A realization conjured up yesterday while chatting with the divine Ms. Carolina about life and collage parties (not college parties, collage parties, for adults, with the cutting and gluing) and downing iced coffee at Darling, the cutest new coffee house…
shared via WordPress.com
My computer wasn’t working yesterday. I was determined to write none the less and took pen to paper. Turned out to be one of my most productive days yet. Writing freehand is like painting or sketching, the lines lead into more lines. I never noticed how aggressive typing is.
Then I watched the Inarritu film Biutiful and balled my eyes out. Javier Bardem is a wonderful actor, but the little boy playing his character’s son, Mateo, stole my heart. I think this movie is too sad to recommend. It’s a dark, dark world, Mr. Inarritu.
I’m writing. And I’m not. I’m writing. Then I stop or hit a wall. The city is most disgusting to me after I’ve been away from it. The 90-plus degree weather isn’t helping. Sometimes the sentences just flow right out of my fingertips. This week it’s been mighty difficult to get out three pages. I’m thrilled about this new story, so why can’t I get it on paper? First drafts are blank and empty and I’m having trouble with third person narration. I’ve always written in the third person, why am I feeling so compelled to switch to first? Fine. I’ll write it in first person. How does the story get to decide this stuff? As writers, we really have no control over anything. We’re just feeling around in the dark, walking in whichever path doesn’t trip us. I’d love to find a new artist to revitalize my zapped brain cells. Any recommendations? Egon Schiele-esque? Or something bold and in your face and withdrawn and tempting. Maybe I’ll go to the Whitney tomorrow.
This blog entry kind of makes no sense and I’ve changed it three times since the initial posting. This is the first post I’ve ever written about Analia, yet she’s not mentioned until the end, and then the train of thought scurries away or ends abruptly or something. The point of this post was (and is) to acknowledge that I was nervous and then I was super happy and then I realized that I hadn’t taken time this week to channel my dear friend. I normally think of her, in every situation, and remember her advice and her life choices.
It’s out of place to have not thought of her this week. But I start out processing that with the wisdom of George Bailey.
We all know what happens to wide-eyed George Bailey. Oversized suitcase in hand, he ensures there’s enough surface area to emblazon it with tags from the faraway lands he would visit. As if he could leave behind Bedford Falls and its mundane, claustrophobic expectationlessness mentality. But he never gets on the train or the plane or the possibility express. His “dream” is merely a distraction from what’s really important in our lives: an honest job, a wife, some kids, debt, a broken staircase knob.
Then I compare myself to George (which I’ve been known to do every now and again in passing thoughts). I think my rambling below is something I would’ve talked to her about. I would’ve said it to her and she would’ve responded in some way.
I’ve always loved that movie, not because he saves the town (and the town saves him) and Zuzu knows an angel gets his wings, but because the lesson taught is that you can’t have both - domesticity and adventure - and that it’s really kind of adolescent and goofish to think of having it at all. George can’t actually lasso the moon. And me wanting to be a writer is like saying I’m whipping out a rope, targeting lunar pursuits.
I know if it were someone else no longer in my life who I feared was slipping from my thoughts, I would have definitely talked to her about it. I also know for sure she would have spun it in a way that comforted me, that let me see I wasn’t forgetting that person. She would’ve offered a reasonable explanation.
She’s usually with me. Always. In my head. Beside me. I often stop to breathe for her. She weaves her way into conversations like I can pick up the phone and call her. Like we all know her.
I almost began this paragraph with “When someone dies,” as if that’s the reality that plays through my head everyday, because it isn’t, because it’s not something I can process yet and I’ll tell myself the reason that I’m not thinking about her in this time of joy and satisfaction is because I don’t want to bother her with my happiness.
Always take your key to the bathroom. A first lesson learned on this first full day of my week-long stay at the Sarah Lawrence Summer Seminar. Other than locking myself out of my room this morning, all is going splendidly. I registered yesterday afternoon to find a private room of my own with A/C, and a bathroom I share with two floormates. A thunderstorm this morning broke the heat and I’m able to hear the birds a-chirp outside my window, though my morning run will have to wait for tomorrow.
I have a name tag…it’s official.
Gets the job done.
What did we learn today?
Last night’s dream: Mel Brooks asked me for my business card so he could give me writing advice and help me with industry connections. The email address on my cards was completely wrong. And every pen I used to write the correct one wouldn’t work. Panic ensued.
I have always been a huge admirer of my own work. I’m one of the funniest and most entertaining writers I know.
― Mel Brooks