Later though it usually feels weird, or embarrassing to have shared my journal thoughts verbatim with an invisible, albeit small, audience. I guess that's the life of a writer no matter what though...until you hit it big. I mean, until you hit it gigantic.
I'm glad though, that I do get so excited. I am glad my dreams feel so possible. I feel very lucky for that.
I was thinking about censoring my blog yesterday; about removing all the "sex" from it and putting it elsewhere. In thinking, and talking it out, I admitted that I wanted to make my blog more "accessible" to readers from all across the map of experience and I worried that any explicit, or outside of the norm, sexuality might turn some kinds of potential readers away. I was convinced mostly otherwise. I admit that the ideal would be to attract readers that like it all, rather than try to tailor myself to some imagined version of the majority.
It came all from feeling rather isolated, I think. Isolation is something I'm used to, and Bukowski says it's the key.
"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."So that's sort of comforting, unless and until you think about what Bukowski's life looked like to Bukowski. It wasn't the prettiest of pictures, to put it mildly. But my life is pretty in all sorts of ways. There are the dehydrated apple rings and banana slices in mason jars on the windowsill. There's the pumpernickel bread rising on the counter (ok, so it's in a bread machine). There's the rain falling on the roof and the more-often-than-not fresh air. There are coyote howls every night from the grassy wetlands behind our property.
— Charles Bukowski (Factotum)
I am not living in a dirty, smelly, metropolis any more. Yes I know, and admit, that I have a deep well of adoration for the cities that contain also myriads of delightfully attractive and amusing people to watch, and while I do so love to sit idealizing the incredibly beauty of humans being, I'm not actually that compassionate in a hurried pinch, and I do not actually remember that I really love all the ways in which we differ when I'm, say, being pushed about in a jostling rush hour bus with too many things in my hands and on my mind. So, ok. Those distinctions are clear. Yes, I love the simple, country life. But, yes, also I tend to miss feeling a part of something larger than two people trying to make things happen.
I used to walk around the city telling myself stories about how lonely I was and how alone I felt. If I could do it there, and I can do it here, then I think I will probably do that anywhere. It is one of my life's works then, to know I am not alone and to just keep "swimming" with the currents that carry me to where I belong.
I have always felt that isolation, and I have always isolated myself without knowing I was doing so at the time. I like to blame my Aquarius tendencies toward idealism, loftiness, and our general tendency to isolation. I like to blame my being an only child in a kidless neighborhood growing up. I like to blame my small family who didn't teach me the values of community. I like to blame suburbia and modernization. Obviously, those things are all versions of experience within my history, but they are not to blame. There is no blame needed, but it is easy to see that I am the one writing this story and I am the one putting all this lonely feeling inside it.
It does always seem to begin in my journal. Some part of me tells me that this or that is not enough and I flip it around and around in my mind wondering what to do about this lack. Then I go to the page and start writing. Sometimes all those rocks that make all that friction in my head stop tumbling and some even fall out of my ears entirely. Sometimes things quiet down and that very tiny soul voice deep within us all says, There Is Enough.
I write it down. I remember it again. I am once more validated that I should just keep going toward what makes me and mine bright and believe the voice when it tells me that there is enough.
Besides all that, I can't leave the sex out. It's against my belief that sex is fun, natural, and good when performed with a healthy mind.