Unfortunately all I've written, words upon words, have been deleted. Frustrating for sure. Here is a bit 06-28-09
I haven't brought anything to this website, I know. Nothing I can claim - and at best consider - progressive, beneficial, informative, revealing, substantial. Not like I thought, imagined, expected, hoped I would. May and June have left me. And I have forgotten, and I have felt. Time has been here for me to use, but I haven't been able to take it at my advantage. Repetitive voices advising: "Live now, work later, write in the Fall." But what if I forget by then? The story will be different. Less rich, less labyrinthian. (I will retreat to bad habits when I need to delve deeper, be honest, be crude, so even I as reader am shocked by the sincerity. Design less, clarify more). Already, I have forgotten... What he said, why it got me thinking, how his perspective made me see I could be devoted. And those are revelations that need to be captured when they are raw, unmediated. When me, an ever evolving character, is callow, desperate, resistant, horribly paradoxical, sickened and heavy-hearted with elation. Sitting in Yankee stadium on Graduation day, I promised myself that if I could not write nor read the story of another then at least I could react to my own everyday. Worse case, I thought, I begin developing a story that follows the process of falling in love, breaking free of the interior security blanket, the fear of finally living, the panic of happiness, the body's reaction to sex at this level, the emotional upheaval of falling and never wanting to hurt, the plague of moving and having to say goodbye to one more, the one that for the first time I am trying to give myself to even though I have my calling for privacy, even though I/you have our past, my future, and the present which he will come to see me in, see me as, and want me despite of. I think about the beginning, a few months ago, before he was really around me. How he said I am the happiest girl he knows, everyday, smiling, never not. I listened, denying the factuality of his observations, feeling my happiness is circumstantial. And now knowing in this past month or so we have been close, never without, overwhelmed by the effort to be closer and that he has seen me cry after two years of a dry spell, has watched me lash out, change moods, purposefully be unlikable, vague, uncommunicative. Well...
I haven't brought anything to this website, I know. Nothing I can claim - and at best consider - progressive, beneficial, informative, revealing, substantial. Not like I thought, imagined, expected, hoped I would. May and June have left me. And I have forgotten, and I have felt. Time has been here for me to use, but I haven't been able to take it at my advantage. Repetitive voices advising: "Live now, work later, write in the Fall." But what if I forget by then? The story will be different. Less rich, less labyrinthian. (I will retreat to bad habits when I need to delve deeper, be honest, be crude, so even I as reader am shocked by the sincerity. Design less, clarify more). Already, I have forgotten... What he said, why it got me thinking, how his perspective made me see I could be devoted. And those are revelations that need to be captured when they are raw, unmediated. When me, an ever evolving character, is callow, desperate, resistant, horribly paradoxical, sickened and heavy-hearted with elation. Sitting in Yankee stadium on Graduation day, I promised myself that if I could not write nor read the story of another then at least I could react to my own everyday. Worse case, I thought, I begin developing a story that follows the process of falling in love, breaking free of the interior security blanket, the fear of finally living, the panic of happiness, the body's reaction to sex at this level, the emotional upheaval of falling and never wanting to hurt, the plague of moving and having to say goodbye to one more, the one that for the first time I am trying to give myself to even though I have my calling for privacy, even though I/you have our past, my future, and the present which he will come to see me in, see me as, and want me despite of. I think about the beginning, a few months ago, before he was really around me. How he said I am the happiest girl he knows, everyday, smiling, never not. I listened, denying the factuality of his observations, feeling my happiness is circumstantial. And now knowing in this past month or so we have been close, never without, overwhelmed by the effort to be closer and that he has seen me cry after two years of a dry spell, has watched me lash out, change moods, purposefully be unlikable, vague, uncommunicative. Well...
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