Something to Think About

Have I crossed a line that I should not have crossed?

With this here weblog.

If I write about my most intimate experiences here, doesn't that devalue them? I mean, for one thing, how "intimate" is something that's published on the World Wide Internet? Is anything intimate? What's the impact on me?

It's almost a question of epistemology. [Epistemology, in case you didn't take any Philosophy electives in college, is the area of inquiry dealing with knowledge. What do we know? How do we know what we know? How do we determine if something is true or not? How do you know that your life isn't the dream (or nightmare) of a Buddhist monk sleeping in the garden of his monastery when he should be praying? That kind of thing.]

Who am I? Do you, reading this weblog, come to know who I am? I mean, there is truthfully not a lot I hold back. Could you, for example, fall in love with me by reading my weblog? And if you met me, would you still feel that way?

A million years ago, I lived for six months at International House, housing for foreign students attending the University of Pennsylvania. In my suite, there was a group of men from the People's Republic of China. I was chummy with one in particular, whose name when translated meant 'Plum Trees Blossoming.' When they were together, they were very guarded in what they said. But one on one, they would talk. I heard all about the Cultural Revolution, about the toll it took on you when every move you made at work, at home, in the market, at school, was scrutinized.

But I'll always remember Plum Trees Blossoming telling me about The File. In the People's Republic, when you're born, a file is opened on you. Your teachers, the local Communist Party officials, your neighbors, your friends, your employers, anyone really, can contribute information to your file. When you go for a job, or apply to school, the decision is made on the basis of your file. The file is kept by the local Communist Party apparatchiks. They can--and do--review it regularly.

Now here's the thing. Your file becomes sort of an alter ego. It isn't you, but in a way, it is you.

And, you never get to see what's in your file. So imagine that something gets in your file. Say your third grade teacher decides that you are too greedy and won't share with other students. That could be it for you. Your prospects from there on in are in the toilet.

This blog is sort of my file. My alter ego. It's me, but it's not me. But when I try to figure out how Singletails is not me, I get stuck. I can't think of anything. So am I a sort of fictional character? Do I have a reality independent of Singletails?

Now I'm thinking of Sylvia Plath. Plath is probably singlehandedly responsible for more bad poetry written by high school juniors than any other human being in history. Her poetry--in style and subject matter--has come to be called 'Confessional.' Open up a new window and Google Sylvia Plath's poem 'Daddy.' Read it. I mean, Yikes! How would her husband, the poet Ted Hughes, feel reading that poem, which essentially calls him a cruel and brutal Nazi?

I can picture Sylvia looking over the breakfast table, wiping a few stray toast crumbs from her lips, and cooly telling him, "It's only a poem, Darling. Don't get so excited."

And here's another thing. My life begets Singletails, and not the other way around. It's not like I go out and make play dates or pack up my car and head off to Inferno in search of 'material.' But, since I was in high school, I've been a relentless keeper of a journal. And after my step mother, perhaps in an attempt to add the sobriquet 'Wicked,' read my journal cover to cover and confronted me with the contents, an act repeated twenty years later by my Ex, I've fought against keeping a journal in elaborate code. When I read back over my journals from college, when the experience was still pretty raw, I can't make heads or tales of it. What in the sam hell am I talking about? Did I make another trip to the dirty book store for an anonymous blow job? Is that what I mean by going on and on about 'a trip to the fortune teller?'

Other than the at times rococo system of names that I've worked out, there's no code here on Singletails. And that was an important thing for me.

Okay.

So back to the jumping off question.

Am I violating something here by letting the world into my head? And, more importantly, into my bedroom?

Let's look at Special Guy.

I never gave him the url to Singletails. As far as I know, he has no idea that it exists. What's up with that? Should I have? I published the John the Baptist poem I wrote for him here. Was that a good move? I'll have to read back. How far did I go? I mean, it's one thing to describe 'we did this, and then we did this, and then we did this.' But if Special Guy had... Idaknow... had disclosed to me something intimate, I wouldn't have--and in fact didn't talk about that here.

I tell myself that I write here as a public service. Maybe there's a guy out there in Sandusky, Ohio, who has these fantasies. But he's afraid to go anywhere with them. Maybe he'll happen upon Singletails, and see that there is this rich, wonderful world out there, a journey with amazing experiences and incredible fellow travelers... Yada-yada-yada.

But, of course, there's another reason. My need to be liked. And my need for validation.

I'm a good cook. Recently I was accused of a lack of modesty for making that statement. Uh uh. That, in fact, is the only think I can point to about myself with some surety. I can roast a chicken! Everything else is up for grabs. There is nothing I do that I can't or don't question whether the end product is any good. And most of the time, I suspect that it's not very good, but that the praise I garner is the result of hoodwinking.

It would absolutely mean the world to me if I came to believe that I am as good a writer as I am a cook.

I'm sort of obsessive about my hit counter. Every time someone stops by Singletails and takes a gander, it's like another stone laid in the foundation of the edifice that will one day (I hope) be Me the Writer. I'm read. I'm read I'm read I'm read I'm read I'm read. I'm read.

Not if I keep on with blather like this, huh?

Yeah, well.

Had some issues I had to work out. Or try to.

And where else would I do that if not here?

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