Stop the machine

As I mentioned before, Otter started her blog a day before mine. As I'm writing this, I think she's the only one that knows it exists, though it's possible that she also told Toners/WBAW. As for her blog, I'd bet the readership is the same is mine. As such, in trying to open ourselves up to the world and become as transparent as possible about our private thoughts, we are primarily bearing our souls to each other. Suddenly a public "airing of grievances" has become a private conversation. This immediately led me to recall a scene in Kerouac's On the Road in which Dean and Carlo attempt to communicate their entire psyches to each other:

Then they got down to business. They sat on the bed cross-legged and looked straight at each other. I slouched in a nearby chair and saw all of it. They began with an abstract thought, discussed it; reminded each other of another abstract point forgotten in the rush of events; Dean apologized but promised he could get back to it and manage it fine, bringing up illustrations.

This goes on as Dean and Carlo recount every bit of minutia--every thought, every action. Then Carlo asks Dean if he's been completely honest with him and with himself and exposed every detail. Sal intercedes:

"That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get that last thing. We keep on living in hopes of catching it once and for all."

I wonder if that's what my goal is in this endeavor. I read A Year Following the Breakup and was inspired by the way this man I had never met was so able to communicate these feelings that are common to us all, but we rarely discuss. It was a sort of peek into his soul. I feel like maybe I'm doing this in the hopes that someone will read it and say, "Hey, we're not so different, you and I, and we're not alone."

Unfortunately, this style of communication has a potential to counteract the purpose of our experiment. In being anonymous, we felt we had the opportunity to write unabashedly. (Perhaps I should speak for only myself, but I think the feeling is mutual.) In knowing that I have one guaranteed reader that I am already very close to, I might be inclined to massage or omit what I otherwise would have written. I intend for this not to happen.

The blogging medium is an interesting creature. It's as if Otter and I were in a large room, standing in opposite corners, facing the wall, and talking to ourselves. There could be hundreds of other people in the room, but they all have headphones on. We know that we hear each other and no one else does. Yet, we're not having a face-to-face conversation. I write my words; Otter writes hers. Maybe we respond to each other or comment on what the other has said; maybe we don't. It's interesting. I wonder how it will play out in the next few months. I wonder what others will think when they start reading this. I wonder if Toners already has.

Anyways, this whole reflection was sparked by what Otter wrote yesterday about moving forward in the next few months, and, in particular, what she wrote about me. She didn't say anything really controversial or enlightening; she merely pointed out the elephant in the room. I had expressed my sadness to Toners and Aitch before, and I don't think they were surprised by what I said. Otter, though, was the first to bring it up unprompted. It makes me wonder how good my facade really is, or if there's a point to having one. It's a lot easier on everyone, including myself, if we just focus on what's happy when we're all together. After all, I don't want to remember this semester as a complete downer. It was supposed to be a celebration, and in many ways it still can be. Even assuming the worst of possible outcomes, I'll get on and I'll be successful. This is a disappointment, to be sure, but people have dealt with much worse and done very well. Still, even though I rationally know that everything will be alright and I'm not in that bad of a spot, when I stop to reflect on it, I feel a pang that can only be described as heartbreak. I'm feeling it now.

"Ah, child," said Carlo.
"We'll just have to sleep now. Let's stop the machine."
"You can't stop the machine!" yelled Carlo at the top of his voice. The first birds sang.
"Now, when I raise my hand," said Dean, "we'll stop talking, we'll both understand purely and without any hassle that we are simply stopping talking, and we'll just sleep."
"You can't stop the machine like that."
"Stop the machine," I said. They looked at me.