Rarely is the artist capable of going both ways on two journeys, into the self and into the world […]. It is a combination of the Romantic I and the Classical they . It is subjective and it is objective. It navigates between the real and the imagined […].
-Deena Metzger on Anais Nin
I’ve always felt my place in the liminal space. As if I were constantly hanging in suspension, finding myself afloat just when I have alighted on ground. There is always a distance that intimates nearness as if constantly postponing pleasure. Please: both a command and a plea. I oscillate between its two connotations like a tidal wave. The deluge of desiring. And I have always been afraid of deep water.
The true nature of a person is best discovered in bed. I have discovered much about other people — often hurtful revelations, but very suitable material for my writing. As for me, I’ve grown to love the edge of the bed, the way it poses the danger of falling off and perhaps hitting my head on the floor. It is an exaggeration, but sometimes I imagine it, its worst scenario, perhaps a landing that would make my head bleed. And it arouses me. Some might think me sick. But there really are times in the night, in the morning, when I feel a coldness in my chest that cannot be allayed by the one next to me. And so I turn away, find myself drawn to that which is beyond the bed, beyond the space of true nature, half-dreaming in my wake. This is how to desire what is close to you, knowing you cannot hold it any closer. You must move away.
Pardon me for the incoherence of this entry, for I just woke up.