I’ve finally arrived at the amount of crazy where I can talk to no one like it’s no big deal. I’ve been talking to my phone a lot, and it records my voice so that I’m speaking to no one is justified somewhat by the fact that I’m making an audio journal. The training wheels are off and now I talk to empty space like whatever. I talked about stuff in my life for a while to my room a few days ago and yesterday I went to this little hidden beach in between the fancy hotel and where the bridge starts and talked to the bay and the wind and the seaweed and the rocks that they definitely put there. I said some stuff about me, about how I’m doing, and I tried to make it mean something. I said some nice stuff, totally, but the way I said it was just sort of flat, like I was reciting something. For me it’s proof again that the literal meaning of words is modulated heavily by the intonation and that is created by something more basic and essential. I hesitate to say feeling because…
I’ve had a narrow standard for deception. I have almost never lied. I thought I was doing well in that regard. Dishonesty, I realize now, has little to do with whether one refuses to or avoids telling an outright untruth. Lying literally can easily be the honest way to go, honest in service of what is really best. It just doesn’t do to have brittle castles for rightness. People don’t know what I am. People don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am. Not knowing is something that people will use against you over and over. People generally know and if you don’t then you’re either stupid or need helping. Never mind all those inspirational quotes from renowned people from all over history who say to keep an open mind. Taking that seriously is for chumps. I can’t help that I wonder about things, and see ambiguities, holes in finalities, grey areas. What I can help though is the part of myself that feels the need to show that. Today, what is called for is the bluff. I will pretend I know because doing so is more honest to what is best for me than dwelling on the veracity of details. The unsubstantiated, the sketch. Paintings in the realist tradition start this way. Therefore folks in the realistic tradition should avail themselves to the same liberties. The spectrum must be filled then by all those feelings that give credibility to the bluff. Can they be bluffed?
It’s definitely so that I’m a little scared of the theater. Imaginary feelings, up close and lived by people, the actors. I want this world where feelings are allowed without being saddled up like horses and paraded, made to carry things. The authenticity is under the magnifying glass. When I was living in Chicago, a man approached me saying he was stranded downtown and he needed money for gas, just a gallon of gas. I took him for his word, and as we walked down the street I turned out that he could really use three gallons of gas and something to but it in and that at least ten dollars would do the trick and of course, let me have your phone number and yes I’ll make sure I pay you back. Real feelings, false words. Evil, or just doing what needs to be done? My naive self back then was hurt to be used, used because I wanted to people in a world where people wouldn’t lie, manipulate the well meaning for what ended up being $18. Now, if this happened, I might still give this man the same money; for the talent, for the show.
Shameless pretending, talking to rooms without people, justifying actions. Realness, a perspective. The realness, the fakeness. The naive in me wants to say that it’s like taking an elevator and you can see the one, the other, overlapping. Be convinced and it all comes crashing down, those facades of nothing. Whatever rises up, from underneath. Is there really a need for more?