But I've been wasting so much time. And energy.
Relishing your opinions of me.
I'd much rather spread my own wings, than spill more of my blood...
The instilled fears, inhibitions, and tears
Have all disappeared, since I dared to ask myself:
What about my life? What of this life?
[Endeavor]
I re-read that little Foucault quote, here. Right after reading a message from an old friend who attended an event I set up a few nights ago; remarking that she was heartened to see that I'd once again softened to the idea of occupying some space of relative visibility in my work. I've tended (for some years now) to take up roles somewhat left-of-frame, insulating myself from the invariably petty and equally vicious assaults one seems to invite in this town, as soon as one puts one's name on anything.
Truth is: I haven't softened to jack shit. But maybe I need to. When I'd originally adopted the aforementioned strategy, I commented to a friend "The genuine assholes of the world number relatively few. It's the sea of cowards in which they swim that ultimately casts the deciding vote." And I haven't really lost sight of that contingency, nor do I believe that that sea is populated with any increase in promise, at present. Rather, recent events would seem to indicate things have hardly ever been more the same.
But I'm no longer and island, either. More on that, later.
