No Subject
I turned 33 in November. It’s New Year’s Eve 2017 and here I am, drawn to an old journal that just so happens to be digital in nature yet far outlives the lives of the other journals stacked upon my shelves.
Why does this place call me back so often, even after years of no activity? The only reason I can come up with is the memories still housed here, the feeling of being sixteen just clicks away through an archive, meeting face to face with who he’d end up becoming seventeen years later. It’s terrifying, fascinating, and for some reason, it feels safe. Like thinking about someone you shouldn’t be thinking about in your old bedroom at your parents’ arparmtnet.
With that knowledge this ‘journal’ elicits something in me that my other journals simply can’t. No matter how worn they’ve become, no matter what secrets and what joyous events they hold, there’s an honesty that LJ pulls out of me that holds both the vulnerability I imagine I used to have as a teenager and the courage I hold today because of the decisions he, and several other Me’s, have made. Courage namely during this past year and all the self-work I’ve undertaken.
Don’t mistake my tone for this particular entry as an offering of some sort of “resolution.” Whatever guards stand watch at the space between recounting and nostalgia are all that are present, here. I’ve learned throughout the years that this has been the place where I can play with time in the freeest way possible. Here, where a lot of my friends used to be, who have now either deleted their journal and moved on or have simply forgotten.
It’s strange how the year can end so quickly and how abrupt some changes can be. I read about June and remember the faith I held in my ability to heal my aches and pains. Though I combined a number of healing modalities in the past six months specific to my arthritis, I do know for certain one thing did remain consistent, never waivered though was questioned many times, was my belief in myself and the path I had chosen specific to my art. That light, that vibration, stayed, and I think radiated outward from within me, pushing out toxicities (which included things related to my health, relationships in my life that needed either healing or peaceful endings) and anything else that no longer served me.
I say that because now, hours away from 2018, my body feels amazing, importantly, my arthritis is down to almost non-existent. The energy has passed and, though traces remain, it’s taught me to see it as such, only energy, nothing to be attached to or fret over. Because of it I was able to look at my own self-judgment and self-ciriticisms and be okay with who I am and where I am going. I learned to stop pointing the finger at myself.
There’s much work to do, still, which will most likely include meditation again, but I feel that I’m on the right path. I feel my emotional self is also getting to a better place, in that I’m letting myself feel whatever it is I need to feel, even if it’s grief or pain or anger. When I feel the intensity rise is when my art usually calls as well, which has been a wonderful relationship with the emotions that have been coming and going lately.
I finished the Call Me By Your Name audiobook last weekend during a family trip to Ensanada, and by Friday this past week I had also finished reading the actual book and had watched the film with the George.
Why?
Because listening and reading Andre Aciman’s words have been like getting back in touch with an old friend, an old me whom I have not seen or heard from in so long; he’s the same boy he was when I had left him listening to Ani DiFranco at sixteen and though he hasn’t changed at all, everything about him, the things he used to say, the things he used to think, things I never really understood, never could articulate though it was me, him, feeling those feelings, now, at 33, I understand. For all intents and purposes Aciman made me feel like I, too, had in fact, “Come home,” to myself. To me. Here, where all the versions of me that have ever existed that have felt the need to say, “Hey, guys, this, too, will be important at some time. This guy made us feel this way. This friend was a shitty friend. This job was The Job. Do you remember? Will you want to remember?”
And coming home is always a mixed bag. I remember in Wicked the act of coming home was described as guilt being the driving force that brings us back, the thing that binds us eternally with our family. But what of these visitations, here? These memories. God, so many memories. Longings. Pining. Love, unrequited. First love. Lost love. Love, reciprocated. I understand I come from a place of privilege to be able to easily move through time with such ease, without having to expose myself to the minutes, hours and weeks that that sixteen year old kid is forever bound to. Maybe that’s where the guilt comes into play. What would I say if I were to ever run into him, face to face? I dare not say that things get better, but maybe that I understand him, now. That I get what he’s feeling. That he should keep writing, keep doodling, keep picturing himself traveling the world and making art. I think I’d want to tell him that I, too, was sixteen, and that he will eventually be three years into his thirties when he finally gets this. I’d tell him that he should get comfortable with contradiction, to not feel silly about claiming a stake in the present moment all the while claiming that his work is about nostalgia, or memory, or reminiscing; that though this seems to negate his ‘personal beliefs’ he will eventually love the paradox, this both and neither, this then and now, a new form of navigation that is so freeing.
Or maybe I won’t say anything at all. Maybe he’s safe where he is without needing to be disturbed or reinforced, or remembered.
