I’ve been through a bit, and put others through quite a bit more.
Am not entirely convinced I’m entirely to blame: that is to say, the overriding necessity I have lived with all my life to know why people do what they do has not completely left me, but I am well on the way to caring much less.
Not soon enough I think to avoid further unnecessary pain of an emotional bent – I still have a few people out there who wish to leave off having anything to do with me, it cannot be denied – but I am closer than I have ever been in my life to just managing to be.
So. In order to consummate this need I shall be flying out to stay in a small village, which is close enough to a big city to take in the sights but far enough away, I guess, to contemplate – a tad hermit-like – where I now am after seven or eight months of introspection. And I still have to discover whether the art I have written over that period is a) worthy of the description, and b) actually legal in its confessional nature.
For as in that art I touch on many (for me) beloved people’s lives – decades old, as well as much more recent too – all that remains I guess, after this exercise unravels, is for me to inexorably face my music.
We must really all take responsibility for our actions, however difficult it has been for us to change, however much we might claim we should not be held responsible. Actions belong – always belong – first and foremost to the men and women who commit them in the first place.
Though I figure, too, am sure now, that I have been in the grip not of mania but true love.
And if anything might redeem me, it is precisely my capacity for such affection.
I hope you agree.
I cannot do anything if you can’t.
And I shan’t complain if you condemn me in your ignorance.
After all, condemnation is the very stuff of those who show real political weakness. And we don’t want any part of that.