Unto the stone.
We were talking about honesty of motive in writing about something true. FiFi doesn't like to start sentences with "I". I offered the idea of something about oneself that started and ended with the word "you." It's deceptive, she said.
"It's a nice trick to play if you know it's a trick. Word play. You're elbowing yourself then, seeing if anyone else gets the joke. I have to do that or I can't think straight. Talk crooked, think straight," I told her.
"That's a terrific ideology to have. Talk crooked, think straight."
"It works for me. It's better than drinking myself into a fury. I don't handle it well. I can't disconnect any more, but I can't bear the connections as they are. So the only choice is to reconnect. Rewire."
"I'm good at disconnecting. It's what I do best. It's almost as if I'm content to sit still so I don't stumble over anything that'll hurt. And it's SO strange. I spend so much time warning people about me, when in the end, they don't give a shit."
"It's deflection, isn't it?"
She considered it. "It might be."
"It's kind of a rough habit to have. The warning label. It's almost as if you're giving yourself permission to be a shit. I do it. So when I fuck them up, I can say I told you so."
"Yeah. that's exactly it. It is. So I don't have to make excuses. Because You Knew."
"I know that song by heart."
Even people that have been very attentive to me in relationships don't tell me when I've overlooked something or made them feel badly. They think that it'll spare me. But it makes me feel, as my reformed vegetarian friend said, "like you're not needed. Because those people will never explain to you why they won't ask anything of you." It allows you a lack of liability. And you can't very well explain to most people why you NEED them to hold you liable because of that lofty ideal that you'll do more than what is required of you.
If I hurt someone, I need them to tell me. And they fucking don't. So how do I respond? Warning the next poor fucker. There's that license to fuck up we discussed.
The thing is that pain is surmountable. It's ok if someone hurts you. It won't kill you. It won't make you wither. As long as they know, and understand, and try to make it better next time. I end up screaming, please, just please... call me on my shit. It's too easy to walk over people when they make excuses for me. I can't respect it, or abide it. I know very well that I require some reverence. Some irrefutable respect. But not a doormat. I'm not pretending to wear the good guy badge or the black hat. I'm just saying I want to be both adored and held accountable by someone I love.
Anyone sure of themselves can require respect and can handle being told they're being shitty when they are. It's only an error when it's an anomaly, when it's not the norm. When you can accept that you can, and will, fuck up, you can accept that it doesn't define you unless you AND yours allow it to perpetuate. Then they might just get the attack to give them that "passion" they need, oh you stoic saint, you martyr. It's just impatience, then. You want to feel? Feel this.
I guess some people mistake drama for passion. The idea that you need to hurt to feel anything. But when you re-align your view, you can see the passion in something smaller, simpler. That half an hour extra you stay up just to talk crap even though you need to get to sleep to make an appointment. Or the random phone call to tell someone about something beautiful you saw. That's passion, undistilled, purity of purpose. That's real, and within reach every day. I want you to know me, I want you to share this with me, I want you to feel what I feel right now.
Right now, I'm feeling the comedy genius of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.
"It's a nice trick to play if you know it's a trick. Word play. You're elbowing yourself then, seeing if anyone else gets the joke. I have to do that or I can't think straight. Talk crooked, think straight," I told her.
"That's a terrific ideology to have. Talk crooked, think straight."
"It works for me. It's better than drinking myself into a fury. I don't handle it well. I can't disconnect any more, but I can't bear the connections as they are. So the only choice is to reconnect. Rewire."
"I'm good at disconnecting. It's what I do best. It's almost as if I'm content to sit still so I don't stumble over anything that'll hurt. And it's SO strange. I spend so much time warning people about me, when in the end, they don't give a shit."
"It's deflection, isn't it?"
She considered it. "It might be."
"It's kind of a rough habit to have. The warning label. It's almost as if you're giving yourself permission to be a shit. I do it. So when I fuck them up, I can say I told you so."
"Yeah. that's exactly it. It is. So I don't have to make excuses. Because You Knew."
"I know that song by heart."
Even people that have been very attentive to me in relationships don't tell me when I've overlooked something or made them feel badly. They think that it'll spare me. But it makes me feel, as my reformed vegetarian friend said, "like you're not needed. Because those people will never explain to you why they won't ask anything of you." It allows you a lack of liability. And you can't very well explain to most people why you NEED them to hold you liable because of that lofty ideal that you'll do more than what is required of you.
If I hurt someone, I need them to tell me. And they fucking don't. So how do I respond? Warning the next poor fucker. There's that license to fuck up we discussed.
The thing is that pain is surmountable. It's ok if someone hurts you. It won't kill you. It won't make you wither. As long as they know, and understand, and try to make it better next time. I end up screaming, please, just please... call me on my shit. It's too easy to walk over people when they make excuses for me. I can't respect it, or abide it. I know very well that I require some reverence. Some irrefutable respect. But not a doormat. I'm not pretending to wear the good guy badge or the black hat. I'm just saying I want to be both adored and held accountable by someone I love.
Anyone sure of themselves can require respect and can handle being told they're being shitty when they are. It's only an error when it's an anomaly, when it's not the norm. When you can accept that you can, and will, fuck up, you can accept that it doesn't define you unless you AND yours allow it to perpetuate. Then they might just get the attack to give them that "passion" they need, oh you stoic saint, you martyr. It's just impatience, then. You want to feel? Feel this.
I guess some people mistake drama for passion. The idea that you need to hurt to feel anything. But when you re-align your view, you can see the passion in something smaller, simpler. That half an hour extra you stay up just to talk crap even though you need to get to sleep to make an appointment. Or the random phone call to tell someone about something beautiful you saw. That's passion, undistilled, purity of purpose. That's real, and within reach every day. I want you to know me, I want you to share this with me, I want you to feel what I feel right now.
Right now, I'm feeling the comedy genius of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.