These days I feel like Saul Bellow's Herzog. I compose letters and mails to people in my head and - this goes without saying - I never send any of them.
When I do send a mail to a person on my ever-growing list, it never turns out the way it exists in my head. It shrinks, becomes more mealy-mouthed and conventional, more stripped of warmth and intent. Anyone reading such a mail would naturally wonder why I bothered and very likely ignore it.
I choose to think this signifies something. A retreat. A re-gathering of resources. Perhaps.
See Bellow's lines:
"Not able to stand kindness at this time. Feeling, heart, everything in strange condition. Unfinished business."
Yes, let's call it unfinished business. For which withdrawal and disengagement is necessary. Or, at any rate, an absence from being everywhere, in order to be only within myself.
When I do send a mail to a person on my ever-growing list, it never turns out the way it exists in my head. It shrinks, becomes more mealy-mouthed and conventional, more stripped of warmth and intent. Anyone reading such a mail would naturally wonder why I bothered and very likely ignore it.
I choose to think this signifies something. A retreat. A re-gathering of resources. Perhaps.
See Bellow's lines:
"Not able to stand kindness at this time. Feeling, heart, everything in strange condition. Unfinished business."
Yes, let's call it unfinished business. For which withdrawal and disengagement is necessary. Or, at any rate, an absence from being everywhere, in order to be only within myself.
1 comment:
I can understand that. Sometimes you are bereft of words, or the right words, or the words are just not enough to convey the warmth you really feel. So hugs.
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