Monday, June 25, 2018

interview silences troped with some confession

After scrolling through Twitter stuff that turns up posts related to the filmmaker and seeing her Instagrams, I felt, as her, that I’m tired of being found “amazing,” etc.—weary of vapid praise.

“What I’ve done, I’ve done.”

I move on.

“By now, [my recent film] is so past. I’m working in a future.”

I endure others’ vapidity for the sake of future success. I treasure genuine response privately.

“I’ve always been bored by glamour, faux power of vogueing presence.
The Body!—the sex business of fashion.”

But I perform splendidly.

Yet, who knows how deeply, highly—may I say: profoundly?—a way I may be
at heart.

She allegedly spends “99.9%” of her time at a keyboard. Very funny, dear.

For me, I surely live a lot with keys: my life, my love of writing. It’s joy
of the work that sustains me. So, yes, 99.9%, because I eat letters.

“So, being happily unknown is fine, as the work goes well.” There is the beauty of artistry: entranced elations of the work.

I make love with you through letters, never knowing how deeply we met.

Or rather, we know, but a theater outside of this allows for graciousness toward they who’re growing through our drama, merely—as if they comprehend us, because they do understand a lot, relative to how so far they’ve lived. And that’s integrally good, as long as they continue to make their way truly their own.

“It’s enough to love the work.”

It’s all I need, save for sharing with whomever reads my letters, known and unknown. It’s enough to be living the work.

I’m old. I’m young. A posture they see—I’m essentially plural; I’m protean—tropes the manifold of my displays. Life is theater because there are so many ways of life. I’m drama because others’ life unwittingly requires that of me: time for mere civility, glad for solidarity, valuing friendship, some of us bonded in kinship, all of that apart from Our intimacy, presence, beyond any drama.

“What woman do you want me to be?”

Or I’ll be a man, whatever. I’m here with you: androgynous, gynandrous—
none of their business.

We’re the artists we are: postures played for others, improvisations we play together, and intimacies that stay unwritten, cohering one Self many ways together, centripetally gathering life into telic cohering.

“That’s all.”