I was complaining about the difference between serious writing and pop culture blah-blah, and how personal history has taught me that the latter always trumps the serious shit.
Well, slap my face and call me a goob, because I've been proven wrong. In the last week this blog has averaged about five times the traffic as CHATTER. Wondering why the seismic shift had happened, I mentioned this to Addie, colleague at the Paragraph Factory, and she provided the easy (and correct) answer:
It's the voyeur in people. Everyone wants to watch a train wreck.
Another friend, Donna, called me Mr. Prolific today: "You've been posting stuff like a madman. I haven't been able to keep up."
I replied: "Neither have I." And I haven't. The flow of words coming out of my fingertips has become a torrent. I just type and post, pausing only to do some spot copy editing. What you read is what comes out of my head right now — and like the typist, it's pretty raw.
But it feels like a lot of sound and fury, and we all know what that signifies. Donna put it best: "Sounds like you're on an emotional roller coaster all in all. Still coming to terms."
I don't know if I'll ever come to terms with what has happened. I'm pissed — incredibly angry at the betrayal of my body. I'm trying to walk around without a cane and every time my left leg drags I want to yell at it, just fucking scream. I slap my left forearm and it's numb and I think I should get the biggest tattoo, just to see if I could feel. And if I couldn't I'd ask the artist to push the needle in deeper, add more ink, make it bleed.
I finally confessed my darkness to someone today, and they were kind and offered to listen, but I don't know if I believe the offer. I suspect it's just someone feeling sorry for my ass, and I hate pity. It's the worst thing someone can do to me. I'd rather be ignored and forgotten than pitied. Truth. It's already happened in an important way and I'm living with that hellish reality every minute of every fucking day. But as much as it sucks, I'm living with it. Sometimes in life, we have no choice.
But that's for me to handle. Me and only me. No thing, no one, is going to save me. Like walking and tying my shoes, I have to do it myself.
I am black as the winter's night in Barrow, Alaska, black and feeling useless and used and used up. This is a train wreck. But don't avert your eyes. You might miss the best part.