There’s a fine mist today, life in a cloud. My balcony door is open and wearing shorts and The Perfect Hoody has made it perfect. Or is it.
Time passes. It strikes me sometimes. I try to avoid routine, but how possible is that, really. The routine of myself is stronger than whatever activity decisions I might make. If I force something new on whatever situation I’m in– let’s say it’s a day like today–I can force a new experience, but ultimately does it matter to me?
I could leave my desk here and head out to some neighborhood someplace, and look at stuff, and think about stuff, and maybe sit down in some coffee shop and write some stuff. But does any of that really change the routine of myself, my attitudes and concerns, my feelings and thoughts, my desires or interests? I’m beginning to feel like any of those potentially interesting changes are a kind of self-gratifying illusion– an illusion that I do have perfect control over my ability to live a fulfilling and satisfying life. How important is my will to action in what ultimately ends up happening to me.
I feel untamable every day. I want to exert and influence things around me. But the illusion of ever having some kind of control over things that happen around or to me is becoming clearer. Time passes and I wonder what I am really doing.
When I fight someone, it feels good. I like picking people up and dumping them on their heads, or knocking them to the ground. I like to shake hands afterward and let them know how appreciative I am of their shared interest. I feel a kinship when fighting that doesn’t exist in any other realm in my life. It seems to have something to do with the idea of “truth”. There’s truth in the ground, never an illusion. There’s truth in getting punched in the face, and an opponent is sharing with me certain truths about my own skills and awarenesses and confidences. The same phenomenon is likely why I’m sexual. The give and take, to a degree the control and interaction, the emotional-physicality of the whole thing is the truth, and I’m drawn to it. It seems lacking in nearly every other aspect of my life. Fighting and sex are both acts of expression and receptivity to expression. When I say receptivity, I’m not talking just about receiving the expression of another person, but equally the receptivity experienced in expressing truth– in other words, the being receptive to one’s own expressions, as they are received and responded to by others. Maybe “self-acceptance” is a better word for this kind self-receptivity.
Sometimes I wake up with my fists clenched and I just want to destroy my environment. That’s an expression. Sometimes I want to knock an opponent across the cage in such a way that they will not get back up. Sometimes I want to so thoroughly deplete the person in my bed that they can do little else but smile dazedly until they fall asleep, no showering off at all. That’s the world I make, and need and often miss. And it’s hard for me because that’s not the way the world is. I don’t fit in here, usually. I can stay adaptable, and I’ve had to in order to survive an overpopulated community like NYC, but it tires me out, literally drained by way of restraint and forced detachment. It doesn’t feel healthy to me, but what choice do I really have besides returning deeply to the woods.
