Two fifty. Almost time to go to my appointment. A date with fate in a black taxi. I’m not having a good day. This tablet is freaking me out. I posted a rant about how I feel to my blog. It’s been a long day and it isn’t over yet. I feel the way most artists do when privacy is menaced.
One o seven. I need to figure out what is really bugging me lately, and I think it’s my coming colonoscopy. I complained of an invasion of privacy, and a camera up the butt can be no other than that. So I might as well talk about my feelings rather than let them infiltrate all my other thoughts. I feel that a colonoscopy is not only an invasion, but also a violation, even though I know it’s supposed to help me. Medical procedures, from a psychological point of view, are often strangely sexual. I feel the same way about psychotherapy. The bottom line is the word rape, and the word violence is related to the French viol, for rape. Once, when I was psychotic, I was in a bathroom of a phlebotomist and saw lingam and yoni in all the plumbing. The faucet looked like a phallus, the basin like a womb. I wonder if everyone has that experience subconsciously? Likewise, the fiber optic tube of a colonoscopy resembles a very long phallus inserted up the rectum and into the colon. So that whoever invented the procedure was probably anal sadistic, to use a Freudian term. I’m likely making too much of a fuss over a little thing. Everyone over fifty years old undergoes this operation, but still I must confess that I’m not mentally prepared for it…
Quarter of one. My mind is crowded with memories, all competing for attention. Mostly I wish to confess being a utilitarian, whether that’s good or bad. Everybody wants to be happy, I reckon. My sister would disagree, saying that what’s important is not our happiness but God’s plan for us. Well, not everyone has God on their side. I don’t know if I am saved or a lost soul, and it makes no difference if I reject the religious terms and use my own. I suppose I’m not alone in my epicurean beliefs. I regret that some of my friends are altruists to the hilt, for I don’t share their motives. It’s okay to derive pleasure from life, and even better to spread happiness around. Relieving the suffering of others is always a good thing; everyone understands pleasure and pain: that’s why utility makes excellent sense. But all my defense aside, at the kernel of my being is an egoistic impulse, and nothing can change it. People argue that egoism is childish and immature, and something to outgrow. Still I can’t envision me putting myself in the front line in some war I don’t believe in. And the more sober and conscious I am, the more convinced I am of my position… Hey look— Heidi is here!
I prefer having good friends with high intelligence. I never wanted to get married because I knew I’d become bored with the same partner year after year. Or maybe I’m just an introvert and prefer solitude? I have loved a few people in my life. I know I am different from most people in being androgynous. Maybe less so than I think. Social norms and rituals make us feel like we have to jump all the same hurdles. The honest person struggles with that more than others. It seems to me that schizophrenia is a symptom of modern life. It is a mirror held up to society, and it seems to say, This is you. The thing I like about Anne Sexton is how honest she is about feeling lost and helpless. She begs for a world where people can just spill their guts and admit to being weak and human. It could be that schizophrenia is a little like that. Sexton contemplated religious conversion, but had to confess that believing is not the same as needing to believe… When we are honest, not one of us fits the round holes of society perfectly. So we do the best we can. Some of us write about our lives in hopes of broadening the human reality. Of raising consciousness. The better we write, the better the guideposts we leave behind.
If love finds a way, great. But it must be a true love, one that I’m sincere about. I wish L— were available. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve met in a long time. It’s not so much a sensuous or voluptuous beauty. Something purer, more angelic or divine. The other night I dreamed I was holding and caressing her right hand under the table. In reality once, she grasped my hand and pulled it to her abdomen, holding it there as she spoke to me. Well, I can dream about her. Pretty soon I will pick up Nietzsche where I left off. Zarathustra so far isn’t outrageous. A little selfish passion is more than okay, it’s probably right. It takes courage to be true to oneself. To dare to love somebody desperately. Romantic love can’t be wrong. And I think of my dull family, utterly gutless, bovine, stupid. Intelligent people do like Lord Byron. They take risks for desire. They are more like Kate, or like my mother: nothing stopped them, not fear, not guilt, nor any useless inhibition. I wish for one more chance, the propitious opportunity, the auspicious moment. A chance to go for it though I break my leg— or my heart.
Seven o’clock. Out of the monastery, into the world, which begins with a new house. One of the workers wants to be friends. I’m a little wary. We don’t see the powers directly; we only see the effects. Most assuredly there exist principalities of both light and darkness, and it is said that Christ is the Light of the world, and that darkness hides from it. Some of the effects of darkness are ill health by substance use; sexually transmitted diseases; and depression and other mental illnesses. If the contrasts were less extreme then they wouldn’t be so noticeable. Maybe I’m just a bit panicky after the step I took this morning. I wish my intuition for the invisible were more receptive. As it is I only pick up on signs here and there. However, it’s been a long, tiring week, and the weekend may offer rest and some insight. The light and darkness ideas may resolve into shades of gray, a more realistic perception. It’s possible that my notions from Ephesians are merely psychotic. A little caution doesn’t hurt, still. This weekend is clear of any engagements. Time heals all wounds. I do wish that my life wouldn’t keep moving in circles. Maybe there’s an issue I must resolve with Laurel Hill before I can move on. But I grow tired of maybes. I hope for a refreshing sleep tonight. Over and out.
One o’clock. Lisa replied to my email, saying that the holidays seem to bring everything to a head. She said being true to my convictions is important. I just got tired of hearing a lot of secondhand opinions on what makes the world go round. I know I confessed my feelings to the right person. Lisa is very sincere in her faith, a true believer; more so than Pastor. So now I guess I don’t have to go to church Sunday. I can stay home and enjoy my house and my great dog. I won’t be ungrateful for the way life has been kind to me after a long severe test, not unlike the trials of Job in the Old Testament. I look back on the trailer metamorphosis with some doubt now. Was it only my imagination that made it seem purposeful? My life has been restored to me after a loss. Is that really like Job, or did I cling to any hope to keep me going? Eight months was a very long time to wait. I was extremely patient and persistent through the whole ordeal. I think I deserve a respite for a few weeks. Time to put down roots and get used to being home. I couldn’t care less about Christmas since what I went through. I still identify better with Job’s adversities and final restoration.
There’s still room for some things to be mysterious, but eventually people will know everything. Except… I had a dream the other night that one of the packers had found my old scarlet King James Version and returned it to me. It was a bible I had donated to De Paul’s many years ago. It was returned thinned out and with a note addressed to me urging me to read the book. Before that, I had a similar dream of graduation from group: I was given two books, one of them a pocket New Testament. In both dreams, the emphasis is on the New Testament. Perhaps there is still something I’m not understanding about Christ. Or maybe it’s not a matter of understanding?