23 I 2003 - 00:01 - somnium (minans me) mentem meam tenuit

After the flurry of progress report-related entries from my various schoolmates, some of whom I have linked, some of whom have me linked, and some of whom do not exist to me by what can be more or less described as mutual agreement, I have but a few comments to make.

First, I'm satisfied. I do wish that I applied myself a little more, but apparently my teachers think I'm doing enough. And for the first time since kindergarten, there are no comments to be had anywhere about how quiet I am in class or how I don't speak up often enough (with the exception of one course, but it was a student-led independent study, so I'm not really counting it). Having been told for most of the few years I've been around by turns that I am too assertive and that I am too quiet (which are, of course, not necessarily opposite), it is a satisfaction to hear neither at last (unless my parents are counted, in which case I hear both. Parenthetical phrases -- let's give 'em a hand!)

Second, the comments for the independent study course -- the one on creative writing, which caused me some anguish, as I had to Produce, surprised me; the student leader took the time to write not the usual three-sentence teacher comment but rather something closer to a fifth of the page (small font, so this is not a small accomplishment). She told me to 'remember that freedom and intuition have their own sets of logic, too,' and that as a result I should try not 'to limit [myself] too much, too early.' This is not unfamiliar to me, but it's showing up in a pretty new context.

To take a semi-related tangent, I've been contemplating desire, the body, emotions recently and have come to the conclusion that I'm enamored of the illusion that my desires and emotions can and are to be controlled. I think part of this is from a fear that, should I give in to feeling, I would be overwhelmed, no longer sure of what to do with myself. (Small voice: does one always need to be sure of what to do? Objection: but thinking, and a Plan -- these are not bad things.) But also beyond that, I think there's a fear that if I were to believe my desires worthy of pursuit, of embrace -- and then realize them unattainable, that would be more devastating than simply repressing them. I never said I used logic particularly well. But after this: safer by far, then, to chase more self-contained desires, leave the ones with other people out of it.

But I can't.

It's funny, I can force myself into abandoning for a time the barriers that try to keep what lives in my mind within, or at the very least within conversation with an elect. Then I go and weird other people out, because I say for a time what I mean.

I don't mean by this (ha ha) that most of my time is devoted to falsehood, that I am the evil and inscrutable Oriental, impassive on the outside, planning world domination with a Persian cat and a hookah stuffed with some opiate in my locked attic at nights. Rather, what I say is always true, is always what I mean, because civility is also a language of its own, because there are other ways to express love -- through gifts of words and books and authors, things that I hold dear, other ways to channel emotion and other places to put messages besides mere speech.

But in those moments of release, I am able to go around telling people I have wanted to tell for a long time that they are beautiful, I am able to be a little more honest. I don't think my best friends see much change -- they will see that I am out of sorts, but conversation with them remains more or less a constant -- it is to everyone else that I suddenly bumble...

but when it comes to him, he to whom I would like most to make that declaration (as if that were enough; I might convince myself to be restful, after that), my voice falls silent, and I'm at a loss to explain why.

I don't know if this is at all related to my previous two subjects, but on every night of the past week, and irregularly before that, I have had terrible nightmares of castration. The implement changes, the celebrant (or officer, or gelder -- whatever I am supposed to call him -- but always a man) changes, the context changes, but the end result is the same, and I wake up terrified, unsure of where I am and of my wholeness. This too is constant: I have trusted him who wields the sickle (or the wires, or the mallet) and feel no terror until the actual implement of removal is produced, at which point I discover that (though many times they are left free) my legs are rooted, unable to move, and I can but watch the descent, after which, having been shown for a suitable time the ghastly prize, I wake up.

But this too is curious (and maybe I am writing about this in the context of desire, or maybe I write about this in the context of flood's dream of that unnatural invasion of pins and blades): in half the dreams, the officiant asks me, or tells me, that 'this is what [you] want, isn't it, as an end to all [your] troubles?' -- and in those dreams, although a feeling of unspeakable violation of trust and body is present in all, I'm never quite sure whether I really do welcome it or not.

And then I wake up with the dread of loss, and I can't imagine how I possibly could have thought in my dream that that would actually be what I might desire for myself.

The dreams have happened before; they'll happen again, although I hope they won't repeat tonight (in saying that, I've guaranteed they will). If I could just understand what I am trying to tell myself -- that might make them easier to bear. But as it is, all I can do is offer them to you.