On Our Own Dark Little Self

Everybody has their own dark little self. Most manage to hide it from view until they die. Others struggle with it and in some moments of weakness, reveal it to the world and then hurriedly shut it off from view again. Still others fight with it in full view of the public as if by doing so, they would somehow come to terms with themselves and have peace. In the little community where I reside, I see several instances of public struggle. It is not a pretty sight. I don't know if those individuals know what they are doing.

I, of course, have my own dark little self. I talk about it all the time. I mine and plumb it for literary production. Recently I came across James Ellroy's account of the sad lives of his parents in the afterword of the first book of his L.A. Quartet novels. Both died young and violently. In a prose that is spare, fierce, and haunting, Ellroy talked about his obsessions and his sorrows.

I obsessively have talked about my sorrows, about what has happened to me when I discovered that love really hurt because it really didn't go away as it should.