Me and sex.
The pleasure is in the reading.
The disappointment is in the seeing.
She tells me that I must reduce my self-deprecating comments by 25% and yet I have the mirror of the world to remind me. I venture towards the promise of clothing on sale and find that even clothed I am no better than I was.
He drags himself to my bed because of his kindness and I am aware that it is an effort. He is a good man. "I am not as sexual as you", an excuse that does not fool me but I am glad of his lie. I want nothing but lies. I want 'I lust after you' and 'you are beautiful' and 'I can't keep my eyes off you' and I don't care that it is all out of pity. I am happy to suspend my disbelief for the duration of a beautiful lie.
I am beautiful at times too. I am beautiful in the dark where the light cannot touch my skin with form and colour. In the lonely space of an afternoon by myself, under water, protected by blindfolds, hidden behind my writing.
So I am looking around for someone to stand in for me when they take the author photograph. In the meantime I am rushing through the the self-deprecation, gorging myself on it. Next week, when I am on display, meeting and greeting, I will be all confidence and smiles and glamor, but today I am gnomic and hurt and desperate to believe the lies.
2 comments:
I just read this and felt so strongly about it I actually just created a blogger account so I could comment. I've been reading your pieces ever since coming across that radio interview with Richard Fidler and, yes, of course I went all the way back. With every post I felt you were describing a life that could have been mine if I'd been a little braver, if I hadn't let myself be, slowly but surely, closed and shut away.
You're anxious now and that's to be expected, but the truth is, your writing is real and immediate and often very beautiful. You don't leave out the unflattering detail; your motives are not primped and trimmed to look their best. Of course, it does matter what you look like. If you looked like a supermodel, your experiences would be vastly different, your prose coloured in dusky pink, ivory, carmine. It would have precious little to say to the majority of us, ranged from nothing special to downright hideous. Your book would be on the top shelf, full of pictures, wanked over by adolescents and old men. Your author photo would have you pouting over your shoulder - the blurb on the dustjacket would mention your adoration of small dogs and your habit of wearing no panties. Instead you're creating something real, something meaningful to the rest of us. We who may be ugly as sin but still have moments when our hair catches the light to dance like a forest full of fireflies, when our private skin glows in the dark like milk.
I love your writing. There is enough porn in the world.
thank you for this. I often forget people read this. You are right. Thank you for your comment.
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