Most days I feel like this:

the guise of self-exposure hidden behind layers of context that interrupt any actual perceiving (of me):

Often I get emails that suggest I risk something valuable when I show you

my naked body, my philosophical questions, my artistic failures.

But I never show you the parts of my naked body I don't want you to see -- 

not the parts I find hideous, not the parts I (arbitrarily) deem 

too explicit.

I take photos of my breast scars, but I never share them here.

I have a handful of xxx-rated self-portraits that are actually quite complex that I will probably never share online. Ever.

(Although writing this makes me immediately want to share...)

I never tell you about the mindless questions that weigh upon me.

Never tell you about my prolific list of requirements for the perfect summer dress.

Never admit my slight fetish (problem?) with overeating when I'm sad/excited/depressed/enthralled.

I never show you my real photographic failures:

how I make pretty portraits that are (on my part, as photographer) self-indulgent at best, 

how one shot on every roll has an accidental photo where I focused on my hand and then forgot to turn on the self-timer, 

how I take the crappiest, least interesting photos of my romantic life.

These are my brands of control.

Yesterday, on June 4th, I felt entirely, wonderfully Whole. I felt more myself than I have felt in a couple of months.

And then, today, June 5th, Wednesday early in the morning, I am a harbinger of shame.

 My image in double, triple, any multiple, seems accurate.

I disgust myself at my duplicity, my theoretical and emotional manipulation, my logical arguments that seem to have no (w)holes.

Obviously I am not duplicitous or manipulative or logical in the way that I imagine, in my worst moments, I am.

Part of my shame centers on the fact that my ego allows me to believe that I'm this talented at, well, the negative traits.

So I fight being a mean person...

... and then I fight being an egoist who thinks they are the best at being a mean person.

The reality is that I am always peaking through the mini-blinds of a stranger's apartment.

I'm standing on the edge of the bed. 

There's movement outside the bedroom, though I am alone and have been alone all night.

I drink a glass of water I filled from the bathroom faucet. There are six florescent lights, but only three work.

I am wearing your favorite shirt. No, my favorite shirt.

I look sleepy. I look like I'm crying. 

You like my face like this. No, I like my face like this.

There is a black eye, in the shape of a camera lens, pointing at my face. I am pointing it at my face.

It is as heavy as a plastic gun. Its shutter sounds like breaking cardboard.

I never think This Is Who I Am when I take a photograph.

I often think: this is who I am not.