Deus Ex Machina
Writing a blog now seems to me like signing up to work out in a gym and then being forced to run on your treadmill right in front of the window, right where everyone else can see you — everyone else who’s walking somewhere, not just in place–
I tried this two and a quarter years, three apartments, four lifetimes, ten or twelve vows, one lifetime set of vows, and at least twenty nervous breakdowns ago. I’m new at this again.
And what happened last time was just that it ended — I think because I tried too hard to be whatever it was that I wasn’t, which is why what I wasn’t, or hadn’t been for a while, if I ever had been to begin with, didn’t spiral on forever but swirled down a drain somewhere that wasn’t nowhere, where I was and was going still though I’d arrived. What was it that I was, when I wasn’t who I was? I was what I was but wasn’t what I am and I certainly wasn’t what I would have been if I could have been everything I should have been when I wasn’t going to be what I would never have been and would never be, no, not in a million years.
Yes, writing a blog now seems to me like signing up to work out in a gym, where you become living advertising for the system, where the pressure of others in turn stimulates you to put more pressure on yourself — yes, indeed, no one else’s pressure can affect you, it is you yourself who pressures–
This is exercise for me. Yes, there is pleasant ZEN to be felt watching a hamster spin in circles. It’s the collision of opposites, the in-motion and the static, the yin and yang, one and zero.
It is not nothing, which is worth enough. Nothing will come of nothing but madness, for nothing is where madness lies, that way.
Oh yes, this blog is exercise for me. Out of shape, I’ve lost my edge, as round as ever. Stare and point or look away and stare and look away and laugh, but look first and maybe again. Writing is enough for me. That’s enough.
