I think one of the reasons I’m a good blogger–okay, fine, a great blogger, the best blogger you read–is that I have and have had for as long as I can remember, a running interior monologue that just don’t really shut the fuck up, which I have channelled, in part, into this.
Seriously, if you ever ask me, “What are you thinking about?” and I say, “Nothing,” frankly, I’m lying.
What am I thinking about? Well, either my mind has wandered a million miles away and I’m thinking about driving around the Delta or camping or George Bush or something that has nothing to do with our day, or I’m probably thinking about what it would be like to have sex with you.
Well, it’s not just because you’re hot, it’s because, I think, a person can live in their head or they can live in the world, but it’s very hard to find the right balance between the two of those (and I imagine it’d be very different for everyone–what that balance is) and I have spent most of my life living in my head–for all kinds of reasons. (For instance, this weekend, I caused egg to be spilled all over the floor and it was a huge mess and I realized, as I stood there kind of paralyzed, that I was waiting to be, at the least, yelled at… okay, honestly, I was waiting to see if I’d be hit. That’s so fucked up. I’m embarrassed to admit that. Let’s just let that stand as an explanation and not talk about it. My point is that I’m kind of awkward in the world in ways that have been unpleasant for me and so I think it’s easy enough for me to just retreat into my head.)
I’d like not to live completely in my head. I have a body that, while no means perfect, is fun for me and it feels good to be in it, moving around in a world that doesn’t actually hurt me regularly. For the most part, days are beautiful; life is short and I want to be in it and present in it.
So, I spend a lot less time living in my head than I used to. I meditate, to learn to quiet that voice, for one. And for two, I force myself to get out there in the world and do things I’d rather not (and when I say that, understand that those are often perfectly pleasant things).
I think the voice in my head uses the lure of thinking about sex to entice me back into my head. There I am, having ice cream with you and we’re talking feminist theory or talking about getting tattoos, and randomly, I start thinking about running my lips along the curve of your shoulder.
It doesn’t mean that I want to stop being your friend and take up as your lover. It doesn’t mean that I’m waiting around for you to realize how much you want me in return. I don’t think it means much at all, other than that some part of me wants me to be more present in my head than there with you–and that’s kind of an effective way to do it, because who doesn’t like to think about sex?
I don’t know. I guess I just thought that this is how it is for everyone. You meet people; you like them; you’re friends with them. Some part of you is all “And be sure to pack your sexy pajamas so that when you get to Boston [or the town of your choice] you can seduce the Divine Ms. B [or the friend of your choice]” and the grown-up part of you has to be all “What the fuck? No, that’s our friend. I don’t really like him or her that way.”
Bleh. This seemed clearer in my head when I was walking the dog, but I reread it and I see that it’s a mess. Can we sum it up in three questions? Let’s see:
1. Isn’t everyone running around wondering what it would be like to fuck everyone else? (Shoot, for instance, I met the Blue Collar Muse and his wife once and was all–“Four kids, really? They must know what they’re doing. I wonder if I could seduce them both…” As if I’d ever knowingly sleep with a Republican. WTF? But there you go.)
2. Isn’t it fine as long as you don’t mistake it for meaning anything more than that?
3. Is it stupid for me to even be wondering about this?