and if my thought-dreams could be seen,
they’d probably put my head in a guillotine,
but it’s alright, ma, it’s life and life only...
Bob Dylan
...haven’t been talking much to people lately...at least not in much depth...though I’ve been having a lot of really deep, intense discussions with myself...
...that’s included trying to do some writing by hand every day...which is notable because I never, if I can help it, write with anything less than a full-sized QWERTY keyboard...don’t even get me started on how I can’t stand text messaging...and yet, I've found myself letting loose with some personal thoughts the likes of which I’ve never let see the light outside my brain...often painfully embarrassing, shameful...offensive to anyone other than...or, sometimes, including...myself...and, it occurs to me, the reason for this and the reason I don't normally write by hand might be one and the same...that what comes out is thoroughly incomprehensible to anyone but me...and, sometimes, to me, as well...thus eliminating the worry that, no matter how well hidden, someone might stumble upon and read it...and freeing me to write absolutely anything I want...
...of course, it could be decided...possibly after my death...like with William Blake, Emily Dickinson, or Henry Darger...that what I write’s important enough for scholars, handwriting analysts, or freelance pharmacists to go combing through the hieroglyphics...then, that might be cool...would make my unauthorized biographies a lot more interesting...certainly, people talking about how boring I am after I’m dead would be adding insult to injury...comb through my hieroglyphics, baby, comb through ‘em all night, dig into my present past darlin’, bring it all to light...then, I could also end up buried in intensely dull jargon filled written-for-no-reason-except-to-get-tenure scholarship...
BALD heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.
William Butler Yeats, from “The Scholars”
...then, such are the perils of posthumous fame...probably better to be alive and obscure...
