The terrible thing about a blog is that one day, if you’re not careful, you’ll reach a point after posting so many ‘brave’ disclosures about life, art and that infallible methodology of accurately calculating the universe that it eventually becomes a fearful exercise of unreservedly telling the truth. For when you actually realize something about yourself so terribly fundamental revealing it becomes not unlike senselessly disrobing fully in public view. This can come from so simple a task of making the fatal mistake of reading your own posts.
They say that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at a crossroads. And with my own story, it wasn’t so much bargaining with anyone in specific as simply having an uncanny knack of ending up far along on the wrong road fleeing from everything that really meant something to me in return for other things that eventually came to mean naught. This ongoing desert journey of my own seeming like some well meaning jest or wager conducted long ago in a previous existence far removed from the current era. A Faustian bargain that never afforded any real possibility for empathy for an unexpected Gretchen. For despite the convenient excuse of that temporal blindness known as innocence, there is no fit extenuating circumstance for repeating the same mistakes many times except for arrogance or a desire for self-destruction.
Those who interpret dreams say that we play every role in our own dreams of the night but I wonder if some of us take that concept much farther into the light of day? This lifelong nagging desire to constantly produce something but always ending up with nothing of real substance to show for it? Would it not just be much easier to put down this tarnished scepter and abandon this squeaky throne? Just close up shop here and overnight move to Buenos Aires under an assumed name to take up permanent residence and forget your own? But instead, like a fast fading dream, it’s much easier to awaken to the shop worn version of yourself and pick up the thread of the previous day’s tedium dragging forth the same banal obsessions that remain conveniently ever insoluble.
The ancient cave painters had it right! Set up your scaffold and rub their feelings in carbon and ochre upon the walls of the deepest darkest caves possible. From what archeologists tell us, they didn’t even bother to use the light of torches when they worked. With a blog, you count upon those dark shadows of physical anonymity to cloak you and keep your rhetoric fearless. But it is impossible to say when you will finally open your eyes to find yourself all along having been stumbling along blind in the brightest part of the day?