When You Really Think About It, Fucking Your Wife Is A Lot Like Writing For Yourself, But Not Really Like Emily Dickinson Masturbating
This morning I emerged from a 4-day-long depression and these little cartoon birds – blue ones – descended from out of nowhere and landed on my shoulders. I smiled and nodded my head while they whistled and sang. The blue cartoon birds were lit with that vivid cartoony brightness that makes everything else look pale and stupid (depressed?). You might think the birds are just metaphors for 1 mg tabs of Xanax but they’re not. This morning! Happiness, smiles, cartoon birds, etc!
That image of me smiling and nodding with singing cartoon birds made me smile, so I’m going to publish it because all the best Blog Sages say you should Write For Yourself. So now, I’m only writing for myself. Not for fame, popularity, money, or phone numbers. The Buddha says all that junk is mere illusion anyway. I’m not saying I’m enlightened or anything, but I do have cartoon birds on my shoulders so there’s that going for me. Nonetheless, even though I’m writing for myself and myself only, I’m also putting it out here for you to look at too. Otherwise, who am I? Emily Dickinson masturbating?
[NOTE: If you were just about to start a blog and didn’t know what to call it, I would definitely consider Emily Dickinson Masturbating. That’s probably the second best blog name I’ve ever heard in my life.]
I got an email that said I didn’t unify my metaphors. Another email asked me if I was ever gonna write like the old BHJ. These two emails virtually paralyzed me. I’m not even sure what a unified metaphor is. I couldn’t write for days.
For example, I saw Jenna crouched down by the refrigerator. I stared at her ass. It made me want to fuck her. I started a blog post in my head: Jenna. I want to fuck you like wait wait wait. You must be cautious about creating similes comparing something to wanting to fuck your wife using “like” or “as”. One wrong move and you’re sleeping on the couch. You see? Writer’s block. Paralyzed. The only safe bet was writing “I want to fuck you like I want to fuck you.” but that’s a tautology and there’s nothing dumber than a blog littered with tautologies and metaphors that don’t shore up.
Oh fuck is this post “meta”? All the coolest blog kids think “meta” posts are absurd and ridiculous. This was supposed to be about depression. Depression sells. But, dammit, that shouldn’t matter because I’m writing this for myself and myself alone. In fact, I’m scoffing at you right now, Reader. Scoffing, and baring my teeth. Anyway, depression…
I can’t really say why I was depressed for 4 days. Does your depression have reasons? Mine doesn’t. For me, depression has always been a perspective, a mode, a way of seeing.
For example, one minute I was munching on a piece of pepperoni. Twenty minutes later, I was driving in the car and my eye felt itchy. You see where this is going, don’t you? It’s called foreshadowing. So yeah. The memory of pepperoni stained my fingertips and I smeared it all over my eyeball.
Oh fuck Mary virgin mother of baby Jesus that hurt.
But it’s not like smearing pepperoni on my eyeball depressed me. Rather, I was already depressed and perceived my pepperoni smeared eyeball through the lens of depression. Let’s get all scientific and compare my not-depressed and depressed reactions to pepperoni in the eye.
NOT-DEPRESSED BHJ: Goodness. I just rubbed pepperoni in my eye. That really stings. What an unfortunate event.
DEPRESSED BHJ: I just rubbed pepperoni in my eye. The world hates me. I don’t know why I even try. The world is pepperoni and my life is an eye. Is that a unified metaphor? Probably not. I should kill myself. I can’t think of an apt simile for fucking my wife. I can’t write like my old self. I will never be my old self again. Look. A gun store.
Do you see the subtle difference in modes of perceiving?
Sometimes, little blue birds are not symbols for little blue pills. Sometimes, cartoon birds are just plain old cartoon birds. And pepperoni in your eye is not necessarily a sign for the way the world feels about you. It’s just a stinging eye. And you know what? A simile for fucking your wife might actually, in the end, diminish the meaning. Because maybe there’s exactly nothing quite like fucking your wife (if she’s reading this, there better not be).
The only thing like fucking your wife is fucking your wife. There’s nothing to compare it to. But watch the mystical turn. If it’s like nothing, then it’s like everything. It’s at these extremities where distinctions begin to blur into their opposites. Lights incense. Bows. So fucking your wife is like the errant path of a wandering firefly seeking the secret of dusk. It’s like taking your favorite book down off the shelf. Fucking your wife is like writing for yourself.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Reader Comments (49)
exactly!
cool
I love to disagree with you. It is my reason for being online. There is no way that fucking your wife is anything like writing for yourself. That is total nonsense. I think poetry is wrong. All poetry. Poets and writers are always comparing this shit to that shit, and you know what -- it is insulting to everything. No woman is like a ripe rose. The grass is not like a green blanket covering the earth. Screw similes. It's insulting to the grass that God gave us, and the fine blankets that were handmade with the sweat of a Chinese blanket maker. Perhaps this is why you have been depressed lately -- it finally occurred to you that this writing "hobby" is useless.
