Monday, July 23, 2012


Well, I'm back. That was unpleasant, I must say. Maybe a little bipolar something going on here? Except there's no real up phase. My maniacal tendencies are entirely under control. This one was interesting, though. Different. Usually it's a black interstellar cloud that envelopes my sun and brings on an absolute zero of oppression. I sense it a fair bit, nowadays, crouching below the limit of perception, like the Angel of Death. But that one has been keeping its distance. This was different.

Just some little precipitating event, an implied criticism. Quite unmanly of me, so asymmetrical a reaction. Yesterday I got a handle on it though. It was that I was afraid I had lost something, a relationship that is important to me. It's not some criticism, some mere issue -- it was a symbol embodying my sick stupid past, a poison pill, so small, so explosive.

So here, I wrote, last time, something about my father and his bullwhip. There I was, just writing it out. Another thing that existed in my past, no biggie. Then, later, it occurred to me that people might think it was pretty weird, not just how my father was, but my current attitude, of acceptance, matter of fact, that's just the way it is, so? Then I thought, should I feel differently about it? -- this idea that my father not only had but used a bullwhip on his pre-teen sons? Seems excessive, when I think about it. It certainly was, in my specific case. Nothing I ever did would merit something like that. Of course it only happened a few times. Usually it was the belt, his big black four inch wide belt.

Oh, he was a character, my dad -- big wide belt, cowboy hat, custom made knee-high leather boots, muscleman in the '60s, an uncommon thing. Sort of a homoerotic stereotype, only somebody has to be the real thing. Might as well have been my dad.

I don't know. What do you think? It seems strange to me, like he was playing a role. But don't we all? I'm more subtle, professor jack, the angry hermit, the lonely poet, the wounded child.

So there's that, those few insights, latest gleanings from this latest darkness. Fact is, I'd rather be whipped than have my soul undermined. It was the assaults on my masculinity, my budding manhood that cause me, still, the most rage. Oh, I'd better go no further. I'm growing filled with rage.

I was very bright, gifted, testing smarter at 8 than my brothers were at 12. IQ closer to 200 than 100. See how happy that has made me? Significantly closer. Why, if I had any accomplishments, I'd be, like, a genius. But I was immature, and emotionally troubled -- I need to be nurtured, and instead I was, well, attacked. Now I'm around pretty normal people, but it's superficial. I don't invite anything more meaningful. It would really frighten me. Beneficial though, the example of normality. I watch it sometimes, the casual interactions, the banter. It's very interesting. Ah, so that's how it's done. I'm only good with information, observations and analysis, self-confident intuitions, but there's no great market for any of that, and it's only okay, to continue doing what you're good at doing. No growth, in staying the same.

I've been taking the month slowly, physically. Focusing on strength rather than conditioning, and it's halting and hard. Doing a fair bit of bjj, with a very very strong white belt, and it's frustrating, mostly just hold him in my guard trying and failing to make opportunities. Usually I'm the strongest, and that's most of my game. Without that, I suck a fair bit. I'm not really a brown belt. I just look like one. Against a big strong skilled player, I would suck unbelievably. Makes me nervous. I don't like being inauthentic. I need to be demoted. Problem is, I'm only getting slower with age, and not a lot stronger. Oh well. Little by little will have to do.

Don't get me wrong. I will still die alone, and I will never again have meaningful tenderness in my life. Who knows, maybe I do have a booty call. But it wouldn't be meaningful, or frequent in a sustaining way, and I wouldn't call it sex (keeping in mind the semantical precision of a former occupant of the White House), and I wouldn't count it in any of these discussions. But she's hot, if there is such a person (as OJ said, whoever did it must have loved her very much). I reserve my right to privacy, ambiguity and satire.

This blog is performance art. My life is my canvas.


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