Something Honest
There are few feelings worse than
self-censorship. You pour yourself into some little work of art, step back away from it, and in a flash realize that it won't do. It doesn't communicate what you were trying to say. It doesn't look right or good. It can't be fixed. It will never be understood. It's a joke for one. It's useless. The feeling can best be summed up like this: You did your best, and now God's laughing at you.
Of course, no self-censorship means no quality control. And no quality control is worse by far. You know this, because of all the crap you've seen others trying to pass off as valuable. So the pain is a necessary process.
I once worked a whole day on a elaborate rant. It wasn't anything too special. Just angry ranting...because it felt good, really good. And it was very funny. At least, I thought so. But then, I stepped back from it. And there it was: pages and pages of useless crap. Why had I done that? I didn't even believe a word of it. It was just something I wrote to feel nice while writing it. And in that sense alone, it wasn't a failure. But I've never worked so long on one of these web pages only to see in it so little clarity, such poor reasoning, such an
absence of real value. The humor would be missed. The word's meanings would be warped. It was an exercise of self-indulgence like all these pages, except that it was nothing more.
One feeling that comes close is the feeling of being overwhelmed by something in the past, a story that must be told, a wrong that must be set right, an experience that has left you with a sense that a part of you was left behind there. Somewhere out there. And now you've no idea how to reclaim it. It's not unlike a nightmare in which you scream, but cannot make a sound. It's helplessness in the grand scheme of things.
For me, it's the realization that I will die. Not only will I die, but I will not save the world before I do. I am not Superman, Jesus, or any kind of prophet. I saw God in dreams as a child, but I haven't since. And I have the distinct impression that I'm never going to be able to remember what I lost in those dreams. I'm alone. I know quite a bit, but I don't know love anymore. And I know enough to know that's all that really counts.
Scatological humor isn't going to do the trick when I'm on my deathbed, actually unable to control pooping myself. By then, it just won't be funny anymore.
And so I cling tight to the knowledge of where I've been and what I've seen, and just how blessed or lucky or loved I really am. I know it's not much in some sense,
but in another it is oh so much and so sweet. And it always seems to be just enough to keep looking at the harder stories, to keep probing around for a light that's bright enough to shine through the madness of this world. To whatever end, I have a long way to go.
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© 2007 FussyPucker.