I’ve been trying to center my designs. By this I mean (or believe I mean) access my proper work. I don’t mean literary work or teaching; I don’t have in mind something from the gospels. But I’m old enough to creep past memories of old embarrassments—smart enough to know I can’t get away with it.
One night I insulted a friend over the telephone, angry at my own life, foolishly berating him for his own frailties. I harmed him. Sometimes I’ve given away secrets that weren’t mine to broadcast thereby harming reputations. I’m a man-child of considerable envy. As a disabled child I was often shut out from games by other children and I’ve never gotten over it. My biggest sin is jealousy.
I promise not to go on in this vein. But I’ve always felt Alcoholics Anonymous is spot on with their insistence on sincere and ritual apologies. In general the muscular world forbids apology and sincerity is largely judged a weakness. And yet I’m sorry for many things I’ve said or done. Saying so is a start—a first step toward whatever passes for emotional intelligence or what share of it I might achieve.
Hence the word “designs”—for emotional work carries geometry within it, the Jungian mandala. Its unhindered, round, dark and light, intricate. I am part of it. It is bigger than I am. Some nights I cry out in my sleep. I’ve also laughed in dreams. In sum, the psyche knows how to face the sky. Would that I’ll learn.
Planet of the Blind 