January 25, 1999
Comments
A friend today called me a lying bastard. He was right, but not for the reasons he thought. He rightfully claimed that my not allowing people to prove me wrong on yesterday's Diogenes was contrary to who I am. In response, I told him I deleted every response I received. That was a lie. I have never deleted a response to a Diogenes without first reading it.
Why did I lie then? Why have I twice now told people not to reply to a mailing? Maybe it's because both times these were subjects I hate to talk about but sometimes I need to shout heavenward. I want, no need, people to tell me I am wrong or find faults or for once agree without qualms. Since you believe I'm not going to read them, those who do respond speak with the same honesty as when you lie in bed at 3:37 am discussing quietly to yourself about the nature and meaning to life.
Partly too, I want someone to get mad at me, to with anger and bile accuse me of being wrong. Why? I hate compliments. Compliments just push me to compete with myself and equal or better my past. I like an easier approach to life or a rebellious one, but not one sanctioned by the whimsies of others. In the last few days, complete and total strangers have read my writings and said wondrous praises about them. Two have even asked me to write more short stories. I have not written a story for nearly a year. I used to write them for a specific reason. Like before when that reason was not in my life, I don't write stories simply because I can't find the magic in me for it. I am proud of what I used to write, but I can't do it anymore.
Once again I find myself on a gossamer tightrope of impossibility. I don't want to reside alone in the dark without no one expressing concern or interest on my opinions, yet I also don't want comments filled with praise nor do I want every syllable placed on the crucible. This won't happen.
Thus, things return to the way they are. Those who do comment, know I will read them. I thank you for doing it, even the compliments. Although, I might. . . turn your words into a Diogenes. Honesty is by no means an easy path, and though I try, the lamp remains dark.