Now and then out of the starry blue an email arrives. Someone has been either reading these blogs or more likely watching my videos and for whatever reason feels an urge to write.
The thing is, sometimes they are not exactly commenting or writing about the videos but opening up about themselves. And they invariably confess their hesitancies and reluctances in putting what they do down, mostly because of the complete misunderstanding past intimacies with others have caused.
“I get it,” I usually write back.
Why? Because I was them back some thirty years ago when I too was in my early twenties.
What I had been taught through fifteen or more years of compulsory education fell short of something crying out in my heart and I too cast about for truths more in accord with hints of things I felt sprouting inside.
Books I had been reading fired my imagination and energized me like nothing anyone I knew or was aware of in my young life could. And so, compelled forward by the message I read in books and the promise of life that was dangling out in front of me, I withdrew more and more from this day to workaday world of our’s.
I remember one lonely evening after a day spent perusing book shops and record stores and the odd pub I fell into conversation with a young woman. Now, perhaps this is not a universal rule, but back in the day where I lived and pursued my individual course the sort of profound self-education I am referring to wasn’t exactly conducive to a relationship with the other sex. I lived a fairly solitary existence.
At one point in our conversation the young woman said: “sounds like you fucked up your mind on drugs.”
And I responded: “no, I fucked up my mind on literature.”
That’s all to say I have no easy response to those who write me now, no panacea for their uneasiness concerning the world about and their place in it.
It is a difficult, laborious path I speak of.
But a joyous path too!
And the grand lesson and joy is in the degree of difficulty and the labor itself!