And if someone tells you to write a particular way, tell the guy to shove it, much like the Roman gladiator who once accidentally put a spear up his ass, or like the way the water buffalo shoves his newly born son into the world to fend for himself as the sun sets on the African desert.
Good Gravy, I love your stupid blog's guts out. (I can't swear, I think it's against my religion, but if I could, I would here).
Oh honey. I have had some really, really fucked up shit happen over the last couple years (but now that I'm officially considered in remission, I feel the tide is finally changing, WOO HOO) and other than the death of our son, I can honestly say my issues with have never been situational.
My worst bouts with depression have stemmed from nothing more than a switch flipping in my circuits and chemicals acting janky. One day all is well, the next I cannot get off the couch, the world is out to get me, I am woefully unprepared for this life and jaysus wouldn't now be a great time to die. I'm sorry for your struggle but I'm glad you're coming around after 4 days.
While I am diappointed that you are not writing for me (how selfish of you) - based on your writing, I would say that fucking your wife must be pretty damn good. Wish this post was up a week ago before I bought my lame domain name. EmilyDickinsonMasturbating.com would have really meant something. Something special.
And somtimes you need to stick the pepperoni in someone elses eye
Just not your wifes eye. They tend not to like that
I wished for a moment that I was your wife but then I took that back because I'm sure she deserves that kind of "I want to fuck her" attitude and I would never want to take that away from her.
Great. Now all I can think about while masturbating is Emily Dickinson fucking your wife.
Thanks a lot.
Was Jenna looking for the pepperoni in the fridge?
Does NOT-DEPRESSED BHJ actually not swear when bad things happen? It seems to me that men swear over anything that goes even slightly wrong taking all the worth out of swearing except when you add volume. I don't understand this part of men at all.
And my husband better not have a simile for how he wants to fuck me. It must be pure. I WANT TO FUCK YOU. I think that should be good enough reason for anyone.
Glad the depression has lifted. Depression sucks. But meds help.
Haters can suck it! You write what you want to write however you want to write it and don't let the bastards get you down!! God, people, STFU and let the man write. For the love of Chri... oh wait, I can't wait that name around here can I? Well... you know what I mean.
p.s. My depression never needs a rhyme or a reason to visit either.
brilliant.
Metaphors for married sex are dangerous. Do not attempt them unless you're divorced. Otherwise you will end up sleeping on the couch - or as Emily Dickinson puts it, Zero at the bone.
I loved this one.
Why do I think the next time I find myself cracking the spine on some good old Emily Dickinson, I'll be thinking horribly impure thoughts about spreading open pages and bookmarks and cracking and stiffness and it will all become a huge smear until somehow it magically spreads like a virus and Emily Dickinson's works are banned from elementary schools across the country as horrible smut?
Is that a bad thing? I enjoy titillation as much as the next guy.... everybody, stock up on your Emily Dickinson collections while you still can! At white market prices, anyway.
Anyway, sorry you were depressed, but I'm glad you're in the clear enough to write so amusingly about it. Gotta hate the ol' pepperoni in the eye.
P.S. I think in the case of fucking your wife, a simple tautology is allowable, or even required, versus almost all other options.
but the real question is, did you get the pepperoni out of your eye?
I don't know what you used to write like, but don't go back to it.
Depression sucks ass. Your scientific comparison was fucking perfect.
I'm reading for myself and so I welcome all that scoffing and baring of teeth. That's what I tell myself anyway.
I love BHJ. The I-write-for-myself-BHJ. We're just along for the ride, admiring the brilliance.
Neil, in your own words, "shove it".
Surely you see the irony of telling someone that they shouldn't listen to *anyone* else who tells them how to write?... But preceding your remarks with some rant about how you think poetry is (by way of similes) insulting to everything. When really, you mean it's *like* insulting everything. Because the intention isn't at all to make the beautiful woman into a thorny rose, or the blanket into a woven heap of sweat - but instead, to let us understand all the different facets of a complex subject. If things were plain and simple (both the subject and the artist) - we'd never need simile or metaphor - because it would all be plain and simple. Anyway, surely you get the irony there, right?...
I think what I resent most about your post is the last bit though, about how the "why" of his depression is a sudden realisation of writing as being a pointless exercise.
But the truth of the matter couldn't be any further away - depression has no why. All the ridiculous celebrities who bite down on zoloft and prozac 24/7 should be evidence of this. You can be depressed no matter what your physical or mental situation. It's often free from the notion of "why".
Writing is about perspective. Both for the writer and his or her audience, but it probably depends a lot on context, regardless. I think the notion of worth in terms of any artistic/creative endeavor is incredibly subjective. If writing has worth to you as an author - write. If it has worth to you as a reader, read. If you've decided that fictitious works bear nothing fortuitous for you simply because you've categorically decided that anything not speaking in literal terms isn't worth shit, then maybe it's a reflection on the way you prefer to think and learn, rather than the objective worth of any such art form in terms of fiscal, emotional or any other kind of worth.
