My Personal Nins

I keep pretending that I want to write about Henry Miller.  I don’t. (If you are not familiar with Henry Miller, he is a raw, raw beautiful poetic autobiographical novelist who published his first book Tropic of Cancer in 1935 in Paris.)  You see, it’s just that I want to be completely raw, but I can’t.  Propriety is stopping me.  Damn you, propriety. I feel like Jane Austen.

Soooo…

Ho hum, ho hum.  Twiddle fingers.

I’ll admit, I can be impulsive.  With many things and especially with my words.  Not the spoken word most often (although sometimes even then), but the written word.  I am one of those awful people who, when I can’t sleep, think the 2AM email with a somewhat provocative story attached is not only appropriate but cute.  I am most often thinking, at that insomniatic hour, that the recipient not only wants to give a review but is going to be flattered by my disclosures.

I am, more often than not, incorrect in my assumptions.  (You know what they say…)

My most likely response is silence.

Not from my dear friends of course.  Just from those on the outskirts.  Those that I want to be on the inskirts.  Where is my Anais Nin?

(If you are not familiar with Anais Nin, she is an erotic diarist once attached to and having a passionate affair with Henry Miller. Basically, she not only accepted but understood his rawness.)

I am feeling that I am, perhaps, being too forthcoming now.  2AM emails, really?!?

So, what is it with people (or is it Americans?  21st century adults? Hobbits?) that we just can’t be our complete and total selves for everyone to see?  I am both passionate and impatient and perhaps that isn’t a good combination.

Perhaps.

Although writing specifically about difficult times, author Elizabeth Lesser states: “It’s almost as if we are embarrassed by our most human traits. We tell ourselves that we don’t have time to go into the gory details with everyone we meet; we don’t want to appear sad, or confused, or weak, or self-absorbed.  Better to keep under wraps our neurotic and nutty sides (not to mention our darker urges and more shameful desires).”

Neurotic? Nutty? Urges? Desires? What about passion? Are we also then embarrassed or ashamed or afraid to keep our more passionate sides from people?  As they may be grossly misunderstood?  I do believe, most sadly, that deep passion can be mistaken for many a different thing.

Insanity, for example.  Or love.  (Aren’t they really the same thing?) Or, just plain foolishness?

And aren’t we afraid of insanity?  Blinded by love? Disgusted by foolishness?

I have recently (again) attempted to revive, for myself, the art of letter writing.  I have some fantastic books of letters written from one passionate person to another.  Somehow, they all seem to be well understood.  The political passions.  The artistic passions.  The romantic.  The purely sexual. Not only understood, but cherished and, well, published.

I am, maybe because of the 2AM emails, hesitant to “send” these letters.  They are letters that I think should be sent.  Sent and understood for what they are.  But, I fear that they won’t be.  And they probably wouldn’t be. What gives?

Perhaps I am not the person, the artiste, that these famous letter writers are.  Or, perhaps, I have not found my kindred recipient.

You see, I am afraid.  I stifle myself. I suppose for fear of being judged or possibly disliked, of offending or being misunderstood.

So, back to Miller.  And to quote: “Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves? Until we do lose ourselves there is no hope of finding ourselves.”

I don’t often think that my fears stem from losing myself, but, quite possibly, about losing others.  I am, especially most recently, finding myself (again?).  But, maybe, just maybe, it is about losing control, about ruining things, relationships especially.  While many times I seem to draw folks in, I also, perhaps, seem to push them away.  Maybe to intimidate.  Maybe to embarrass.  Maybe to frighten all together. (I hope I am not making myself sound like a goddess of sorts.  I am not attempting to indicate that I am something so powerful and other worldly that people can’t handle me.  Just, maybe, that I often slip up and, perhaps more often, intend to say or do what others may not feel comfortable saying or doing or hearing or reading.)

So, yes, I am searching for the Nin’s of the world.  Those who can meet me where I’m at and who I am right now, this moment, regardless of flaws.  If you can’t take what I’m putting out, then c’est la vie.  I think I will work on a letter, maybe to post, maybe to send to some unsuspecting bystander at 2AM.  (Send me your email if you’d like to be on my list.)

That said, I would like to see you all being your bold selves.  I would like to see the world open and ready for reality and experience.  I would like to see that beauty and openness.  I will be on the lookout and I’m sure I will find it.

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1 Comment

  1. Melisa said,

    July 15, 2013 at 8:13 am

    I’ve always hated Jane Austen. Send the letters!


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