Whatever It Is, I Don't Want To Hear It

I had plenty of other things I wanted to comment on in this space, but like Jude, more pressing matters have prevented me from talking about my original subject in mind (which, in this case, was about knowing our enemy, the theme from services on Atonement here in Tampa). I am heading off to the Feast of Tabernacles in Wildwood, NJ, so I will be unable to update this website, or to reply to comments, in the next ten days. I hope all of my loyal (if silent) readers understand.

The more pressing subject that came up is an e-mail I received yesterday from an old crush of mine back in the days before 1995 named Christy. The last time I saw her was in that fateful year before going to United. She does not like her last name appearing, but is okay with her first name being used. So there. We had a pen-pal correspondence lasting beyond the last time we saw each other, but that stopped around 1997. Okay, so this girl who hasn't seen me in a decade and who I haven't heard from in eight years digs up my e-mail address to complain to me. And why does she complain to me? It's because I used her name in the forward to a play of mine that deals with childhood dreams called "The Virgin Prince." Nothing more about the title needs to be said here (I already commented about it in my other blog). Now, people complaining about what I write is not a new thing. I have been subjected to complaints about my writing for many years, though for good reason I have little other option than to remain writing (I'll try to explain that later, if I have time/energy/interest in avoiding packing for a long time). What makes it annoying, though, is that while people will move heaven and earth to try to find my contact info (which, admittedly, is not too difficult to find; I am a person easy to get in touch with) when they want to complain or threaten to kill/sue me, people seem to have little interest in going out of their way to compliment me, or keep in touch with me, or wish to spend time with me (as cranky and curmudgeonry as I must seem sometimes, I really do like being around people, at least when they are not making fun of me).

This sort of problem really gets on my nerves. I'd like to think I'm a rather approachable person, but I like to be approached about good things, not merely being taken to task for some real or imagined fault. Quite frankly, I get annoyed by being harassed and insulted all of the time (and I'm probably not alone in that either). I especially dislike being harassed about my writing. This matter, however, deserves some more explanation, and being a writer even more than a speaker, I will try to do this correctly, because the matter has been an issue for some time, and is not going away any time soon.

While I talk a lot, I have a difficult time talking about my feelings, or my deepest and most innermost concerns (and, as can be expected, there are many such things). Generally, by the time I actually talk about something (unless it is a matter of intellectual curiousity, in which case I will talk about it readily and without hesitation), it is a major issue. For whatever reason my feelings are beyond the limited capacity for my mouth to form words for. The same is true for requests. I have a really difficult time asking people to do anything. Now, writing a request is not that hard for me, and it is something I do quite frequently. But making a request in person vocally is extremely difficult, always has been, and probably always will be too.

The end result of my problems in speaking about those things that bother/worry/annoy/inspire me the most (whether in personal conversation or in public speaking, as much as people would wish to see me speak in a more emotional fashion) is that I have to write such things down. Throughout my heretofore short life, I have found many ways of writing down my feelings and keeping them from being too much of a burden on my slender frame. I keep a pen and paper diary (and have since October 7, 1995, there's that year again), as well as three internet blogs of varying degrees of updating (here on blogger, as well as on xanga and livejournal). Besides this, I have written plays, essays, letters, and poems (and the occasionally really awful short story) quite prolifically. However, writing down one's feelings because one is unable to say them is quite hazardous. This is because what is written down is a record against you. You can (usually) deny what you have said, or claim the words were heard wrong, but it is much harder to justify idle words one has written. Being the prolific writer I am, the amount of idle words I have written is quite simply staggering to the imagination. Lest you assume I am exaggerating on this count, I have written over 1000 poems, have written 22 volumes (mostly late at night or early in the morning) in a personal journal, have written hundreds of online poems, dozens of essays of various length, numerous personal letters I cannot even remember the contents of (most of them during my teenage years, when I was at my most incautious and flirtatious), as well as 58 plays of varying length, one over 200 pages long. This is besides any of the legion number of somewhat feisty e-mails I have tossed off, or posts on bulletin boards, or instant messenger conversations which could be used against me. This is a lot of idle speaking here (and I am fully aware of the biblical injunction against that, and rather chagrined by it as well).

However, rather than be driven mad by feelings I am unable to express, or deny the existence of what is deeply buried within this heart of mine, I will deal with it as best as I am able. However, I would like those who come across, either wittingly or unwittingly, that which I write to at least cut me some slack. I don't really try to annoy and aggrevate, or shock and appall, everyone else, it's just that I have a duty to God and myself to be honest about myself and about the world I live in (which is not always a happy or joyful place). And if I happen to speak a little more honestly about others than they are willing to listen to, just remember (if it helps) that I am vastly more unsparing towards myself than I am towards others. After all, whatever incriminating information I may write about someone else (and it comes up from time to time), I have written many times more incriminating information about myself. Okay, I think I've said enough for now.