I write crap.
Semi-organized collections of the irrelevant crap that my brain produces. But it's MY crap. So I'm protective.
And sometimes it's fun crap. It’s good fun. But not fun for the whole family.
Don’t invite your kids. I wont be held responsible for that. It gets a little "innapropriate"
Whatever that means.
And mostly I write about men. Mostly I think about men.
I'm so shallow. I’m that simple.
I sit in paradise. In the midst of glistening beaches and sparkling oceans. Here I sit in the midst of catastrophic poverty-trash floating in crystal clear water, flies buzzing around enormous fish caught for the tourists, I sit in squalor and splendor, want and abundance, and I think of men.
Sometimes one man. Usually two. Two, it's true. That’s how my mind works. Dichotomies expressed in the compact and mobile embodiment of my fickle libido.
But always always always men. Boys.
And it's always been this way.
I collect these men like I collect thoughts. They ARE my thoughts. My metaphors. Micro-similes for my own theories and beliefs. Representations of the vast and abstract. They are communism. They are capitalism. They are patriotism. They are altruism and selfishness actualized. They are the nurturing bosom of mother nature and the hands that cleave her for her riches ...those who run, screaming triumphant, glowing like apollo after his inevitable triumph over the moon.
I don't want to think this way. I want to see the forest for the trees. I want to absorb each culture in it's enormity. Feel the scope of society, the weight of the world.
But that’s not who I am. So I explore these men. I learn their beliefs, their wants and desires exploited for my understanding, used to connect me to that which is wrapped around me, close enough to touch. They are a mechanism to understand the world at large, things too huge to ever wrap my mind around.
And, ofcourse, it's personal. Every affair a rejected ideology. Every connection a new means to understand and analyze. And analyze. A constant search for the true love that is my ever welcoming village and true home.
I dreamed in my childhood of these kind of things. Community, family, partnership, romance. We feed our little girls faerie tales and they learn lessons parcelled out with knights in shining armor. How can I help but to process the world in the context of this ever illusive dream?
So it sits, an insistance and a search. Someone to really share "love" with me and dissolve my limited vision. Break, the spell. Three little words to finally let the world in, in all life’s breathtaking glory.
But until then, this is what I have to say. It’s my story. And I have my story to tell in pieces, in stages, in illustrative characters. And the truth will out, sooner or later each story told. Much like greek dieties, each man a meaning, each attempt an allegory.
And there is a lesson. Well. There are many. But the real lesson to be learned is this: you best be careful. You have no idea of your impact.
One day you might meet someone like me.
She'll immortalize you. She'll tell the world what you did in her actions and song, and who she is because of you. She'll tell them how you changed her, how you changed the world just a little bit in some smile, a lingering touch, or one goodbye.
But maybe, if you are lucky, the names will be changes to protect the innocent, and if you are really lucky hindsight will provide her with the clarity to express her impressions in the context of things much larger, much more important.
But still, take care. Remember: You are the whole world and everything within it.