I wonder what percentage of people who say they are offended by something are actually offended by it. I'd wager it's not one one-thousandth of a percent of those people. But this is what one does now to exist. This is the substitute for substance. Put a dog in a room with a pile of meat, the dog eats the meat. It's just what a dog does. Give a child a chance to tattle, the child tattles. Give a bank robber an unguarded bank and a table stacked with money, the bank robber goes in and takes the money. I look at human nature this way--you have a bucket of foul water. God knows what has been growing in it. Dump the bucket out near a sewer grate, and the water runs into the grate. That's human nature. It's just what humans do. It's not about offense or values or beliefs, the whole movement to be offended and cancel. It's the fetid water being carried through the grate because of the current, the angle of the ground, and then gravity. What this also speaks to is how sheltered most people are. For if they actually experienced life, and real pain, suffering, they couldn't go on as they do, making up what they do, simply because the meat is there, the sewer is there, the bag of money is there. This shelter is achieved by being scared of everything and reducing what are perceived as various risks by never having an original thought, not being one's self, being closed off and avoiding any form of vulnerability, taking no chances to get hurt, be that in a relationship, a friendship. And thus having token "partners"--a term I hate--and no real friends. But bumping social media accounts. Those particular beasts are fed by poses. By being "offended." By pretending to have causes. Anyone who now says they have a cause is lying to you, because they did not have that cause two years ago, five years ago, twenty years ago, fifty years ago, and it was there to be had all along. They are the fetid water flowing into the grate. It's about other things. Just like saying that one is offended.
I could spend--and would need to spend--six months doing organizational work with my body of work, the website, organizing the computer. Six straight months. That's how much there is. Doing all of the forms of back-up. I threw away some emails with photos this morning, because my email account is full and I have to figure out how to port all of the contents over to another account that is large enough. And this is after being hacked which tragically wiped out many years of my correspondence. The letters I write in email document this hell to the fullest, and there are hundreds of thousands of letters like these journal entries. As long. For many years, that's what I wrote, "behind-the-scenes," letters-wise, before I was doing this journal. And which I still do now. They tell the story. Those letters are enough to change the world, too, and are art. When I lay in bed at night all I think of is how much there is to do. With everything. I freak out that it could ever be done. Because it all has to be preserved, organized, and seen. I need a staff, but who could do this anyway? Today I downloaded some of the photos so I could throw away the emails that didn't say anything which just had them as attachments.
There were three from just after Molly and I got married, taken in Rockport at Halibut Point. I know exactly where they are from. I sent them to people as our version of wedding photos. They are not good photos. We don't look happy. I always knew there was something dark and wrong and twisted about her. I knew she wasn't a good person, and I knew she was a weak person. I pretended otherwise on social media, and I'm ashamed of that. But I was also trying to talk her up, hoping that would give her confidence, and she'd actually talk, stop with the gaslighting, the lying. Even still, I never knew she had in her what she did. That level of evil. To pretend that you love someone, never say anything, voice an objection, but plot, plan, have your affair, and then put your plan in motion and leave for good, under cover of darkness, the ultimate coward, the ultimate serial, sociopathic liar, take everything, build a massive wall made of lies, and try to end somebody. The planning of the evil.
I said to someone the other day--someone who went through it with me, as much as another person could--that they probably thought that something had changed for me because I never talk about this demon. That I don't intend to reach a point where it all comes out. Where the story is known. Where there is a book about what happened to me, and that story ends that monster's life. Because I think about it all the time, I told this person. It's part of what has kept me alive. And what are you going to say? He dwells too much in the past! Right. Say that about the guy who just wrote 1000 words in three years. That's not this journal. 1000 works. Of art. No. You can level no such charge about me. Less about me than anyone who has ever lived. That's understated reality backed up with worlds of undeniable proof. There is not a second of any day that I am not thinking about when I have my opportunity. I am so focused on that, that I will not even allow myself anything that takes me from that course of justice. That includes talking about this entity of pure evil. I said to this person, "You probably don't think I can do that; have the platform, do the work, have the truth be known by the world." And they said, "I know you can, I know you should, I know you will." Then we didn't talk about her any more.
I also don't look good in these photos, which are from 2010. I don't look that healthy. My face is quite full. It's not a fat face outright, but it's a round face. I also look older. I don't look like a Zulu warrior. I should maybe show them to a few members of the IC. I don't want to put them up on here, certainly. I don't want that demon in these pages. I am more driven against her by the day. Every day. I'm not a man who exaggerates. I've given this example before. But it's like two people who have pledged certain things to each other, one of whom has told the other to put their life in their hands, for the time being, have ridden many miles of trail. There's never been a word about "this should be different." And one day, one of those people shoots that other person from behind. With no explanation. Then robs them. Then leaves them there to die. But not just die. Succumb in some horrible, drawn-out way. Maybe eaten by wolves. They ride off, and they spread lies, and they have someone waiting for them anyway, and they move right in. They think they've pulled it off. They have no life going forward, because they hate themselves more than anyone else ever has. They can't function beyond the minimal. They've really killed themselves. They knowledge of what they did and to whom they did it, and the guilt, is so great that it erases parts of their mind, their reason.
But that person did not die. And if they have to go across 70,000 of trails made of razor-sharp rocks, without shoes, with their feet being ripped open, as the rest of their life, amazingly, gets worse than what this was, and by far, they're going to do it. Until one day, they show up. Not physically show up. But more than physically. With the truth. Out there in the open. And that truth formally finishes off that other person who has been dead anyway all of this time. That's what's going to happen. And if you don't think I think about that every second of my life--within all of the parts of each of those seconds--you don't know me at all.