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.
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