12
Well, putting off pornography became too distracting in and of itself, so I gave in, got to see naked people again, which basically hadn’t happened ever except maybe while watching Game of Thrones on HBO a while back—and that only lasted an instant—so it’s not like I could really absorb anything, as an artist, or perhaps anybody, would. It wasn’t as perfect as I imagined, which is why it’s a good thing that I went through with it, and was a little let down, because allowing some perfect fantasy—i.e. porn in heaven, with heavenly bodies—to continue was more distracting than the imagery that happened to get imprinted on my brain. I still didn’t know how I was going to deal with all this—I didn’t want to become addicted, or get used to watching it, limp, such that I became impotent, or more impotent than I would have been without it, which a doctor of mine said was a possibility. I didn’t want to get too much imagery in my brain such that it became a distraction, either, but, on that note, I figured, if I had a partner, well, I would get all that imagery on my brain anyhow, and be thinking of it, whenever, in the same way.
Naturally, I prayed about all this. That I was doing the right thing, that He was looking out for me, that I wasn’t convincing myself that this was something He wanted for me when it really wasn’t, and that I wouldn’t feel shame that I wasn’t supposed to feel. That was one of the main reasons behind watching it, wasn’t it? To get over any residual shame I might feel for being who and what I am? Because of my sexuality, what I’m attracted to, and what, given the chance, I would literally pursue in real life? I had to do away with that shame, and accept my desires, if I was ever going to become truly comfortable in my own skin, and do away with this ridiculous restlessness that plagues me when I am trying to relax. Now, I know how this sounds—I sound like a cartoon, and, maybe, in a way, I am—I am also well aware that I diverge from my parents, and conservative people in general, in pursuing these things, but, again, that’s kind of the point of doing it. Worrying about what people think—being unduly affected by their views, and their particular values, made me feel ashamed of myself, and, well, I was basically bisexual—except i didn’t want to partner with a man, so, I was never going to be comfortable in my own skin as long as I was comparing myself to others, particularly old people, and trying to measure up to their idea of what is good—which comes, at an expense, to me, and my nature.
So I guess I could make this a satire about a hypocritical guy that watches pornography and prays about it, convincing himself of bullshit, believing his own bullshit, and that might be an interesting read, I don’t know—the only problem is that I’m not a hypocrite. I’m just complicated—and, in my mind, in a way, I’m not the one that’s complicated—it’s the world around me that is complicated. I’m just trying to be myself—a person that recognizes what he wants, and accepts it, even if he never acts on it, etc. But let me ask myself this: if I had a partner, and other partners, from time to time, as I imagine I will, in heaven—I’m not joking, here—would I still watch a little pornography, here and there? Would I try to hide it from my partner, if I did? Was that a tough question to answer? But really it wasn’t that tough. The simple answer is that I would watch it, a little, just less of it, I wouldn’t try to hide it, I would, on occasion, watch it with my partner, and I would use it as inspiration when it came to doing things to, and with, my partner. But that was just me. I’m not saying that my path is right for everybody—I went over a decade without watching any pornography whatsoever, and I was fine, and things may, at some point, turn out that way again. I may not feel that I need it. I may not even want it. That would be more likely if I had a partner—and, considering, I think, that many people, people that are fundamentally monogamous, would not choose this path, but, rather, might find the idea of sex with other people as offensive, a threat to the love they feel, and share, with their partner—which, if they are truly monogamous, which, I believe, many people are, at least once they settle down, would, naturally, be the case.
Now, am I method acting here? Am I getting into the novel and the narrator for the sake of the creative process, and, in so doing, temporarily becoming someone else? Probably, in a way. I am well aware that tables could turn entirely once I am finished with this particular project, in the same way that, over the course of the last project, I went from dreaming up a life with Anna to realizing there is no universe, parallel or otherwise, in which we, in this life, will ever be together—and, furthermore, realizing that, in part, my attraction to Anna was based on my desire for what she can do for me as my president, as opposed to how she really would, or wouldn’t, i.e., wouldn’t, match up with me. I might secretly believe that she, deep down, is like me, at least a little, but I also know that, in reality, this part of her, if it’s there, would, and will, never see the light of day. That’s because of both her career, and what the world will and will not accept from her, as a function of that career, and, also, the fact that, deep down, I think she’s a hell of lot more conservative than her politics. So, if she were to manifest, as me, like me, well, it would have to be one hell of a scenario—conditions that are about as likely as the likelihood that I, at some point, would partner with this creature.
Now, I also prayed about something else that might or might not be necessarily good for me. I’m talking about my mouthpiece, and my teeth. Again, basically I was praying that, in refusing the mouthpiece, now that I am mostly off the risperidone, and thinking that, in fact, I was treating myself with kindness and love, I wasn’t, in fact, bullshitting myself into thinking this was the right path for me—and the right path, too, for my teeth. Granted, then, I’m sure that I still grind my teeth a little, but I’m imagining, and thanking God, for the strength to treat myself with what I imagine to be love, and weigh the benefits of getting off something that makes me a little miserable, even if my teeth might be, and might continue to be, a little worn beyond my years. Somehow I think that if my dentist were reading this, he would think of me as a joke, convincing myself of nonsense, half-crazy, in thinking that God actually wants this for me, in believing that God, indeed, would be on my side on this matter, as opposed to his. But you have to understand how much I hate wearing it, how gross it feels, and how, at least in my mind, anyhow, it actually drives me to clench my teeth even more—in resistance to this foreign object in my mouth. The mouthpiece may, I imagine, prevent any amount of clenching from causing significant damage, but the clenching, in and of itself, is bad, gives me a headache, and makes it difficult to truly relax.
So, given the difficulties I was having at falling asleep, I was, at this time, dedicated to getting up around 7:30 or 8:00, drinking two cups of coffee—or possibly three, as long as I was finished by 10:00, which meant that I was drinking a lot less coffee than I had in the past, when I relied on coffee to get me through the day, particularly when I made my second great attempt to quit smoking, which lasted, I think, for about two years. But it also meant that I was drinking more than the one cup I drank for many years after settling into the risperidone, and getting into a reliable sleeping rhythm, one in which, in general, got me to sleep, usually, in an acceptable amount of time. Anyhow, the effect I was getting from the coffee now was noticeable—my heart beat faster, I enjoyed writing, but, because I had food in my stomach—because I was actually eating nowadays—the effect wasn’t as strong—it didn’t get me as high, or induce a laser like focus, that, for a long time, I attributed to my zen mornings. Now, at this time, a zen morning, for me, meant a hot shower, making a min-sauna out of the bathroom for myself when I brushed my hair and shaved, as opposed to a bath, and, because, in large part, I think, of the food, being a little more relaxed, but, again, a little less high, and dreamy—lost in a world of thoughts that might or might not have been much more random than these. That didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing, for writing good product, except that, at this time in my life, after settling down a little, and realizing the importance of peace and contentment, it kind of would be bad, because it wouldn’t accurately reflect the person that I am, right here, right now, 48 years old, having, long ago, gone through the point in an artist’s development when they are hungrier, and trying, more desperately, to prove themselves, make a name for themselves, and, also, somehow, escape themselves.