On Throughlines of my book
unfinished books, dogs, mistakes, pretence, people, and God.
I don’t have answers to any of my questions, let alone yours dear. I pretend to have the answers, until I actually one day do perhaps. Until that day comes, I hope you don’t call out my pretence. The more people I talk to, the more I feel like we’re all pretending. We’re scared & we pretend. I hope no one minds if I admit that I’m scared.. scared of making any more mistakes atp, which itself scares me even more. I like that I’m impulsive, I don’t like my impulses. I’ve been reading compulsively— Ocean Vuong, Alan de Botton, Rainer Maria Rilke... starting so many things but never finishing them. I hope I finish them books atleast.
I saw a clip on yt today of Fran Leibowitz saying: The closest thing to a human being is a book. I know people think it’s a dog, but they’re wrong… so to write a book is the closest thing to being a god. You’re creating this thing. When you look at manuscripts or letters and they’re written in the hand of the writer, you are closer to that writer, you’re closer to the person. I feel like page by page, blog by blog, this thing that I come to write in daily (I still don’t know why? I think I do but again am I just pretending to know? idk. But maybe it’s okay to “idk”) is ending up being my book. Should I write a book? idk. feels too ambitious, like most things, I’ll start it and probably not finish it. But maybe that is my life’s book: a book of unfinished adventures.
The throughlines of my book: unfinished books, dogs, mistakes, pretence, people, God. The last couple years of my life have taught me that I’m never going to be “less intense & dramatic” as some people pointed or “be obedient & reasonable” as some people wanted. I’ll ask you “What?”, and then when you tell me I’ll probably bark ...like I’ve been barking until now.
Some times,
Kay.
#102