Those of you who read my blog regularly (well, when I blog with any regularity) know I’m pretty up front about some of the more intimate details of my life and my psyche. I guess it feels like sharing, overcoming, bragging … no, more like sharing, but most of the time I can’t help but feel like ultimately I’m shooting myself in the foot.
Life has shown me that there are people out there who really don’t give a shit about me and sometimes it has even been gracious enough to name names - sometimes in bold and underline. I run into these people and they mention reading my blog and relaying what they read as if they’re doing me a favor for the couple of strained moments that we have to exist in the world together. Usually I’m nice about it, questioning their interest and smiling through wishing for the moment to end right along with them so we can each return to our requisite corners of the world as quickly as possible. Sometimes, I cross the street.
The day before Valentine’s Day, I began an entry that attempted to relate luck to love. The definition of luck I used is the one Oprah agrees with: luck being the moment when preparation meets opportunity. I rambled on for a while with every intention to post that bit of irony, but I choose not to. I know it would have been interesting reading for someone, those who have love for me and those who do not, but I’ve grown tired of the performative aspects of blogging. Really exhausted. Maybe I’m depressed, maybe it’s this fucked-up weather in this fucked-up world that’s depressing me - I really don’t know, but I can’t help but wonder how nice it would be to disappear and not care about any of this.
I can’t disappear. If life was different, perhaps I’d be a professional blogger, blogging about things that were maybe a little less internal and easier to relate to a wider, less-connected audience. That’s just one guess. The focus of my personal blog has been not to have any one focus. Some visitors care more about my way with words, others care more about the code. Others find value in the links I provide, still others just want to know that I’m okay. It’s all indexed by Google: pain, hope, confusion, lust, frustration, loneliness - all of it. Well, most of it. Definitely more than most.
People have disappeared from my life. There are friends who I call every now, when and because I can, and there are those I call more often. And then there are those who have disappeared almost completely without a trace, leaving only a photo or a note scribbled down as proof that we once existed in this world together. Two of these are men that I loved, each in their own way. One was a friend from high school. Originally from Winnipeg, we both shared a intense love of music. I remember his full pink lips, bushy eyebrows and his early attempts at taming that hair into hightop fades. I always looked forward to losing at Truth or Dare. I still know his full name. The other was more simple and required no childish games. He had a father - internationally renowned in jazz circles - who died without ever having claimed him as his son. He was so tall and, once upon a time, he loved me. He was one of the few men I’ve actually slept with; his broad chest, the perfect pillow. I saw so much of myself in both of these men; I remember their relationships with their mothers. They are gone. I’ve been wondering what life could have been like had we loved each other just a little bit longer, but they are gone. I’ve gone, too - off in my own direction.
The older I get, the more I understand the value of mystery and see it as practice for my final disappearing act. Sure, people are different, but most are mysterious because they wish to remain unknown. They don’t want to be found or found out. Sometimes, it’s about secrecy and not wanting lies to add up, sure - but not always. I think I’m just beginning to see the difference between secrets and mystery. Secrets are things that you obviously don’t want everyone to know, but mystery seems more like life. I am a mystery to someone else on the other side of the world, not necessarily a secret. I was born over 37 years ago and have serious doubts that I’ll see another 37. Not to rush the inevitable, mind you - I’m still hoping to stride into the home stretch with a lot more purpose and love - but there are years that might come after I’m gone. I don’t know; that’s not mine to measure. I still want to make the best of what I do have right now.
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