The Palace
It's amazing how much you can fuck up when you're sure you've covered every base, defended every decision, and made sure everything was safe and sound. I posted a story last night and went to great lengths to hide the identity of who I was writing about. I truly thought I'd figured it out. But Jesus, I truly dropped the Goddamned ball just like that bowling ball that narrowly missed my head on that forgetful day at Penn State. Just another day which means nothing other than the pain it would have caused. Does every day, every choice have such a capacity to bring such pain to someone we love?
And so I wrote this story and posted it, and they were furious. They have none of the interest that I have in getting all my weaknesses out there. And as much as I tried, I made that decision for them and just dragged them into my own inane plot. I thought I hid them, but I left things in which anyone in their family would surely recognize. And I'm terrified that I'm doing it again, so no more details. No more about the story.
What is starting to weigh on me is how to write about me when it all involves all of you. I'm nothing without you. How does my reaction to anything even exist if it doesn't impact on someone else? This whole project, this "book" thing, has taken a massive emotional toll on me. I don't say that in any way looking for sympathy. It's just nothing I considered would be a part of all of this. I figured I'd just remember stories, write them down, try and come up with interesting ways to phrase fairly mundane ideas, find a song to attach it to and be done with it. But it hasn't been that at all. You start digging into your life, and you keep finding things, long-buried, that were buried for a Goddamned good reason. They hurt. Or they're embarrassing. Or they're shameful. We never bury the good stuff. Fuck, three shovelfuls, and we'd be done.
I spoke to this person on the phone today. I wanted to try and tell them that I meant well. That I wrote what I wrote with love, but they weren't having it. They just saw my words as ways into parts of their life that they were not ready for anyone else to know about. And I just blew it all wide open.
I deleted the post immediately. Just easier to make it all go away than to try and coax some safe version out of it. This was hours ago, and I still feel horrible. Christ, this person is one of the small handful of people on this earth that I do not want to hurt in any way. Almost all of the rest of them have figured into these stories, but his one hasn't. And I just dragged them into it.
How do writers keep track of this stuff? How do they decide who to expose and who to hide? And how does the truth get told with such value on editing coming to the fore? And what the fuck do I even know about writing a book? My whole life, while making records, Japanese knives, perfect lasagne, and beautiful furniture for some other girl I love and all manner of new things I've learned to do, well, writing a book has always seemed like the very top of the mountain of creativity. Any asshole can write a record or make a knife but to write a book is a wholly different animal. When Cormac MacCarthy wrote Blood Meridian, he had to have known that he surpassed every other human alive, dead, or even unborn. No one was going to pass that one. Every road has an end. And that's where that road ended. Blood Meridian. Something has to be the best in every conceivable sport. And he'd written it.
I wonder where all this will lead. Maybe like so many things, it'll feel exciting for a while and then just slowly fall back inward on itself and turn to salt. The salt we create with excited dreams and trickles of tears are the stuff of what they paid the Roman soldiers with. They paid them in salt. That's where "soldier" comes from. That's where the word "salary" comes from. Sal meaning salt. Imagine that the stuff of our tears that our dogs will lick away for hours is the very thing that allowed our species to not only survive but thrive. Salt is the single most important element in our species' evolution. And I just produce it every few hours while writing this stuff. I'm single-handedly saving humanity by writing and crying. If you cry too, take a bow. You're keeping us all alive.
Do you remember the first time you fell in love? Not your first crush. And not your first bout of lust but the first time you felt that feeling, that assurity that if he or he was to leave, you'd be destroyed. It sounds like something to be avoided, but it's everything worth living for. Love requires such a massive risk. Love requires us to put our neck on the sharp blade of steel that, at any moment, some big guy with a mask can pull a string and allow another 25-pound piece of steel to fall and separate us from our body. Our head just rolling about, thinking, "I guess I'm not in love anymore." But you know what? It was worth it. Dying from love is always worth it. Imagine a life safely removed from such a risk. What a flat, vapid life.
Imagine never feeling the soul-crushing pain of having to decide to put a dog down after years of love and months of suffering. What kind of fucking cretin wouldn't take that risk? We need to filter these people out. We'll never evolve if we allow the safe to call the shots. We need people unafraid of the deepest pain in return for the deepest reward to lead us. I don't think there's a Goddamned one of them in any position of power who is capable of this. Those that suffer the risk rarely seek power. They seek love. Love and power almost never, if ever, cross paths.
What's the point of any of this? Why am I even writing this? I'm sitting here smoking and listening to Magnolia Electric Company. Jason Molina, he knows what I'm talking about. He took it as far as one can take it. Dead in the street after years of drinking away his heartbreak. Not something I encourage, but he felt it, sang about it, and gifted us with it. Some of us have much bigger balls than others. And I'm not equating courage with self-destruction. Truly I'm not. But if you find yourself twixt the two, well, then go for it. Let the steel blade fall. Risk everything for love. Safety and passion can not ride in the same car.
Imagine a world where everyone took chances and shot for the stars. Imagine a place where everyone did everything for love despite the implicit danger. Imagine this place. Does it seem horrible or beautiful? Or maybe it seems pointless. I don't know. Seems pretty good to me. I know I'd rather die trying for the stars than dying in a safe hole in the ground. And, here's what's more! Who am I to say I even know which one I'm choosing? Maybe I'm a coward pretending to be a hero. Maybe shooting myself full of heroin for decades instead of feeling pain renders me a safe hole dweller. Fuck. Perhaps that's what I am. But maybe not. Maybe my fantasy of myself is at least a little true.
When I spoke to my friend earlier today who was furious with me, they said, "I know you want to expose all of you. You say that. But we don't all want that, and it's not for you to decide." I read back on all of this, and it seems like I'm making many decisions about how people should live their lives. I need to stop. I can only live my life as much as I think I know best for others. Clearly, I don't, or I wouldn't have felt such rage today.
One of these days, this life will end. I wonder how? I wonder where I'll be? Will it involve suffering or just a quiet slipping into an endless sleep? Will anyone miss me? Will it make a difference? It's something to consider. Someday this will all end. It seems I better get to work and shrink the cost of wasted days that I think we all must pay with at our last breath. Such regret. Such wishes. Ty Cobb's last words were, "I wish I'd had more friends."
Christ, Can you even imagine what that must have felt like to have such a thought spring into your heart the second before it just stopped beating?
Love like a fucking crazed hero. Go berserk with love.