February 13, 2006


I was witlessly forced into a confrontation last night with Yana about how I present myself in my writings. After forcibly ejecting someone who was sleeping on my futon, she called me on my lifestyle contradictions: In my public journals, I am laid-back, advocate wandering & couch-surfing, laugh at the fiscally addicted, & present myself as spontaneous in movements & conversational whimsy. The side she claimed to have seen of me was frugal & lazy, up-tight about matters as earthy as the dishes & the radio volume, & a host of other minor sins. For the deluge of information in our age, broadcasted & diffused with perplexing complexity, how one paints oneself online or in whatever ’zine one schmoozes oneself into, is that schizophrenic alter ego, which more might encounter than its fleshy namesake. The art of representation, a Shakespeare would say, makes the wind its post-horse, whereas one’s corporal self, far less glamorous than as has been depicted, freaks out if a spoon wasn’t properly loaded in the dishwasher, or if a colleague misrepresents herself in her ’blog.

“Manathu-Vorcyon! I behold thee flaming in my halls,
Light of thy mothers soul!
I see thy lovely eagles round;
Thy golden wings are my delight,
& thy flames of soft delusion.”
-William Blake, Europe: A Prophecy

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