Randomness.... feel free to skip
I've just watched Heavenly Creatures, and I've been looking up the real girls involved. I'm particilarly interested in Juliet Hulme... in the film, she seemed more fragile, more in need of a friend than even the awkward, lonely Pauline. But she said something interesting once -- that her writing is a joy, that you couldn't pay her not to write. And I think -- I used to be like that. Where did my joy in writing go? I even just messed up and typed "job" instead of "joy". I wonder if that's telling -- maybe college and mandatory essays killed my joy of writing?
In high school, I used to write constantly. I'm amazed I passed a single class, since I spent most of my class time either dreaming of what I was writing or actually writing it. This was before the library had computers for student use, so I used to work at the librarian's computer during my off-period, typing out what I had handwritten, or writing fresh. I could lose myself in my writing so completely that I would have to look up and reread to see what it was I had written -- because I didn't remember. I felt like a Vessel, like a Medium of words, and I could soar on that feeling.
Now, even in my journal entries, I pause, and reconsider -- is that wording right? Is this what I want to say? I stop to censor myself or gather my thoughts before continuing, even on something as patently simply as my own thoughts. I never used to pause, even, to work on dialogue -- it all came naturally. Now it's like a muscle that has atrophied. Oh, I can still write a killer essay with only half my attention. I can make English professors weep and shake my hand. I am a bullshit artist extraordinaire and I'm quite proud of my ability. But it takes time, effort, and, most importantly, an outline.
I've thought about outlining some of my journal entries -- at least the ones that have a specific point (how I feel about our new apartment complex, book reviews, etc) because I feel that I jump around a lot when I write regularly. I have a hard time finding my focus and my flow, the things I tell my students are the heart and soul of writing. And yet where is mine? Atrophied. Wasted away due to lack of use. I haven't composed so much as a limirick in over 5 years.
I wonder if that coincides with my stuffing down of my emotions.
Come to think of it, the end of my writing coincides very neatly with my breakup with Tony. I know I like to show myself as hard-edged and strong... I'm only now beginning to realized, with the advantage of hindsight, how traumatic that breakup was for me. I know everyone around me knows, but I think it hurt so much that I stuffed it inside -- one of the first real, true emotions I refused to feel. Oh, not the breakup itself -- I wasn't in love with him, in fact he was starting to really bug me -- but the idea of being alone and helpless. He broke up with me and that was the very first time anyone had done that. Add into the mix that I was so very alone -- 1500 miles away from home with no job, no income, no friends or family.... the computer was my only connection to anything I remembered or cared about. Add in again that I had no job, so I had nowhere to go at all. The only reason I got out of bed each day was to walk my dog. For that reason, I've always credited Osiris for saving my life -- it was bad enough as it was. I was sleeping 12-14 hours a day because I had nothing else to do. I rarely, if ever, got out of my pajamas. I stopped eating. Can we say clinical depression? I sometimes think that without Osiris to need me, I might have tried to kill myself. And given that I was alone in that stupid apartment, I probably would have succeeded.
I still look at what happened kind of clinically. This was also the time when I suppose I really had to break with my little fantasy world and start truly living in reality. Maybe this is the event that made me a stick-in-the-mud. I know it's part of what made me hyper-obsessed with finances and always having a "what if" savings account. I know it's a large part of what erected the wall around my emotions that even Jay can't completely break through. Maybe I had to lock all that away in order to live in the world, and "all that" is what made writing possible for me. I still dream, but I don't write. I'm not sure I could write fiction anyway -- I doubt I have the talent. If only I could make a living writing essays!
I have a lot of work to do with myself. I'm not even sure where this wall is, let alone how to broach it. I wonder if I'm too scared to breach it, afraid I'll drown in the emotions it lets out. Everything I feel is dim, muffled, like sounds from deep underwater, or a watch buried in cotton. I can hear those emotions, but can't quite identify what they are. I can't tell which direction they're coming from or what they're saying. I only know that they're there, buried somewhere deep.
