bells and whistles

In case none of you knew, Eve found my blog a while back.

She was reading it and even made some comments on a few posts. But she decided not to read it anymore. It's hard to read about yourself, especially if it is a fictionalized version of yourself, written by someone other than yourself.

As I writer I am always curious as to how I would come off in someone else's fiction. But the fact is, no one ever writes about me. And if they do, I very seldom read the results.

Maybe that's why I write-- maybe I'm hoping that someone else will cast me in their novel or short story.


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The few times that someone has written about me validate my narcissism. They fed my N-supply.

I've had girlfriends who wrote poems about me. I was always flattered to be the subject of someone's word canvas, but it always left me craving for more. My insatiable ego demands that the accolades be piled high.

Even if the poem was supposed to paint me in a negative light, I still wanted to hear more. I didn't care, as long as it was about me.

But I know me very well, and if any of those poems had touched upon the Actual Truth Of The Matter (that is, a truth that both the writer and myself shared) then I would panic and begin re-assessing myself... because I would recognize myself in the poem and would instantly want to change.

I think that's about it when it comes to being the subject of someone else's art. I approach it as a funhouse mirror, distorting my features randomly.

Being written about is not the same as having your portrait painted, or posing for a photograph, or even someone writing a song about you. Being written about is akin to being studied, and I guess I like studying other people... so I write about them.

But some people don't like being scrutinized in such a way, because all their life they've had to deal with watching, prying eyes.


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I think I am always disappointed by what other people write about me, if they do at all. It would be easy to simply do their work for them, but even my enormous ego won't allow me to do that. I cannot write about myself any more than I can honestly ask myself tough questions.

I've tried, but it never works. I always make myself out to be the hero, the man with the plan, the good guy. Either that or I am the lovable scoundrel, the flawed hero in search of balance and redemption.

In my writing, I make myself look good.

That's not really writing, though. That's back-patting.

That's self-congratulation.

That's bullshit.


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What makes me so special anyway? Why should the events of my life be any more entertaining than the events of someone else's life?

Why don't I try to write about something other than myself?

I'll tell you why: because no matter who I try to write about, it always comes back to me.

I am selfish like that. I am aware of this, and I try to balance it out with some selfless gestures... but it's still rooted in my sense of self.

I'm trapped.

How do I set myself free?


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Right now, I am going to write about myself in a way that I've never done before.

I'm going to be honest and straightforward... no bells and whistles.

Think I can do it?

Okay...

I get jealous a lot of times, and because I think it's a terrible way to spend my time, I often bite my tongue.

I get jealous of how many years Eve spent with Dick. I get jealous of the reasons why she stayed with him-- his physical prowess, his willingness to be molded, the adventures they went on together...

It's all in the past, yes, and it has no bearing on me... but it gets into my head and I hate myself for allowing it to settle there.

It helps me to understand why he didn't like me, even though he doesn't know me. Eve told me once that she accidentally called him by my name. I laughed, but now that I think about it, something like that would totally flip me out. If I were in his shoes, I think I would've been furious.

I'm not as open-minded as I like to believe.

I am manipulative in the worst way-- without knowing it. My mind is constantly calculating and making plans. Then, when things go off-script, I get upset and blame the chaos of the world around me.

I do this because I am afraid of losing control. Everything I do in my life is an attempt to gain control of something. Anything I cannot control either turns into an obsession or a dismissal.

I get jealous of men that Eve has no realistic interest in. I never tell her these things because it would reveal me to be something less than what I promote myself as, and it makes me feel vulnerable.

Even though I know she would not cross those lines, it still terrifies me.

And what's more, I am afraid to tell her these things because I fear she will use them against me somehow.

I get angry when she doesn't want to be with me, but I also get angry when she wants to be with me after I've made other plans. It makes me feel like she changed her mind arbitrarily, and only after I accepted the situation for what it was.

In other words, I feel like she tests me: telling me she has plans, hoping that I'll give in and pout, then if I don't she ditches her plans which causes me to ditch mine.

Or, I feel like I am too obvious when I am disappointed. I try to be cool and accepting but my body language gives me away, and she feels guilty. And I'm not consciously trying to make her feel guilty, but my body language suggests something else.

I feel torn between wanting her to be her own person and not wanting her to stray too far from me.

I hold back whenever I'm around her. I always want to tell her that I think she is beautiful, and that I love her, and that I am happy around her. But I fear that it will drive her away, and so I keep my mouth shut. I often put my foot in my mouth, and I've learned that it's better not to say anything at all than to spoil it with words that don't convince her of anything.

Laurie, mine and Eve's good friend, once told me that I am stronger than Eve emotionally, and that I would have to be patient with Eve if I wanted to be with her. But now I am doubting my strength, and I wonder if I am the one who needs to be shown some patience.

I don't want to live my life while looking in a mirror either.


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I have to admit, I feel a little better.

Not much better, but a little bit better.

What I just wrote doesn't belong on a blog, though-- it belongs in a private notebook, the way I used to do it.

Yes, it needs to be written and expressed, but for my own eyes, not others. I did it today because I wanted to see if I could.

Did I succeed, or did I delude myself?

We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?

If anything, these thoughts shouldn't even be written down-- instead they should be said to Eve, to her face.

I know there's a possibility that she could read this blog, even though she said she wouldn't. And a part of me is cravenly hoping that this is how she finds out about it.

How sad is it that I am more afraid of telling her my darkest fears in person than I am of sharing them with the world at large?

But you see, I cannot see your reaction in Hong Kong or Indiana or Canada or wherever else this blog is read. You might post a comment, but it isn't the same as doing it in the flesh.

I know that sometimes I can only write what I feel because my heart doesn't allow me to articulate it any other way. I'm dysfunctional like that. I think of John Lennon's lyric is the song "Julia": When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind...

Well, for me, it goes like this: When I cannot speak my mind, I can only write my heart...

And I'm sorry it has to be like that.