Subject: Re: less than a cheerleader, more than an answer
Date: November 4, 1998 5:16:28 PM EST
and you know some of them are enjoying it
and it's there: so criticize.
This is public speaking. Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to
you all why we are here, who you are, what I'm doing here, and why we
don't all leave. I'm been very ill for a few days, so I'm shaking a
little and I think I need to go back to bed, or at least eat
Thank you for your time.
Mr. Eli, signing off.
this is a very kind guesture, eli
but do you really think they'll respond?
this tactic has never worked for me...
but i guess one can always try.
actually i was being sarcastic. i did have breakfast tho, and that was
helpful. for lack of any better thing, and perhaps for other reasons,
i've been thinking all day, about mostly this what i wrote about. it's
something that still puzzles me, and it's something which seems
desperately important which you seem wildly blind to -- and yet can't i
speak it? i can try, again.
so we'll start with a metaphor because we love metaphors, and we'll
avoid similes because this morning i remembered the difference and was
filled with righteous anger against the one and that deep, sacred love
for the other.
you just might be a baloon filled with hot air. but not a hot air
balloon. a party balloon. and this might be the party to which we were
all invited, though not individually -- which is an offense. we were
invited at a stroke, and we remain, and some of us are talking, but we
are blind-folded. you are the hostess, and you are feeding us best.
you are a party balloon filled with hot air, and you are making popcorn
inside, where it is hot, and the popcorn bounces around in the rubber
and the balloon gets bigger.
does anyone else have a feeling of impending disaster?
so the party balloon that keeps gettin hotter that is making popcorn
inside, this seems very important to me -- but in the world of black
magic nothing is what it seems. and now the strenuous exercise of
shedding images and saying what one means.
which one is that? oh yes, me. here i am again, saying what i mean.
the whole point of the game was to follow the rules
by not being able to see or touch or say anything really important >to
eachother about what we thought about eachother
but to talk about ourselves to eachother
in such a way
the other might learn something about us.
just like a party.
usually, i admit, i hate parties.
especially when i'm not warned long in advance.
but i'm having fun. i'm playing ...
but the rules ... why do i always feel like i missed the most important
part where everyone said everything that would allow everything else?
my problem i guess. attention dues ... but, alas, having missed the
rules i do fail to follow along. o. well.
so, to say something important about something i think of you, Dominic,
I think that for as long as you can remember they all adored you and
they thought you were amazing and precious and you thought you were
worthless and you didn't know why anything. You asked questions. It
didn't help. You played along. It's gotten you pretty far.
So this is the game. Everyone you know reads everything you write,
unless you read it in time to decide it's worthless, in which case not.
If anyone writes it's not about what you've written, which is ostensibly
what you wanted (? or a response in kind, but why would anyone else want
to do this? or, if there is someone who does, how did you know they
did? why did you think we wanted to play by your rules? what Are you
expecting from this? i'm asking questions again, very sorry ...) but
rather about how amazing and precious they find you to be, which may
ostensibly not be what you wanted but seems somehow to be what you've
arranged the entire game around creating ... or am i hallucinating again
... eating expensive paper ... wastepaper ...
i don't think of you as amazing and precious and i don't cherish every
word you write. i accept, but out of devotion, not praise. out of
curiosity, not commitment. i always hate parties, and i always stand
around wondering Why is everyone saying this again? Does anyone notice
what is going on? Has anyone wondered why we're all standing in this
small room, drinking thin poison, waiting for oblivion or intercourse?
And I feel the same way now, and I want to play but I don't understand
why anyone likes this game.
So I'm asking you, the person I know best at the party, to turn to me
and keep me company; you, who invited me to a party of people I don't
know, and have been regaling us all with stories for so long, and
haven't been hearing back and haven't been noticing.
I'm tugging on your sleeve. Dominic, I'm blindfolded. Please, tell me,
are we having fun yet?
Are you having fun yet?
Are you forcing yourself to do something you hate?
Are you enjoying yourself?
Why is everyone watching you enjoy yourself?
There is some piece I'm missing, some element of the dynamic which
escapes me: loneliness? intoxicated abandon? how it feels when i need
a disaster? a '?' after 'i exist'?
i'm asking questions. i never stop, do i. do i.
i'll give everyone a story soon. it's just parties: i feel isolated,
i'll play by the rules, i promise. tomorrow.
the balloon. i think it is getting too big and nothing inside it is big
enough to sustain it. structureless bits. it is getting too hot. it
will pop. all the elements will survive.