*Waves hello*
*Waves goodbye*
Why does this place call me back so often, even after years of no activity? The only reason I can come up with is the memories still housed here, the feeling of being sixteen just clicks away through an archive, meeting face to face with who he’d end up becoming seventeen years later. It’s terrifying, fascinating, and for some reason, it feels safe. Like thinking about someone you shouldn’t be thinking about in your old bedroom at your parents’ arparmtnet.
With that knowledge this ‘journal’ elicits something in me that my other journals simply can’t. No matter how worn they’ve become, no matter what secrets and what joyous events they hold, there’s an honesty that LJ pulls out of me that holds both the vulnerability I imagine I used to have as a teenager and the courage I hold today because of the decisions he, and several other Me’s, have made. Courage namely during this past year and all the self-work I’ve undertaken.
Don’t mistake my tone for this particular entry as an offering of some sort of “resolution.” Whatever guards stand watch at the space between recounting and nostalgia are all that are present, here. I’ve learned throughout the years that this has been the place where I can play with time in the freeest way possible. Here, where a lot of my friends used to be, who have now either deleted their journal and moved on or have simply forgotten.
It’s strange how the year can end so quickly and how abrupt some changes can be. I read about June and remember the faith I held in my ability to heal my aches and pains. Though I combined a number of healing modalities in the past six months specific to my arthritis, I do know for certain one thing did remain consistent, never waivered though was questioned many times, was my belief in myself and the path I had chosen specific to my art. That light, that vibration, stayed, and I think radiated outward from within me, pushing out toxicities (which included things related to my health, relationships in my life that needed either healing or peaceful endings) and anything else that no longer served me.
I say that because now, hours away from 2018, my body feels amazing, importantly, my arthritis is down to almost non-existent. The energy has passed and, though traces remain, it’s taught me to see it as such, only energy, nothing to be attached to or fret over. Because of it I was able to look at my own self-judgment and self-ciriticisms and be okay with who I am and where I am going. I learned to stop pointing the finger at myself.
There’s much work to do, still, which will most likely include meditation again, but I feel that I’m on the right path. I feel my emotional self is also getting to a better place, in that I’m letting myself feel whatever it is I need to feel, even if it’s grief or pain or anger. When I feel the intensity rise is when my art usually calls as well, which has been a wonderful relationship with the emotions that have been coming and going lately.
I finished the Call Me By Your Name audiobook last weekend during a family trip to Ensanada, and by Friday this past week I had also finished reading the actual book and had watched the film with the George.
Why?
Because listening and reading Andre Aciman’s words have been like getting back in touch with an old friend, an old me whom I have not seen or heard from in so long; he’s the same boy he was when I had left him listening to Ani DiFranco at sixteen and though he hasn’t changed at all, everything about him, the things he used to say, the things he used to think, things I never really understood, never could articulate though it was me, him, feeling those feelings, now, at 33, I understand. For all intents and purposes Aciman made me feel like I, too, had in fact, “Come home,” to myself. To me. Here, where all the versions of me that have ever existed that have felt the need to say, “Hey, guys, this, too, will be important at some time. This guy made us feel this way. This friend was a shitty friend. This job was The Job. Do you remember? Will you want to remember?”
And coming home is always a mixed bag. I remember in Wicked the act of coming home was described as guilt being the driving force that brings us back, the thing that binds us eternally with our family. But what of these visitations, here? These memories. God, so many memories. Longings. Pining. Love, unrequited. First love. Lost love. Love, reciprocated. I understand I come from a place of privilege to be able to easily move through time with such ease, without having to expose myself to the minutes, hours and weeks that that sixteen year old kid is forever bound to. Maybe that’s where the guilt comes into play. What would I say if I were to ever run into him, face to face? I dare not say that things get better, but maybe that I understand him, now. That I get what he’s feeling. That he should keep writing, keep doodling, keep picturing himself traveling the world and making art. I think I’d want to tell him that I, too, was sixteen, and that he will eventually be three years into his thirties when he finally gets this. I’d tell him that he should get comfortable with contradiction, to not feel silly about claiming a stake in the present moment all the while claiming that his work is about nostalgia, or memory, or reminiscing; that though this seems to negate his ‘personal beliefs’ he will eventually love the paradox, this both and neither, this then and now, a new form of navigation that is so freeing.
Or maybe I won’t say anything at all. Maybe he’s safe where he is without needing to be disturbed or reinforced, or remembered.
*Waves hello*
*Waves goodbye*