Back in the day this journal used to be my journal. In 1998 I put up “Welcome to the MortalCity,” an homage to my sexual journey and Dar Williams. Back on the PC-EZ servers. Early edgy sexuality journal voices, our voices echoing back and forth to each other across the pixels and poor layouts that seemed so refined for the time.
13 years later, it has shifted from MortalCity to RopeLover to PassionAndSoul. The names alone are a story of my life- from goth childling to adult performer to cosmopolitan sadhu. I write introspective pieces that will reach out to a wide swath of readers, tone my voice into an echo palpable to masses and a facebook-friendly audience.
Today I came across 2 posts in my working-file of 2 journal entries that never went live back from March 2003. I was in New York, shooting smut overlooking Ground Zero that week, surreal erotic-necrotic cycles swirling in my mind. Dingy bathroom blowjobs, art shows, beauty and hope and sorrow mixed in one.
8+ years later, and I live in New York now. And I don’t write that way any more.
Today, I miss journaling. Actively journaling, throwing my day-to-day facts and porn and life and sorrow out onto the page and vomiting it out into the world. Back when a few hundred folks maybe read my journal, friends and fans alike peering in. Now it is a few thousand, maybe more… and I have toned it down.
My voice has become my career. My stories my bread and butter. My advice having different ripples to what it once did. When I moved from working in adult film work to teaching full time, I feel trepidation in sharing my unrestrained voice. I feel more responsible in the words I should share with the world…
And then of course there is that desire for a sense of privacy. That comes and goes in waves. Who should know what about my life? My love? My health? My spirit work? My sorrow? Some days I say share it all, and other days I become a hermit crab and lock myself away, let it all be locked away.
I fear that I will get in the way of my own message.
I remember sitting in the office of the sexology program at the University of Sydney, the program head telling me I should write a dissertation about myself. She tells me how interesting my life is, how many sexual stories, gender stories, I am a case study to peer into the life of. I proffer that I would rather look into men’s studies and understanding the social plights of men as sexual beings who get boxed by post-feminist thought into being oppressors and villains rather than having the authentic sexual journey of being themselves. Oh, well, that would be fine I guess… but far less interesting.
My life makes for good reading. Even when it is full of sorrow and suffering (or in the case of this week, frustration, lust, beauty, love, depression, mental breaks, screaming, hope, energetic constipation, revelation, and breathing)… it makes for good material. I live a very curious life compared to others it seems. But I want to inspire others to write their own story, scream their own story- not to talk about mine.
But then, how do I journal? How do I process it out onto the page? I started this as a way to share, but also as a tool for my own mental health. To record and remember (so important for me with my memory challenges… yup, the bard can’t remember his life in order), but also to get it out of my scull long enough to look at it and have it stop echoing. Let it stop echoing. Please Gods let it stop echoing.
So I am going to be brave. My definition, not yours.
I am going to try to journal on my journal again, and see if I can do it.
At Tryst I burned a vow to the winds on the wishing tree. I posted a pic recently. I want to forgive my community. I want to forgive how much I hurt and feel I need to hide. I want to play in public again. I want to share my life in public again. It hurt so much when it was stomped on, by so many well-meaning people.
I am going to figure it out, here on the page. Because I process so well on the page, and your eyes will offer me a record that it really happened. It really happened. I really happened. I was here. I am here.
So I breathe.
I work on forgiving those who told me I was not real.
I work on forgiving those who stepped into my scenes and my life and tried to make both about them, or be part of a thing that was not theirs.
I work on playing in the place I work, and finding balance.
I work on embracing bliss in the public eye.
I work on sharing my sorrow with an open heart.
This is part of my Work.
But it is also part of what I need to do for Me.
So let me try that one again…
No, Lee, try again. One cannot try to sleep and actually sleep at the same time. One cannot try to forgive and forgive at the same time.