While this post will not draw the cat-eye sharp enough to kill a man, the writer Michael Cunningham once remarked that writers are assassins, and I’ve always held that notion in my head when writing things out here. More harm can come from the unmitigated telling of truths than the judicious pruning and careful curating that certain sensitive artists might employ. For a messy personal blog like this one, largely unread on a mass, and even a private, scale, I don’t need to be as careful. This has mostly been for my own creative exorcisms than anything grander, and all the little in-joking between me, myself and I is an indulgent whim, one that sees me through the average autumn evening. Sometimes there’s a song that goes along with it, as in this new one from Taylor Swift’s latest ‘Midnights’ album – a rather marvelous collection of moody songs conjured from the midnight hour.
Summer went away, still the yearning staysI play it cool with the best of themI wait patiently, he’s gonna notice meIt’s okay, we’re the best of friendsAnyway
From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashesI waited ages to see you thereI searched the party of better bodiesJust to learn that you never cared
You’re on your own, kidYou always have been
Lately I’ve been feeling that a little more – not in an abandoned way, more in a philosophical sense, made in midnight moments of contemplation and analysis – things that have traditionally proved problematic, so much so that I if I was able to scrounge up any remaining wisdom I should put all of it from my mind. Whenever I would get lost in this sort of overthinking and overanalysis during those difficult college years, the only way out was to ignore it for a few days, to allow the mundane actions of daily living to take over the tumultuous meanderings of the mind. There may be something to embracing the willful ignorance of the benign, some magic in knowing not to disturb the muck of the heart.
From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashesI gave my blood, sweat, and tears for thisI hosted parties and starved my bodyLike I’d be saved by a perfect kissThe jokes weren’t funny, I took the moneyMy friends from home don’t know what to sayI looked around in a blood-soaked gownAnd I saw something they can’t take away‘Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burnedEverything you lose is a step you takeSo make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste itYou’ve got no reason to be afraid
Now and then it’s good to be reminded that we are all, sooner or later, on our own. For someone rather accustomed to solitude, it’s no more than a friendly reminder. For others, it’s more troublesome, and the more we rely on others, the more dangerous it can prove to be. Yet the most dangerous thing may be to read into things too much. Whenever I find myself losing the way, when it feels like the world is gas-lighting me, I pause and step back. From myself, from the world, from the people who have populated and haunted my past. Rarely does anything good come of it, and this feeling is one of ickiness, a feeling without resolution, a feeling that has no possibility of resolution, and because of that the point of being so icky does not exist. I wish it did. Without purpose, messiness is just messy. If I’m going to get my hands dirty, I want a garden to show for it.
You’re on your own, kidYeah, you can face thisYou’re on your own, kidYou always have been.
