Joy

“I can’t believe some of the things you post there.”

I can’t, either. It does give me somewhere to put all of this where you may choose to scrutinize it at your leisure. And I do very much enjoy the additive nature of this project; that it grows in size and overall message complexity. I like to believe that some day I might dress it and send it out in my stead.

As for the content, I have no apologies. I sure hope no one finds out that I’m strange. BREAKING NEWS.

I’m fairly sure my readership consists almost entirely of past and future girlfriends, anyway. Hi, ladies. A valuable service is being provided for you here. Those past get to cluck their tongues and shake their heads knowingly. Those future may as well find out what they’re in for: spectacular melodrama and needless nautical references. I AM IN YOU. Well. You know what I mean. I also guarantee a deeper and more complete overall experience than the other candidates offer. They’re just a person. I am everyone.

What I do regret is the incompleteness of this tapestry. There is little joy. One doesn’t find Jesus on prom night nor does one run for pad and pencil when things are well. At least I don’t. There’s little need to make sense of experience when that experience is already what you wanted. You simply exist and enjoy. There is no reason to process it further and doing so would only serve to create damage and distance.

It presents a very real issue in terms of voice. Is this severed perspective punctuated with moments of shuffling ache really adequate? Were that the whole of my self I would be a sorry figure, indeed. However, I find it difficult to reproduce the rest of the equation, stretches of simple pleasure, in a satisfactory way. Even the quiet, daily happenings that constitute a happy day. Kurt Vonnegut said that such moments should be acknowledged, that we should do so out loud saying, "if this isn't nice, I don't know what is." I want to do more, but it's slow going. It somehow fails to translate textually though it accounts for the majority of my daily experience.

The only exception to this are periods of love which, while certainly falling under this heading, are the exception rather than the rule. Exception is easy. What remains, the rule, are the portions that I am tempted to summarize and skip over.

I am concerned that this is a serious error.