BHJ - Good luck and best wishes man. The best I can hope for you is that the time spent down helps you appreciate both the time spent up and everything that's somewhere in between. Both for what it objectively is to you and for whatever role it could play at a different time/perspective in your writing, erratic musings on existence, or in encouraging incorrigible diatribes as part of flame wars in your comment section ;)
I so get the "pepperoni made me depressed" thing. When I was recently depressed, I thought it was due to finding an old video of my husband having sex (or attempting to) with a girlfriend...turns out it was something totally unrelated...go figure.
Sometimes I wish I was one of those people who had absolutely no comprehension of depression and believed that people ought to be able to just get over it and just cheer up and be in a good mood because everybody feels sad sometimes and blah blah blah. I'd be stupid and wrong, but I wouldn't have this shadow hanging out over my shoulder.
i just keep laughing picturing you saying, "goodness!"
write like you write, however you like, i'll keep coming back for more.
I have nothing clever to say but I think you should write however you want - whether for yourself one day or for accolades the next - doesn't matter - as long as you let us read it. I am voyeur enough that I don't even much care if someone is lying or telling the truth or has horrendous spelling and grammar as long as they've got at least a passably interesting something to tell.
Write like a wife fucker.
Telling you how to write is LIKE telling you to cheer up.
And fucking your wife isn't like fucking someone else's.
Writing for yourself causes unplanned pregnancies.
How about "I want to fuck my wife like...NOW..." Also...if my husband sees me crouched by the refrigerator...(crouched? was she cleaning up a mess that someone else made, by any chance?) ...if my husband sees me crouched by the refrigerator and stares at my ass and wants to fuck me... I hope he WILL. It would make me feel desired and attractive and irresistable. Things I'm not anymore, alas, but wish I still was.
Perfect.
You described my last depression perfectly.... only mine was 3.5 days so maybe I'm lucky.
And I didn't get pepperoni in my eye. Sucks tho, I feel for ya.
I was once in this damn frat bar in Buffalo. This supremely talented musician was playing for the crowd. He was fucking brilliant, but he was getting it all wrong. He was playing fucking pop when he should have been rocking Dylan. During a break in his set, I snaked over and told him if he played one more pop song he was gonna lose his soul (drunk and mouthy, I was) Anyway, next set he started with this heartbreaking version of Tangled up in Blue. The crowd went silent. For a minute, it was so electric. Then, the crowd turned on him. They booed and demanded some bullshit top forty hit. He limped to the end of the song and went back to the pop routine. But, you could tell he was a man broken. I should have felt bad for him but I didn't. I don't. It was one amazing minute of music, man.
So did you get any after that?
I write a blog that no one reads, except sometimes, random people creep into it and leave me fucking amazing comments. So yeah, fucking your wife is like writing for yourself: every now and then you really enjoy having the receptacle of your spewing say shit like "yeah baby, that feels good" or "fuck man, you're awesome".
Fuck man, you're awesome.
My xanax are yellow.
My depression is like your worst best friend - the one you did all the drugs with and had a great time getting into all kinds of trouble, but then they got arrested and you got clean. Like a headache, I can feel the crazy come a-knockin'.
Mixing metaphors is like mixing meds - sometimes you get amazing results.
I didn't read your old blog (didn't know it existed). This one is breathtaking. Of course, if I thought you were TRYING to lift my depression, I wouldn't bother checking in.
Thank you
Beautiful. Just fucking beautiful.
Why should you write like you did a year ago? You're not static. Screw that. Every piece you write is different from the one you wrote before, and that's what keeps you so interesting.
I'm not sure what is more awesome....this fucking post....or these fucking comments. Oh if only my MIL did NOT in fact read my blog....I'd talk about things that were fucking awesome (including fucking) too!
Either way...both the comments and the post are way better than peperoni in my eye.
LOVE and SO glad to see you back...even if you are peperoni-eyed.
Hot damn. I got me a new favorite writer. So glad K. linked to you.
What'd I tell ya?
Four day long depressions make me do things like email my husband saying I'm pretty sure if I just sell someone's kidney today, we'll all be fine.
The good news is that he didn't laugh.
On the off chance you haven't read
Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes
BHJ, i don't give a flying fuck who you write for, as long as you keep doing it.
esp. love the internal monologues with- and without the depression lens. Fucking dead-on.
This gave me a headache. In a good way. I think.
i love you BHJ, all the rest are just vanilla
Is it ironic that you compose a post entirely about the monumental greatness of writing only for oneself, and then are barraged with commentors throwing themselves at you like so many frat house whores? Have cake; eat, too.
Dude. Glad you are back after your brain imploded from sudden fame etc last year. That shit gets to all of us. You're in fine form, and don't listen to the emails that tell you differently. Also, clearly you need to fuck your wife more often, but finding a balance between that and creating verses in your head, well, that's the trick, isn't it? The secret? All time is simultaneous.
I am a wife.
I get fucked.
Write on, BHJ.
"Look. A gun store."
It's the nonchalance that makes it recognizable. And scary.
Thanks for linking here. I've missed you... and still love every bleeding word...
Jennwynn