Thursday, May 15, 2003
i'm partially over myself.
yesterday, i had what some call "epiphany." some college students call it, "freak out." it's not really that interesting to anyone else, but i now honestly suspect that: my reasons for why everything never gets done, specifically the writing, are kind of wrong. i've righteously blamed the dayjob for lack of time, lack of willpower, need to eat cookies, blah blah yadda, when really, i'm very deeply scared that i am just not very good at it, and doing it will only be proof.
that probably seems pretty navelgazey, but i have two things to say: one, as i wrote it just now, a hailstorm sprouted out of nowhere outside (not making that up) as if it were time for a rain of frogs, and two, i actually feel a little bit better after having uncovered the emperor. somehow, having stupid lack of discipline to combat seems a lower imperative than having to fight fear. i happened to be having drinks with a writer acquaintance that night who set me up with a summer workshop, and i've decided that a little endorphin-producing exercise and at least an hour of words a day is necessary. all moving tasks wait until june, all life tasks fit in around those two elements. seems easy, and i've promised it before, but . . . well, we'll see.
i might suck. but i think the beginnings of a turn may be happening, and possibly i would rather suck than be afraid of it.
i also wanted to tell a story.
when i was in highschool, i came from a different, out of district elementary/middle school than most of the kids did. in a fresh environment, it was not so apparent that i'd never had a boyfriend, and a very nice funny edgy fellow freshman asked me out. i liked him. and we Went Out. for like four days--my inexperience and parallysis made complete hamburger of the situation, but i continued to like him as a pal after the whole thing blew over. he was a smart kid. and my junior year, when i wanted so badly to be a part of his circle of friends, i remember him hanging out in the parking lot with me after school and talking to me about drugs. i had a lot of curiosity, and i was pretty sure it was my job as a writer to take some, but i had enough goodgirl juice in me that i was hung up on the subject. he told me that drugs had saved him from suicide a number of times and he thought they were the greatest things ever. and that when i wanted, i could call him and gently introduce me, and i could sit in his house with my notebook and write it all down.
i thought that was very sweet. still do. that he told me i could bring my notebook.
he freaked out after graduation and dropped out of college and started dealing, i heard. his mother, who was my mother's psychiatrist, had to stop sending him "bus fare money" when he would call from various american cities. our favorite teacher said he saw him looking about sixty pounds underweight and kind of dirty around town once, and said he was working at . . . i think, a turnip farm.
about a year ago, i saw him in a group candid photo on the campaign postcard of a kid running for city council--some populist platform, he didn't get elected. but he was there on the paper, looking like a pretty normal hippy guy instead of a turnip farm druggie.
and then a few weeks ago, he was in the paper. he spoke at rachel corrie's funeral (google her name if you didn't hear any of the news stories). he was her friend. our advanced placement history teacher spoke there, too, and i smiled because they were running into each other again. maybe he's not all fixed now--or maybe he never needed to be and he's fine on the turnip farm and circling the country looking for coke--but . . . he seemed lost, or off the radar at least, and he popped up in an important place. it was good.
yesterday, i had what some call "epiphany." some college students call it, "freak out." it's not really that interesting to anyone else, but i now honestly suspect that: my reasons for why everything never gets done, specifically the writing, are kind of wrong. i've righteously blamed the dayjob for lack of time, lack of willpower, need to eat cookies, blah blah yadda, when really, i'm very deeply scared that i am just not very good at it, and doing it will only be proof.
that probably seems pretty navelgazey, but i have two things to say: one, as i wrote it just now, a hailstorm sprouted out of nowhere outside (not making that up) as if it were time for a rain of frogs, and two, i actually feel a little bit better after having uncovered the emperor. somehow, having stupid lack of discipline to combat seems a lower imperative than having to fight fear. i happened to be having drinks with a writer acquaintance that night who set me up with a summer workshop, and i've decided that a little endorphin-producing exercise and at least an hour of words a day is necessary. all moving tasks wait until june, all life tasks fit in around those two elements. seems easy, and i've promised it before, but . . . well, we'll see.
i might suck. but i think the beginnings of a turn may be happening, and possibly i would rather suck than be afraid of it.
i also wanted to tell a story.
when i was in highschool, i came from a different, out of district elementary/middle school than most of the kids did. in a fresh environment, it was not so apparent that i'd never had a boyfriend, and a very nice funny edgy fellow freshman asked me out. i liked him. and we Went Out. for like four days--my inexperience and parallysis made complete hamburger of the situation, but i continued to like him as a pal after the whole thing blew over. he was a smart kid. and my junior year, when i wanted so badly to be a part of his circle of friends, i remember him hanging out in the parking lot with me after school and talking to me about drugs. i had a lot of curiosity, and i was pretty sure it was my job as a writer to take some, but i had enough goodgirl juice in me that i was hung up on the subject. he told me that drugs had saved him from suicide a number of times and he thought they were the greatest things ever. and that when i wanted, i could call him and gently introduce me, and i could sit in his house with my notebook and write it all down.
i thought that was very sweet. still do. that he told me i could bring my notebook.
he freaked out after graduation and dropped out of college and started dealing, i heard. his mother, who was my mother's psychiatrist, had to stop sending him "bus fare money" when he would call from various american cities. our favorite teacher said he saw him looking about sixty pounds underweight and kind of dirty around town once, and said he was working at . . . i think, a turnip farm.
about a year ago, i saw him in a group candid photo on the campaign postcard of a kid running for city council--some populist platform, he didn't get elected. but he was there on the paper, looking like a pretty normal hippy guy instead of a turnip farm druggie.
and then a few weeks ago, he was in the paper. he spoke at rachel corrie's funeral (google her name if you didn't hear any of the news stories). he was her friend. our advanced placement history teacher spoke there, too, and i smiled because they were running into each other again. maybe he's not all fixed now--or maybe he never needed to be and he's fine on the turnip farm and circling the country looking for coke--but . . . he seemed lost, or off the radar at least, and he popped up in an important place. it was good.
