I have always liked to speak. Except for the times when I felt the need to be quiet, in which case, I liked the company of my thoughts. Even when angry or sad or lonely -- they were good thoughts, able thoughts. They were consistent thoughts even when I was reshaping or redefining me. They fit and I did not argue or question me.
Of course, that is not quite true: I have always argued with me (and others, even while realizing the pointlessness of argument). But at issue has not been self-definition; rather, self-actualization. Do this, do that ("should" used to creep in here, before the banishment). Not be this, not be that. I have generally been proud/content/defiant to be me and not you.
I should mention that I have always generally felt "capable." This sounds bad, I think. Arrogant. Not intended that way. Like most, what I have learned is a response to fear. Learning to be good at something is answer to feeling inadequate. No shocking revelation there (I doubt any "joy followers" will be reading my blog -- however, should one mosey in here, I will argue their position for them because they would know better than to argue -- but, they might be exception to this statement).
[I know a poet who sits down to write sad poetry and upon invariably feeling dissatisfied with a lack of production goes into the kitchen and chops a couple of onions (they must be reasonably fresh) until the tears come. This poet really dislikes onions: the taste, smell, texture, metaphor of "peeling layers", especially that. Sometimes a handful gets stuffed in the mouth before sitting back down to resume (I have read some of this work - Delicious, I say. Poets pain = my gain).]
[Thought you might appreciate a break from me. Poets are typically weirder than most. Blessed they.]
[Maybe I am stalling. I would accuse you of such. It would be so obvious.]
Well, I have been dashed. I = not me. The me I had such plans for, and certainty about, does not exist. Or, if he exists, he hides. I do not recognize this new fellow.
I recently undertook thoracic surgery (8/05: my wedding day many years ago, which I didn't realize until post-op, and then could never seem to commit to memory; my elusive memory, part of my elusive faculties), the aftermath of which has removed from me all of the certainty I previously possessed (about myself, my capabilities, my affections and their reciprocations, my future prospects; not about things like the folly of argument, etc., etc.).
In future posts I will describe some of what I feel (for instance, what it feels like to be unable to operate a nail clipper to trim one's own nails) about where I find myself; and, hopefully, what I need to do to create some normalcy for myself (I ask: should that be a goal?).
I am uncertain. I am untethered. Maybe we can have some fun before I latch onto an identity again. Maybe I will unhinge entirely. You can watch. Cheer if you like. Throw something. Fuck you then.