Last week I held myself up enough to read through Amanda Palmer’s “The Art of Asking” on a whim. This came betwixt a horrible week riddled with a lot of life’s complexities, a majority of which centred around an exam which is due on December this year. Being a performer has always perplexed me to some degree, I have never found myself identifying with the spitfire woman screaming her vocals out of a soapbox. I would rather be Allen Ginsberg, sitting in a studio fashioned out of garage wood in the centre of a town that seemed to be screaming out names. Yet. Palmer means something to me, her ideas of motherhood, her fear of becoming irrelevant is something that plagues me on a daily basis. I am after all someone who takes long breaks from my own blog without warning and threatens to not come back, until the heart pushes so.
You see part of me in consumed too, I have been dealing with these feelings that scare me. I do not know if I am “homosexual” enough for people. I do not think I can be “bisexual” anymore either. I haven’t really been attracted to women in a while. I find myself contemplating over the nuances of what it means to be gay in India, and I think I fill none of them, except for having this strange need for sucking a dick at the end of the night. There is something about the collar bones of a man, the contours of his chest, the slightness of the hair, the veins in the penis that invites me again and again. I confess over tea that I am afraid to open up enough to actually let myself out of that zone of being sexuality-less, because then my vulnerabilities will also show. The reason I turned off the lights last time after all was not because I found my lover to be ugly, but, because I was so sure that I was. I have always hidden my body under wraps and wraps, and it takes courage to open up bits of myself for inspection.
Amanda in this way, represents something that I can never been. She’s a fierce poet who is confident about her body, she invites her fans to draw over her bodies, an act of two-way trust. For me, I hide behind lenses of cameras with words trying to make them feel what I feel in my heart, in my libido. I do not know if the libido would preserve itself over the years, I am terribly afraid of course of being a loner in the world which is tumbling downwards. Thatched roofs are hard to escape, but, I was born under one, and not with a silver spoon in my mouth either.
I feel phony as a writer too, and this only owes itself to the fact that mostly I do not get the time or motivation to write a lot. Battling with depression meant I did not write at all for the most of past few months. I wrote some stories in the centred way that I do, but, those poems sound fake and hollow, withering away before the sand of time could even touch them.
I am panicking.
But, Amanda taught me this. I asked for help yesterday, I have been asking for help all week, trying to get people to rally around me for some of my passions. Maybe, most of them will be negatives, maybe, nothing will come out of it, but, well, what’s the worst thing they could do anyway?