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I am a fountain of random information. Now if one wants to converse about things such as the scientific use of intestinal parasites for allergy control, Genghis Khan, plantar facilitis, the distinguishing characteristics central to bird-watching, the forensic utility of "lividity", the key factors in fine chocolate making, Argentine society, Japanese mental health, Hello Kitty, coral reefs, posture differentials in kung-fu/ballet/modern/jazz ,S& M communities, or famous people with mental illnesses-then, I am your cocktail party companion.
But to write…there is a sort of accountability that seems to come with putting thought into form.
I remember reading once about a professor who started his Writing class by facing the students and stating something to the effect of :
"Are you waiting for your parents to die before you write anything worthwhile?!"
(if anyone finds the source of this, I’d appreciate the info. But it was one of the thousands of anecdotes I read that month and filed away mentally-unable to properly credit)
I want to write. This is second only to my urges to read. I have lived lifetimes within books since I was a little girl.
Going to the library was our treat as children. Soon the books I checked out were arm-straining stacks. I read The Godfather and The Shining in 6th grade. I learned about Hiroshima, learned in a stomach-churning, innocence puncturing way, through a graphic novel I bought for myself at the flea market. I read a book called "Hot Flashes" when I was 16 and found communion in the longing hearts of menopausal women and their reflections on life. I have ached and cried perhaps more freely with a volume in hand (and in bed) than ever I have with human witness. In these tomes, I have been to China, Mexico, Afghanistan, Paris, England, Mongolia, Cambodia, Vietnam, Japan, Tibet, Hungary…ad infinitum.
When P goes out of town he sternly warns me "Don’t stay up all night -Reading!!".
I giggle about the ridiculousness, chide him about how other husbands would be glad if that were the only problem they have to worry about…this lifelong habit of staying up all night until a good book is read through. But yes, if he let me, these books and my affairs with them would surely ruin our sleep cycle.
There are powerful social fears which plague all of us well-fed folks.
No longer fighting for survival, we navel gaze and preen and lament ourselves into addictions and (if you’re lucky) a good therapist’s office.
I shed many of those fears 10 years ago when most of what felt certain in life simply went away.
I saw the man behind the curtain, you might say. The wizard, was quite frail in fact.
Working a year at hospice in the bereavement department was pretty much the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. Time is short. Too much of our lives is wasted on silly dust bunnies of stress.
If an artist’s role is to live aloud, to share the truths and then stand the scorn-OK.
Bring it on.
I already know what a complete jerk I can be. And I already know that I can attain loftier accomplishments than previously imagined.
Yet as a reasonable human being-
how can one subject familia to such…social abuse?
Surely I can not wait for my parents and brother and spouse and friends and past loves to all die or become senile or comatose before "writing something worthwhile".
Certainly if I had my way I would be senile and deceased long before any of them.
I never handed them a disclaimer form that described the limits of confidentiality that being in my life and heart entails. There are rich depths in these stories, the roads we have created. I value them and reflect back upon them often. Would sharing them be the proper way to pay respect as I intend-or would it cheapen it like a horrid reality TV show?
Shall I liberate my thoughts to bond and bridge with an unknown reader who may judge these innocent parties? Shall I be the black sheep baby who discloses the family skeletons? Could my marriage stand mortifying reflections and TMI? Will I ever stop feeling the compulsion to protect my parents from the follies of my youth and the errors of their young parenting?
Somehow I don’t want to find out by trial. (or attorneys bearing libel suits)
Perhaps such worries are for naught. Writers and therapists tend not to be glamourous enough to serve as tabloid fodder.
"The best moments in reading are when you come across something-a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things-which you had thought unique and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours" —-A. Bennett
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