Click HERE to view the Premium Art Deadlines List.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

March 18, 1981 - a fight lost before it began

I was going to write about how it seems a cold is coming on. There is this dirty feeling at the back, inside, and under my nose. The passages at first seem clearer than normal. I can feel the air moving through them. But soon they start to feel very dry. Then they go the opposite direction - a flood. And the cold is on!

A lot of stress this last week. Last night was Simone's birthday. Before that two days of fighting. Before that was the Suzanne incident. I learned something about myself from it. It started with a comment about her behavior. How she often seems to indirectly get the attention of people around her. Or I mean tries to get this attention. With me its just putting a sample of my writing under their nose and asking them to read and comment. But she went around apologizing about if it was ok to sing. All the while it seemed to me she wanted to have people stop what was going on and listen to her. So my opinion, casually given to Dana in another conversation, got back to her. One week ago this evening she is here and calls me in the office. She seems a bit irritated and says she has something to speak with me about. There is something in her voice that immediately puts me on the defensive so I try to get her to talk right then. She wants to wait till another time when I'm there. So for nearly an hour she tries to rake me over the coals for having this opinion of her. And furthermore having no respect for her privacy. Privacy to me means that someone will not disturb me if I'm reading. It hasn't anything to do with being in the bathroom, without clothes, or even fucking. Simone and I usually leave the door open. There was more but it puts me in this position of being attacked. My whole body is starting to shake with it. Its not so hard to talk back, but the tone in her voice is very aggressive. Its like a parent telling a kid to do something through gritted teeth. Simone and Lotti notice how distraught I am. Everything inside me is becoming tense. My face feels hot and flushed. Its like the tension of the final moments before some big competition, like a race. It finally gets ended after it seems she has run out of steam and energy. I thought to myself, how much longer do I have to fight this off? The next day finds me stewing and plotting the coming return match. I fully expect her to start a fight again. The next night presents a total surprise. She is aware of being a little crazy lately, and says not to pay much attention to her behavior. There was more, but for me, half an hour later, it was very depressing. I found myself completely tensed for a fight. And nothing happened. How to say this. I was disappointed. I looked forward to the fight part. It was further depressing to realize that I wished her ill. My expectation was to be able to fight back and squash her completely. I wanted to see her done in. It was not a pleasant thing to realize this about myself. I always want to see myself as a good person who is forever being attacked by the crazies in one's life. Life is a constant struggle against such people. They are always out to get me or do me in some way.

The example I always fume about is standing in line at a post office while the clerks slowly go about their business with a practiced crawl and stall. It reminds me of my stepfather. At the end of each day he would come home and tell us the latest stories. They would always involve him and his work and how he spent the entire day overcoming the stupid mistakes of his bosses and sometimes his fellow workers. It was like a family institution. Sometimes I have the feeling that this same quality is buried somewhere inside me. He was always able to hold the attention of his friends with these and hunting stories. Another part of this was that he tried to keep all the attention all the time. It seems he had this uncanny ability to move the story in such a way that everyone else could only make little contributions. He seemed to know when someone else was trying to put their two cents in. I remember lots of stories from him, but not much from the people around us. He always liked to make the most of his expert marksmanship. Often he would use only one bullet on a hunting trip. Seldom did he go out and not get something. Often he would shoot something for one or two of the others on that particular hunting trip. The exact way in which he stalked and shot the animal would be the highlight of every story. Often to be told over and over again with emphasis on different parts, or combined with other stories of the same type. There would be one shot hunting trips, neck shot hunting trips, elk hunting trips, carry it out on your back hunting trips, and so on and so on over and over again.

Bantam Books, from New York, called me today. I sent the notes to someone there. They liked them. Very interesting, she said. She will pass it on to two people who are regular editors. Normally one would feel quite good that a publisher calls you about your writing. In the beginning it made me very excited. But as the day wore on it seemed as though something was undermining this feeling. A sense of dread. Failure. Depression. These keys are very heavy. I have made a good jump to get over a wall, but didn't quite make it. Donna read some of it last night before the party and was very positive. She asked me, do all men think like this? I don't know that they think exactly like this, but probably similar. She didn't know of any men who had written like this, an inner journey, or something like that, she called it. Simone wants me to stop writing and go to sleep. I am disappointed with myself. This fear of not being able to write well has gotten hold of me. It seems like this is what happens at this very moment. I think about some of the things written in the last two months and fear this won't measure up. What if I make it the best I can and then fail? Failure won't be so bad if its not the best I can do. David found it hard to put down but says there seems to be no center. To him this means no goal or objective. What is my goal in doing this? To use it as a way of seeing myself and surroundings better. To make discoveries about myself and people. Are those the same things? To express myself in what seems to be a good way for me. At this moment I find myself thinking about writing enough to fill this page. What silly ideas pop into people's heads.

I have been thinking about this woman who attracts me. Her name is Nina. She is subletting Linda's apartment. I want her but feel very anxious about an approach. She seems the skittish type. Who knows. My excuse for not trying more? She gets a copy of my notes. I've invited her to the Saturday's party.

Only a couple lines more on this page. What a funny obligation not to waste paper is what I feel a nonsense sentence.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #848,532 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)
#39 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Arts & Photography > Art > Other Media > Conceptual (May 8, 2013)

Comments: Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home

Click HERE to view the Premium Art Deadlines List.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Subscribe to Posts [Atom]