Can't I just post an audio clip of myself groaning and you'll know what I mean?
I miss being able to write. I'm blocked and I know that it's mostly just the not doing it that's making me not do it. I see some of you are blocked like me. But say you're not quitting for good. That would be awful and it would force me to think about that one time when it was really cool, back in the day of good blogging. Nostalgia is my worst enemy right now, so please don't do that.
My reading is suffering. Pretty lame of me to beg you to not quit when I haven't even remotely done my part to encourage you.
Other times, when I can, I carry on across your blogs like we're still in touch, like you're in my head and you too have read that pretentious post that went through me just the other day that lingered there in the center of my nervous system, playing Double Dutch with my neurons. I played with it and tapped at it and scratched and tortured it, the poor stupid thing. None of this happened with my pen, which would have required entirely too much effort. I pulled its little legs off of its twitching corpse and carried the carcass around the house in my mouth until its gut juice seeped through the incisions my teeth had made and its bitter taste made its way to my tongue. And then I didn't like it anymore and how could I give you such a foul cliche in hopes that you would praise me for killing it?
I know I should have some things to say about home, other than the cheap overview I gave you a couple of weeks ago.
I suppose I should tell you how it takes going home to realize that home's definition has apparently been revised in the 2009 edition of My Mind and that I actually feel the calmest and best in the anti-home, the scapegoat and seed of all of my turmoil. My inner dictionary has been rewritten, without consultation of its primary user. That thing had always been so reliable up until now.
Home is apparently not where one is safe and secure and comfortable and at peace. It's a place of confusion where I'm no longer cut to that mold and when I leave I'm relieved to say goodbye to release the pressure and intensity surrounding the visit, to let home fall into the background of memory and fuzziness and distance where it now resides permanently, quieter and quieter, its unbearable decibels turning to a light hum.
I fall into non-home and the excited pace of 'see this, go there, enjoy! Enjoy! It will all be over soon!' ceases and the heart goes back to a healthy steady pace feeding oxygen to the cerebral cortex again, a bit less frantically now, but certainly providing all that is needed to keep those synapses from going on strike.
And now I think I can make it through the winter without you, you infidel of synonyms. I won't be flying over your mountains and swimming pools and palm trees any time soon because I'm to the gills with you. I'm ignoring your threats that the longer I am away, the less you'll resemble what I thought you were. We were separated for so long and you became so perfect and tender in my mind and then you go and throw a fucking antonym at me right when I'm trying to cuddle up in your arms? That's lame.
There -- I went and brought you a carcass and placed it in your shoe, a hunted token so you know I love you, and I looked up at you blankly. I know. It's not as good as new and its legs are missing and it has teeth marks in it and one of its filmy wings is down the hall near the bathroom. But it's the only kill I could find in this lifeless, quiet place.
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11 comments:
in my mind i call it home and other-home.
and depending on the day, which home is which can change from moment to moment.
I remember when home/anti-home reversed for me. It wasn't a good time; a lifetime of construction of identity lost, revised and finally reconstituted. Grief, basically.
I'd say "take care", but written down it comes over as ominous, a warning, which I don't mean at all. I'd say "blessings", but I'm not religious and you have good reason not to like the term. I hope you get the idea.
Also, a dead animal from you is a gem in the blogosphere.
What they said.
Also, secretly I hope you included me in the "don't stop blogging" wish.
Sometimes I feel I have nothing to write about. Maybe it's because I was able to communicate what would have gone into the post the old fashioned way, by talking about it. But there's always more that I discover only when I start to write. Only then I realize how far I still have to go, and only then I realize I can only truly reveal myself by writing.
Actually, my last post was about samurai swords, True Blood, Joe Wilson, ice cream, and balloons, so who am I kidding?
That may be lame but that's also a natural progression. So sorry. Thomas Wolfe was right about going home again.
And no worries about the shoes. These were old and badly out of fashion, anyway. The filthy stain from your guts only hastened their demise.
Your expatyish posts always so perfectly say so many of the things I don't have the words for. Thanks.
@jen - I shouldn't have called it the anti-home. i guess it's the opposite of anti-home now. I don't know.
@pueblogirl - you nailed it. Thank you.
@peeps - you're at the top of my list. What you said, that's exactly how I feel. I feel like I discover things about myself as I'm writing. I realize things about myself that if I wasn't trying to write, I would never have realized them. Unfortunately for me, when I want to blog about something, when I have an idea for a post, sometimes nothing comes out and I can't get it right and there's no point and it's dumb. And other times, like when I wrote this, I'm staring at a blank page with no idea what I want to write about and seconds later it's filled. Which means I can't decide when I can post, which is sort of frustrating. I know the exercise of sitting down and trying to write even if it doesn't come out right will still be a good step for improving. We've talked about this befoe: fear of posting whatever. But, I don't think it much matters, because a lot of times I'll go back to old posts and re-read and feel so stupid at what I've put out there that at the time I thought was kinda good. I might start an alternate blog that no one can read just to post all the shit that comes to me and then decide out of that which ones to post on the public blog. That way, at least I'm writing more consistently. The problem now is the not writing part that makes the writing suck. Because nothing sucks worse than nothing.
@unbearable - you're right, it's a natural progression, a stage. Which is kind of depressing.
@FGIS - thanks.
Blues--I think your idea of the alternate blog is a good one because, if nothing else, it'll get your hands on the keyboard. Do you know what a slug is? Not the kind you find in the garden, but the kind from old-timey newspaper days? It's what you'd type in the upper left-hand corner of your copy--name, date, a factoid or two about your article. What I remember learning in a jounalism class was that you typed in the slug because it got you going...you weren't staring at a blank piece of paper--you had already accomplished something.
Just a thought.
Excuses excuses. We all have them, but soon enough there'll be floods of words and I'll be able to start using the computer again
Seriously May be an audio clip might be interesting for a change, not sure I'd want to ramble aimlessly into a microphone though. I'd want a script, which would defeat the point
I don't know for home. Home is where I am. Florida is Florida. And doesn't feel homey at all.
And writer's block? ALl about that right now.
I managed to scrape something up to post today, but it was just a kick start. Or a hoped-for kick start.
As for home, I often think home is wherever my mom is.
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