Fear

The more I look at my writer's block, the more I realize it might not just be a product of mood or surroundings. I realize that I really am not an expert, or even close, in anything. There is just nothing that I am really qualified to write about. My confidence is waning. I will be 24 next year...and I am terrified. Mid twenties and I haven't traveled, haven't decided about school, haven't lived anyplace else. Have practically forgotten spanish, written only one poem within the span of a year, still work part time at the same coffee shop.
 I am so afraid. I have this amazing man in my life...the most caring, gentle person I've ever met. I'd do anything not to lose him, he is the one. Yet how do these people balance a relationship and being able to go out into the world? I am just frustrated by this "stuck" feeling...and there is no blame on his side. He has told me so many times that he wants and needs me to do what is best for me, to follow my passions. We have a vague plan of going on a trip a year from now, but I worry that if money doesn't work out, I'll be so disappointed I won't even be able to handle it. Another winter, here. I don't know what I'll do.

I am afraid, so afraid.

So it's the third of the month and I'm supposed to be in March. Writing about the other end of transformation, the rebirth of the sun and of lightness and adventure. The rooting, blooming, beautifying.
Yet the world is still a snowglobe swathed in the artificial warmth of Christmas lights, spring just a longing. I'm stuck in the idea of new years resolutions, as I've now crossed an invisible line into a new era. There should be newness--a cleanse, a list of goals, a fat smack of inspiration.
I can't tap into this flow yet. I suppose I feel stuck, financially. Which leads to being stuck in this house and this town. Which leads to writer's block. I'm as frozen as the creek.

Tomorrow, I love ya!

it's strange having to go back. i wrote about the moutains around me, the winter and the move that's coming, looking foward.

now, trying to recreate three years ago. the ocean, the houses of valparaiso, the hills I wandered, the sand dunes, all of these things I fell into, lost in the dream of them, trying to savor every second so intensely. falling into the city streets, nowhere else to go, my mind spinning across the globe with a longing so intense...the adventure, the discovery. the wine soaked nights we climbed onto the church roof and howled at the moon. the only time in my life i've ditched class and smoked joints down by the old trainyard instead. those few photos that captured my joy, my loneliness suffocated by adventure. the rainy weeks stomping through the streets giving way to endless beach days, going up the coast on a micro to horcon ...

Memory, Writing, & Consciousness

I wrote this a few years back and stumbled upon it today. I actually still like a lot of the ideas in it. Shocking, as I usually find my old writings completely intolerable.

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What I like about writing is the way that it swirls your sense of time. A good piece of fiction can make ten pages feel read like five minutes or fifty years. Poetry makes the heartbeat of everyday speech race, flutter, pause. Some would say that this is overtly obvious to anyone who has read literature—clearly orchestrated in the pacing effects of punctuation or the length of the words on your tongue. It’s more than that though. It’s they way the images of the imagination take on more than just spatial qualities, but also that certain metaphysical property of time itself.

My favorite pieces of writing have the same effect as a powerful memory. Those memories that flower so vividly in the mind that your eyes glaze as you lose consciousness of the bench beneath you. That snap back to the room with a start as you are shaken from the view of your memory’s kaleidoscope. Few things are more personal, and I would argue more valuable than these sorts of memories. The experiences are invaluable, especially as you move further away and they come closer and closer to resembling pinnacles of perfection. Memories are precious yet dangerous. Over time they tend to shift radioactively, aligning their plots to form all the better to the residual emotion retained in the memory holder’s murky depths.

That’s where writing is different. When you put the words down, they are destined to their exact presentation until you consciously revisit and stir them. A memory is assaulted by the constant, unconscious revisions of the mind. Something written preserves the moment of its creation, pinning down its images and sentiments like butterfly to corkboard.

I don’t know if I am the only one but if I wait enough time and re-read my writing, I am always surprised. Sometimes embarrassed by the honesty like a bad photograph. Sometimes pleased, but always surprised. I pull up a story I completed months ago, edited until I could not change another word or comma. Immediately I pick out and remove the pointless sentences that stick out. I reword the words of entire paragraphs like a Tetris game. I laugh at the stale ideas that seemed so brilliant to me at the time.

Writing forces the sort of personal growth that one must acknowledge to realize. Unlike our memories, which are constantly doctored for and by us, writing waits for us to reach new understandings before we can change it. In turn, this sort of personal growth forces writing. Time itself bends the elastic of our memories. Time gives us constantly changing experience, allowing us to bend our writing ourselves into whatever forms we have come to imagine. 

Late September. Rain on the skylight.

Was going to make some cinnamon rolls tonight but decided to start this up instead, thanks to Katie. It's been a while since I had written for the sheer pleasure of it, the feel of it. Reading your blog (whiskeychatter.blogspot.com/) inspired me. Thank you.


What do I love most about the fall?

Red rosehips against the robins egg sunrise.
Yellow aspen against the creamy lavender sunsets.

Magpies fluttering into the white morning wildflowers (someone once tried to tell me magpies are only black and white-they must never have seen their turquoise-emerald wing feathers glint in the morning sun).

Knee high wool socks and my red sweater coat.
Pomegranates, pears, apples.
Tea.

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I just wrote this one tonight. It's not quite finished.


abalone

walking home from the bus
i hopped the ditch
towards library bridge
the sun falling quick
in the sand colored sky
that crazy last light
making everybody beautiful
(the world like the inside of a seashell cracked open for the first time)
on the porch over the creek
a few people, some faces I knew
bent into the words
of the curandera
the smoke of the palo santo
drifting from her hands
followed me fifty feet away
down a memory i never had



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