Becoming Hurts... Sometimes...

The kids are gone on a camping trip this weekend, and my new housemate said, "You know what that means... Movie Night!" 

Oh yeah! I will always go for that. If the boys are gone, that means one of two things: Either something rated R that I don't want them to see, or a chick flick that they don't want to see. I was leaning toward the former until about halfway through the long drive home from dropping them off. 

Driving along the coast, I was mesmerized by a duet of other-worldly light: a rising moon preening for her penumbral eclipse and a setting sun singing colorful strains deep, deep into the shimmering waters... their combined illumination providing seamless saturation. It was one of those deeply personal moments that feels too big to experience alone... and I knew who I wanted to share it with. But no! That would not be appropriate... yet there was no one else on the earth whom I could imagine understanding, who could hold me without distracting, who could sing along without opening his mouth. "Don't go there," I chided myself, too late. That was the moment I knew what the evening's movie would be: I would torture myself with truth and watch Becoming Jane again. 

The first time I watched that movie, I bawled my eyes out and then blogged, but this time I did not cry--not at all. I guess I was prepared for the journey that was necessary--the reality of doing what one must do--of two separate entities doing what they individually must do, be it for the greater good of society or family or whatever, for propriety, for nobility... in spite of the seeming perfection of their fleeting harmony, doing the right thing. 

Maybe it does get easier. Or am I just becoming numb?

Portrait of Jane Austen, drawn by her sisterCassandra (c. 1810)

Portrait of Jane Austen, drawn by her sisterCassandra (c. 1810)

My previous analysis concluded that Jane Austen was able to stay true to her passion, venting it through her fictional characters. Art flourished because of her passion, while Tom Lefroy settled for a substitute that was somehow less. I said that I could see myself going it alone as Jane did and pouring my passion into my writing. But I haven't really been doing that. I haven't been writing. Not here. Not on my other blogs or in my journal. No progress on my novels or scripts...

Maybe I'm not hurting that much, not because I'm growing or becoming, but rather because I'm stagnant, safe. 

"This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,-- "

The words of Emily Dickinson echo my sentiments at the moment. This blog has been such a good release. That was the main reason to make it in the first place--to have a place for such release, a journal that cannot be found by those in my household for whom I would feel the need to edit my true thoughts and feelings.

Even though I don't want those who know me personally to read this online diary, I'm finding that I do long for an audience... someone to hear my heart, to read my words, to offer feedback that might help me to clarify the jumbled stuff pouring out of my crippled heart... someone to seek after me when I "disappear" (as I have the tendency to do in real life, and now I have also done so here.)

Yes, I've been hiding, even from this secret place. I've been nowhere. Hiding from hiding. Hands over my eyes, refusing to even peek at the world. Too numb to attempt engagement with a world that "doesn't write to me." Something happened, but it's not really the something that happened that sent me deeper into hiding. That something is closer to being an excuse than a true driving force. What happened?

A friend, not close--but friend nonetheless--
was taken from the world a couple weeks ago.
Suddenly.
They call it an accident, but that doesn't make sense to me.
Even though it's inexplicable, it cries out meaning...
Meaning beyond my understanding is meaning still.
I am so overwhelmed by the immensity of the gorge
between my understanding and all there is.
My words, so insignificant,
Trickle like rogue dribbles from cracks in a hose.

All I can say is:
"This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,-- "
Would you write?
to me?
.

journal upon wallpaper

In my last post, I mentioned talking to walls. It reminded me of some drivel I wrote back in 2003, during a time of writer's angst--a pretty powerful case of the pity partying.

Anyway, since I don't have it saved digitally anywhere, and I'm trying to cut down on paper clutter, here it is:



"journal upon wallpaper"


I don't write anymore, don't even want to. Not my novel, screenplay, poetry, not even letters or cards. You may say, "What is this here, then?" It is merely forced scratching from a dead soul. I probably won't even share it. [There have been previous attempts aborted...]


I read a quote from Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet:

Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write.

I am numb. Yes, I believe I felt that way once, long ago. Perhaps I was deluded. I am not a writer.


Then a strip of paper printed with dull red ink turns up in the scraps as I sweep my floor. A "fortune" -- words of wisdom:

"Nothing in the world is accomplished without passion."

...and what is that to me? I think as I breathe in only enough air to keep on "existing."


There was a time when I was boiling over with passion -- when I believed my words could change the world. It was like a calling. Like Rilke, a compulsion -- that which was as necessary as breathing.


But I'm learning that one can exist on small breaths -- the shallowest of breathing still sustains that pulse which defines life. I don't have to care to go on -- I only have to do the minimum requirements: Throw some food in the oven, slap it on the table, wash the dishes, sweep the crumbs from the floor -- maybe there will be some wisdom in the scraps and leftovers, something I can nod my head at and pretend to digest before moving on to the next menial task.


That's it. No more. Too forced/contrived.


The point of writing is communication. I will show this to no one. I will publish nothing. Even those closest to me don't care to listen. Todd came in and headed straight for the TV: I tried to talk over the sounds of the game and even the well-written commercials. Guess which he chose to tune into?


My dad found an old story I wrote in junior high. He told me about it, but then added something about how many people have written the same thing and, "I guess you wrote it too." There had been a split second when I thought he was proud of me. Maybe my little story made it onto the refrigerator door. But no... he found it and immediately lost it. Maybe it's hidden under a copy of the magazine my brother edits... Kudos, big bro ~ you're a real writer.


I began this letter with salutations to no one in particular, and thus I end it: "To whom it may concern" (ie. no one)


I am not a writer. I am a housewife. I am married to a house. That is my closest relationship. It speaks to me of all I must do and do again, and listens when I talk to its walls. I should write my journal upon wallpaper.
.