Is There Anybody Out There?
I am in class where my students are taking an exam, and I don't feel like grading papers right now. My mind is completely out of school and into spring break, chasing hula hoops in concentric circles in my head. I feel the desperation of the muse again, and all I want to do is grab a video camera and hoop for hours on end, until I meet the intersection of exhaustion and creativity; it's when I am the most innovative and emotive.
It's also when I'm the most difficult to access, interpersonally. (No, wait, lying. I'm most difficult to access when I'm falling in love again, but, I digress.) I am so absorbed by desperation (yes, it can only be called desperation), that I feel the anxiousness palpitating my heart and choking my ability to function doing anything else. It's simultaneously destructive and constructive, though I often think it is ultimately to my detriment. I never progress fast enough, or look good enough, or get the responses to my art that I want in the end. Thus, I feign nonchalance to ease the self-critical blow... acting turns to reality...and I put my hoop down again until the next cycle of inspiration/motivation/desperation. I wish I knew how to mediate this better.
I am obviously consumed by something if I'm taking the time to wax prosaic. I only write to tame demons, after all.
It makes me think of the inevitable day my great-grandmother will pass away. I assume that will be when I can start writing her story. I feel immensely guilty for not taking her to the Story Corps booth while they were down here. (If you don't know, Story Corps is a non-profit that collects interviews of friends and family to catalog forever at the Library of Congress in the interest of preserving American folklore.) Fail. This Friday, though, I'm planning on taking my video camera over to the house and filming her. About two years ago she started to get weaker and weaker, experiencing more aches and pains and illnesses. Walking up stairs is difficult for her; even standing is a challenge. I know if her legs give out, she'll give out too. She will not be caught in a wheelchair.
Another twinge of guilt attacks me when I think that I haven't given her la corona de la familia (the crown of the family)--children. I don't want kids yet, and I certainly don't want to have them to please another human being, but it breaks my heart I will most likely never see her hold my children in her wrinkled, papery, fragile hands. That would be the most incredible picture: four matronly generations huddled around a newborn fifth.
It's also when I'm the most difficult to access, interpersonally. (No, wait, lying. I'm most difficult to access when I'm falling in love again, but, I digress.) I am so absorbed by desperation (yes, it can only be called desperation), that I feel the anxiousness palpitating my heart and choking my ability to function doing anything else. It's simultaneously destructive and constructive, though I often think it is ultimately to my detriment. I never progress fast enough, or look good enough, or get the responses to my art that I want in the end. Thus, I feign nonchalance to ease the self-critical blow... acting turns to reality...and I put my hoop down again until the next cycle of inspiration/motivation/desperation. I wish I knew how to mediate this better.
I am obviously consumed by something if I'm taking the time to wax prosaic. I only write to tame demons, after all.
It makes me think of the inevitable day my great-grandmother will pass away. I assume that will be when I can start writing her story. I feel immensely guilty for not taking her to the Story Corps booth while they were down here. (If you don't know, Story Corps is a non-profit that collects interviews of friends and family to catalog forever at the Library of Congress in the interest of preserving American folklore.) Fail. This Friday, though, I'm planning on taking my video camera over to the house and filming her. About two years ago she started to get weaker and weaker, experiencing more aches and pains and illnesses. Walking up stairs is difficult for her; even standing is a challenge. I know if her legs give out, she'll give out too. She will not be caught in a wheelchair.
Another twinge of guilt attacks me when I think that I haven't given her la corona de la familia (the crown of the family)--children. I don't want kids yet, and I certainly don't want to have them to please another human being, but it breaks my heart I will most likely never see her hold my children in her wrinkled, papery, fragile hands. That would be the most incredible picture: four matronly generations huddled around a newborn fifth.