Love Me For Who I Pretend To Be

Originally Posted Tuesday, July 9, 2013

I read the news in the morning.  Today, after reading the Times, I was ready to write a diatribe on secret courts and the arrogant dangers that lie there.  But what difference would my efforts make.  You don't need convincing and if you do, you won't be convinced anyway--in which case, you are not reading this.  You may come just to look at the pictures.  You may love them even if they frustrate you.  They are different than what you see elsewhere, aren't they (I know--you are not reading).  They are oh-so sensual and not-so-very sexual. They fill you with secret romantic desires, but you'd rather be carnal and so they are frustrating, too. I know.  But I have a secret collection just for "your type."  They won't satisfy you, though, only lead you further down the road of romanticism.  The vulva as symbol (and not the symbolic vulva).  It is a beautiful secret. . . much better than the secret court (link).  But. . . they are shocking, at first, almost too much, even more than staring at those flower paintings of whats-her-name (my forgetfulness in this is a tribute to C.C.'s critique of their value). 

Speaking of C.C., he wrote to tell me yesterday that I was wrong in yesterday's post, that I HAD learned--four things that didn't work.  And he is right.  I made even more mistakes than I knew, too.  The secret jizz that is supposed to work as a transfer sauce. . . well. . . I used the wrong thing to make it.  I wrote to the artist who recommended the process to me asking what I do after I print the image on the secret sauce.  He wrote back and told me that he didn't tell me to use X.  He said Y.  Ho!  But, I think, perhaps I have something that will work anyway.  I can't wait to try and see. 

But wait I will. 

No, no. . . not to sing the "Factory Blues" this morning.  Not yet. 

After work yesterday, I came home and went for a run.  It was the stumbly, broken run of an old man (I got passed by another runner from nowhere, something that never used to happen to me), and I didn't go far, but being out on a beautiful afternoon brought back to me the memory of all the afternoons of the past when I was outside every day, and I felt. . . .   That is it.  I felt.  Afterwards, having walked a long way to cool down, I loved the cat up real good and showered and then went out to get take out from the Thai restaurant. 

When I walked in, three of the women who work at the restaurant were standing at the register.  They smiled and said hello. 

"You want Thai noodle soup with chicken, Thai hot?" 

Funny in a happy way. 

"Am I that guy now?" I laughed. 

"You want chicken satay, too?" 

"Yes, exactly." 

This is what happens when you are happy, I thought as I sat down in the wooden pew to wait. 

I woke this morning thinking of the things I want to make.  I will buy the right chemical for the secret jizz today.  I will try the image on the mistake and see what happens.  If either of them work the way I hope, I have in mind a four color separation printing process that could be interesting.  I am prepared for the awfulness of none of this working, but I have hope, too.  Expecting the worst, hoping for the best.  That's my motto. 

No, that is not my motto.  Not today.  I have stolen a motto for today. 

"I just want people to accept me for who I pretend to be." 

Make that "love." 

I've gone on a bit of a ramble and have not spoken of something I intended to.  Freud.  Well, not Freud, exactly, but a book about him.  Maybe.  Or psychoanalysis.  I'm not sure.  I haven't read it yet.  But I intend to (link).  The review is intriguing and sums up what has been my motto for a good many years. 

"First you create the narrative, then the narrative creates you." 

It is a very active part of my life.  We are the stories we tell.  They are the only "truths" I know.  If that is how psychoanalysis works, if you just try to make a story of your life so you can deal with it, I am in the wrong business.  No wonder people tell me so many things, though.  I think I am a psychoanalyst and never even knew.