Jesse Scott Owen

Sometimes I remark to my friends that I have no friends, which often they get onto me for, and well they should, it is not a nice thing to say to one's friends. It is faster, however, than saying that there are few if any people in my daily life who I could believe I have disclosed myself to in any meaningful way, and who have disclosed themselves to me. Many of my acquaintances know the things about me that I tell everyone, few if any know the things I tell no one.

(Before the angry emails, I know I'm splicing these commas when I do it, if that makes you feel any better. If not, perhaps the emails will at least be directed more efficiently.)

This desire for self-disclosure manifests in a desire at times for a romantic relationship, as this is a bill of goods advertised and sold as an easy shortcut to know another well. The desire is also accounted for by the attempts to contact the God that is the native of these bleak rocks.

This blog, also, is a similar exercise. Frustrated by those who refuse to participate in normal conversations, who insist on talking about crap no one but them cares about, but knowing I also have these defects, knowing I may lose it if I never talk about my particular interests, I started writing here. The conversation here is voluntary, one can leave at any moment without fear of violating some social convention.

But perhaps the disclosure of myself here—which is not complete, which is performative, is so much more salable than the content of my notebooks—will reach in some way to another, will do some of the work, and will, importantly, risk very little.

I could, and should, if the project is self-disclosure and discovery of sympathetic others, write more honestly, upload the notes from my journal which are more representative, less presentable. I don't know if I will. Or how to conclude this.