Stephen King, in The Eyes of the Dragon, described some thoughts or emotions as things that are locked in boxes and tossed down deep wells. Out of sight, out of mind. But they're still there, just sunk deep beneath the water. And eventually they'll pile up, above the surface of our conciousness again. Is that something to inspire hope or dread? Our unconcious can only handle so much before it starts to crack and let the light in. What will the light show me? I can't even know.
In high school, I used to write constantly. I'm amazed I passed a single class, since I spent most of my class time either dreaming of what I was writing or actually writing it. This was before the library had computers for student use, so I used to work at the librarian's computer during my off-period, typing out what I had handwritten, or writing fresh. I could lose myself in my writing so completely that I would have to look up and reread to see what it was I had written -- because I didn't remember. I felt like a Vessel, like a Medium of words, and I could soar on that feeling.
Now, even in my journal entries, I pause, and reconsider -- is that wording right? Is this what I want to say? I stop to censor myself or gather my thoughts before continuing, even on something as patently simply as my own thoughts. I never used to pause, even, to work on dialogue -- it all came naturally. Now it's like a muscle that has atrophied. Oh, I can still write a killer essay with only half my attention. I can make English professors weep and shake my hand. I am a bullshit artist extraordinaire and I'm quite proud of my ability. But it takes time, effort, and, most importantly, an outline.
I've thought about outlining some of my journal entries -- at least the ones that have a specific point (how I feel about our new apartment complex, book reviews, etc) because I feel that I jump around a lot when I write regularly. I have a hard time finding my focus and my flow, the things I tell my students are the heart and soul of writing. And yet where is mine? Atrophied. Wasted away due to lack of use. I haven't composed so much as a limirick in over 5 years.
I wonder if that coincides with my stuffing down of my emotions.
Come to think of it, the end of my writing coincides very neatly with my breakup with Tony. I know I like to show myself as hard-edged and strong... I'm only now beginning to realized, with the advantage of hindsight, how traumatic that breakup was for me. I know everyone around me knows, but I think it hurt so much that I stuffed it inside -- one of the first real, true emotions I refused to feel. Oh, not the breakup itself -- I wasn't in love with him, in fact he was starting to really bug me -- but the idea of being alone and helpless. He broke up with me and that was the very first time anyone had done that. Add into the mix that I was so very alone -- 1500 miles away from home with no job, no income, no friends or family.... the computer was my only connection to anything I remembered or cared about. Add in again that I had no job, so I had nowhere to go at all. The only reason I got out of bed each day was to walk my dog. For that reason, I've always credited Osiris for saving my life -- it was bad enough as it was. I was sleeping 12-14 hours a day because I had nothing else to do. I rarely, if ever, got out of my pajamas. I stopped eating. Can we say clinical depression? I sometimes think that without Osiris to need me, I might have tried to kill myself. And given that I was alone in that stupid apartment, I probably would have succeeded.
I still look at what happened kind of clinically. This was also the time when I suppose I really had to break with my little fantasy world and start truly living in reality. Maybe this is the event that made me a stick-in-the-mud. I know it's part of what made me hyper-obsessed with finances and always having a "what if" savings account. I know it's a large part of what erected the wall around my emotions that even Jay can't completely break through. Maybe I had to lock all that away in order to live in the world, and "all that" is what made writing possible for me. I still dream, but I don't write. I'm not sure I could write fiction anyway -- I doubt I have the talent. If only I could make a living writing essays!
I have a lot of work to do with myself. I'm not even sure where this wall is, let alone how to broach it. I wonder if I'm too scared to breach it, afraid I'll drown in the emotions it lets out. Everything I feel is dim, muffled, like sounds from deep underwater, or a watch buried in cotton. I can hear those emotions, but can't quite identify what they are. I can't tell which direction they're coming from or what they're saying. I only know that they're there, buried somewhere deep.
Stephen King, in The Eyes of the Dragon, described some thoughts or emotions as things that are locked in boxes and tossed down deep wells. Out of sight, out of mind. But they're still there, just sunk deep beneath the water. And eventually they'll pile up, above the surface of our conciousness again. Is that something to inspire hope or dread? Our unconcious can only handle so much before it starts to crack and let the light in. What will the light show me? I can't even know.