γνῶθι σεαυτόν

being me involves
a very particular
and unique kind of
self-ignorance — it’s the most
daunting thing in the whole world

I think it’s the case that my blog wrings more soul-searching from me than is required to keep my daily poem going without the blog. There’s a dramatic quality to what emerges under the pressure of knowing that I’m going to be sharing it online — even if the number of my readers is admittedly few. It was interesting for me to realise, looking back at the blogs in November, that I have repeated myself. Titus Alexander featured in a blog in November (and again a couple of days ago). Likewise Max Landsberg (although I didn’t name him, the first time I wrote about him). The man I dreamed of last night might likewise have already featured in previous blog posts. He was a lecturer in English Literature at a university in the USA, and he also happened to be the brother of my teenage gay lover. I met him in 1975 when he brought a party of his students over to London theatreland. I liked him enormously; there was a solidity, reliability and integrity about him (qualities which perhaps his brother sometimes lacked). He also had a gift equal to his brother’s, for generating a good feeling in a group of people. Whatever the psychological damage done to me by his brother, I suppose you could say this university lecturer has remained in my mind as the image of the person I would have most liked to be, other than myself (if wishes like that were ever granted). So he carries the projection of my own idealised self-image. The point about the theory of projection is that it enables you to recognise, obliquely, clues as to the character of the self who is a complete stranger to you. I really do feel utterly daunted, and utterly tiny, against the mystery of this stranger in my life (me) who was presumably responsible for how much angst and joy I suffered in those days — and how totally, totally screwed up I was. Am.

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