates an entirely different problem, though it might not be considered a problem as such. i watch myself like a chess board, only capable of seeing all of the moves a few moves ahead, i can't take the tree all that far, and i'm never quite sure if i'm getting the full picture, because i know it's colored by my lack of sense-of-self-worth. but then things happen, and all that possibility is lost, and sometimes things happened and though there may be more than one conclusion, the thing itself herds you through the next three or four pivotal points, inexorably in one direction. and choices i've made before mean that i've only got one choice now, and i trap myself, over and over again.

(totally tangenting, following the path my thinking takes rather than logic dictates because no matter how my feelings about the audience or the audience's feelings about me might influence things, i make no apology for the way i feel about light, and never will.)

and i wouldn't change a single thing, because i would never know if it was one of the things that ended me up here, and i wouldn't sacrifice this for anything. and i don't feel trapped anymore, and i never knew how much self-restricting i had been doing until i didn't think i had to anymore. i had no idea i had this much me inside me.

"i'm still alive and telling the tale"

finished Behind the Scenes last night and enjoyed it more than i expected to. there's something grand about the last page of a book, some combination of accomplishing something and getting to start something new (in this case, either Blind Assassin by Atwood or a book i've never heard of, lent by a coworker, Chalktown by Melinda Haynes), and to me at least, that now the characters are free, their existence goes back to having more than one path. which is all bizarre and dangerously close to new-agey of me, i realize but i'm almost as scared of narrative as i am of subjectivity.

light told me i needed speech more than anyone he'd ever met, and i tried to explain that it's scary and it's sad that everyone's trapped inside their own heads and there's no way to get out so you're always alone. even typing the sentence shows what i mean to me, if not to everyone else. i don't stop thinking, as far as i can tell, unless i'm drunk or asleep. and it's not always neurotic, it can be completely random. even at work, i'm wondering if i offended light last night when i talked to him, and how i kinda want to reserve a tablewindow at the thai place friday to celebrate him going to court, but we don't often end up going out to eat fridays, he gets here too late and i'm wondering if i'll ever actually see wary, i'm thinking about which book i should start next, i'm trying to determine which Kris Delmhorst song i want to add to the poetry web, and i'm thinking about the motif of secrets in the book i just read and the nature of secrets, and trying to make some sort of case for similarities between those i can and those i can't be blunt with. or at least that's what's gone through my head in the past couple minutes. and no one's going to know that unless i write it down, even if it's uninteresting, and i'm never going to know what trains of thought are flitting through other people's heads.

but narrative creates an entirely different problem, though it might not be considered a problem as such. i watch myself like a chess board, only capable of seeing all of the moves a few moves ahead, i can't take the tree all that far, and i'm never quite sure if i'm getting the full picture, because i know it's colored by my lack of sense-of-self-worth. but then things happen, and all that possibility is lost, and sometimes things happened and though there may be more than one conclusion, the thing itself herds you through the next three or four pivotal points, inexorably in one direction. and choices i've made before mean that i've only got one choice now, and i trap myself, over and over again.

(totally tangenting, following the path my thinking takes rather than logic dictates because no matter how my feelings about the audience or the audience's feelings about me might influence things, i make no apology for the way i feel about light, and never will.)

and i wouldn't change a single thing, because i would never know if it was one of the things that ended me up here, and i wouldn't sacrifice this for anything. and i don't feel trapped anymore, and i never knew how much self-restricting i had been doing until i didn't think i had to anymore. i had no idea i had this much me inside me.