My Wish—and Yours

let honesty deliver you

Portrait by Sante D’Orazio

I am going to say something bare and embarrassing.

I do so not because I like morbid self-disclosure. Nor because I proffer admission-porn.

I do so because the search demands it.

Our world is transitioning. Some might say fraying. Our psyches are in an octave of decline. The lateness of the hour requires uncompromising sincerity—between seekers and between reader and writer. Not the stupid sincerity of indulgent exposure or trash talk. But the kind that acknowledges helplessness. And that will not shrink from bold utility.

I have lately wrestled with the question of my wish. As those who know my work are aware: I consider a focused wish the most potent means of summoning whatever selective energies we possess, whether metaphysical, psychological, or both.

My wish is celebrity. Or, when I am in a high-tone mood, its classical correlate: fame.

Superficial, say my august peers. Pitiable, say my critics. Why not try . . .?, say divines.

Let them. I have my reasons. They matter to your search. They matter so much that I expose myself in order help cleanse the doors of perception.