Anyway, the dim steam room is analogous to the interior of my Mom's car - it's where the talking happens. I'm sure my little brother has realized this, since the last few times he's been in there have involved my Dad lecturing him and me giving brotherly advice. The more I think about it, these places of talking have a real or imagined degree of captivity - it's not reasonable to jump from a speeding car when conversations get uncomfortable, and we pretend that it's unreasonable to leave the steam room ("don't open the door; you'll let all the steam out." "OK, we can open the door a crack and wait for the steam unit to shut off.").
My little brother asked last night if we were going to steam with our Dad, meaning that he probably didn't want to have to withstand a conversation on his own. I said sure, and he hobbled into the backyard and turned on the hose and steam unit, setting the steam room conference into motion. When he came back up to tell me that they were ready to get in, I pretended to be asleep, which wasn't hard to do, being already half-asleep. I hope that he and my Dad had a good one-on-one uncomfortable conversation.
I was woken up early this morning by my Mom, who said that her five sisters had decided to visit this week after all, even though she'd told them that she might have to leave for New Orleans with my little brother any day now. This means that I will be dealing with a cumulative 250 years and 650 pounds of estrogen for the next week (averaging each aunt's age to 50 and weight to 130).
She was frantic when she woke me up - we had to clean the upstairs!!! It's a bit beyond me how it's supportive to come down somewhat unexpectedly and get my Mom frazzled (she only knew they were coming for sure when Eloise, my grandma with .22 pistol in a pink purse, called her this morning). I don't really understand either side of my extended family - I'm only beginning to understand my own family in bits and pieces by writing about them. I also don't understand cleaning, but I can move and hide shit, so that is what I've been doing most of this morning.
It's occurred to me on multiple occasions that this blog may be growing stale - that I'm talking about being sober, killing wasps, and now cleaning instead of wading to islands to confer with improbable snipers, clinging to fire escapes while trying to break into a vacant apartment, or waiting to get punched in the face.
I had one of those handy gadgets that counts the number of visitors to this site. I started paying too much attention to those numbers each time I'd sign in to put up a new post ("over 1200, alright people care and find me interesting and entertaining!"). Blogging daily has given an unhealthy boost to this habit ("Only 2 people visited the past few days - what the fucking shit am I doing wrong!? Pay attention to me!") I also got depressed when I realized the counter treated me as a visitor each time I signed in to put up a new post. I considered putting in the Google Analytics code for this site, so I could check the true number (along with knowing what part of the country or world they had viewed the blog from as well as how long they had stayed on my page).
Instead, I removed the basic counter gadget, because this is NOT a way to write. It's also not a way to live, seeking people's approval and admiration at every turn.
Supposedly, many writers have an ideal reader whom they write for. I thought that I hadn't met mine yet until I remembered that I've known myself all of my life. When other aspiring writers told me that they wrote for themselves, I had thought them to be self-indulgent and isolationist. I mean, what the hell is the point of writing anything if there's no one to read what you've done?What's the point of making love to a beautiful woman if you can't brag about it afterwards to friends? Where's the sense in performing a good deed if there are no bystanders to applaud?
I've met people who get me - people whom I love and respect, and the thought of them reading a single sentence that I've written is intoxicating. But I still haven't met my ideal reader, so I'm going to fill in for her for the time being (I'm not sure why, but I always imagine my future ideal reader as this elegant lady). I'm saying that writing for myself is the way to go - I can be a very confused guy, and this is one of the few reactions to that confusion that offers some clarity. I also care very much that you read and thank you for it. Alas, I can't write for you any longer!
I'm also beginning to doubt that I'm an insatiable alcoholic; I did/do have a drinking problem, and I'm still not drinking until the sober me figures out why and works on it. Part of it had to do with feeling fucking worthless every once in a while. Now, I have to ask worthless by whose standards? If I can set my own ever-increasing standards and continue live up to them, then no one has the right to call me worthless. I talked earlier about needing to compete - I think that I've been competing against myself in the past. I'd like to start competing with myself from now own - there is a difference, the same difference between sabotage and growth. That is why I have to write for myself first. I believe this means plenty of boring posts, but I also have a premonition that the results of this new freedom may get fucking weird.
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