Is it possible to get tired of your own voice?
Oh, yes!
It's strange, my desire to blog lately has been at an All Time Low, though considering I've been doing it two months that's not saying much.
Part of it, I think, has to do with what's been on my mind—namely, death and dying and saying goodbye sorts of things. That's something I have trouble writing about. Doesn't everyone? And I've been avoiding it.
I need to get back on that horse. I feel myself wanting to write something more focused. In my Thinking Like a Working Writer class we all had to write blog posts about how to write a good body of work over the course of a lifetime. There were some good tips from everyone. One that caught me right square on the chest was, Finish Something. That is, don't just piddle around in half-finished work. Because then what do you have to show for it? A whole lot of nothing, or at the very best a whole lot of half-somethings, which aren't impressive to anyone.
Blogging is good, it keeps me sharp and it keeps my brain working and grooving.
It's time to finish something. Wait, strike that, rewind it—it's time to start something, then I will finish that thing. Yes? Yes, that's how the order goes.
I'm not sure what to do, exactly. What to write about. What my project should be. What could I finish? Well, I have Radioland Number Nine going. That's something I could definitely finish. And something I should finish.
And to hell with it. You know another piece of piece of advice? Instead of doing five things half assed, do one thing well. That has to do with Fear. Funny how that is—it's all based in fear. Here's the thing—I commit myself fully to a project like working on Radioland Number Nine, and finishing it, and then what if nothing happens? I can't say I didn't put my all into it, because I did. That's why working on multiple things at once, that's why working on things and not finishing them, that's why I do them—because it protects me and makes me safe. If I don't fully commit to a project, I'm never disappointed.
Now I need to give myself credit. I have finished a handful (okay, three, but don't get so particular) of stories and they're good, they're decent. And I have written a novel draft in six weeks (and come on now, Lucas, that's an accomplishment). And I've finished a graphic novel with a team of artists. And I have and I have . . . yeah yeah, okay, so I've done some things.
That's great. Good for me. Now it's time to do more.
I've got Radioland just sitting there. It's time to dust it off, reread what I've got, find it's pulse, and start pumping blood into that sucker. That's all it needs, a little lifeblood, a little love, and a lot of energy and effort and devotion. But mostly love.
Maybe I'll post some excerpts of Radioland Number Nine up on here. I've got the first two chapters decently solid. I think, though, for a children's book (and any book in general) I could afford to have a good plan. Not an outline—my God, not an outline—just a plan, something to go by. The initial want, the initial conflict. We'll see how it's resolved as I write. But as I learned with Bordeaux Born Anew (wow, it seems forever ago), I would do well to have a solid idea of the initial conflict, the initial premise, before I start.
Plan of action! Reread Radioland, get a plan working, and go go go. Write like NaNoWriMo, write with fingers on fire. That's the way. Write with finger's on fire, write with heat in the stomach, write with lava in the lungs. Write fast and strong and confidently and without hesitation.
Then we'll see what to do about it.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Johnny Victory
Johnny Victory
The unconquerable pilot
Sailed his sea plane
Through shoestring eyelets.
How, you ask?
It's clear to see,
The bumbling scarfed man
Stood, in inches, nothing point three.
The unconquerable pilot
Sailed his sea plane
Through shoestring eyelets.
How, you ask?
It's clear to see,
The bumbling scarfed man
Stood, in inches, nothing point three.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
How to Write an Amazing Body of Work Over the Course of a Lifetime
In my Thinking Like a Working Writer class, in which myself and a handful of other graduating seniors stare at each other asking excitedly and not without a hint of fear, What do we do now?, we're supposed to gather a bunch of quotes that will guide us to an Amazing Body of Work.
What's an Amazing Body of Work? It's a lot of work. For me an Amazing Body of Work means being prolific, because if you're prolific that means you're getting a lot of practice, and if you have a lot of practice then, very probably, you're writing is good. It is the best sort of self-fulfilling prophecy—write a lot, be good a lot, rinse, repeat.
How do you become prolific? Besides the obvious answer—Just suck it up and write already—it means becoming Unstuck. Becoming Unstuck means getting out of the way of your own writing, it means letting things flow freely and often and always. Becoming Unstuck means listening to your Inner Voice and letting it do the crazy things, because who knows in what strange and wonderful places you'll end up. Becoming Unstuck means removing the filter, it means go go go, it means writing habits and it means looking at the world with genuine wonder.
An Amazing Body of Work begins with writing—a lot. And it means turning the filter off, and it means making a mess and worrying about it later. Maxwell Perkins said, "Just get it down on paper, and then we'll see what to do about it," and that's useful. It takes the pressure off, let's you go and go without waiting for the inner editor to catch up and whisper murky doubtful things in your ear. And then you have to be hard nosed, you have to press yourself and get tough. Stephen King said it best in his wonderful book On Writing, "Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work."And there's no way around it—an Amazing Body of Work means a lot of hard work.
And we must have courage. And we must be sincere.
Tim O'Brien gave a talk at Stanford last year. And Tim O'Brien writes about war. And Tim O'Brien said that he doesn't write about war—that war was the vehicle he used to write about the human heart. And we all write about the human heart, in one way or another, and we use our own vehicles to get at some Truth. And Truth means describing something deep in our chest to the best of our abilities. What I mean is—we must have courage to write about the things close to our heart, and we must be sincere in writing about them. Kurt Vonnegut said, "Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style." And that is advice that is true now and will be true when we are middle aged and when we are old and when we are long gone.
Michael Chabon said, “Nothing is boring except to people who aren't really paying attention.” I think we, as writers, not only should see things differently but I feel it is our charge, our obligation to do so. Roald Dahl said, “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” And Albert Einstein—who was not famous for his writing but is certainly one of those sorts of people—said, "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
All of this is to say, our eyes must be Open. We must see things in a way no one else does. And actually this is easier than it sounds, because you are you, and no one else is you, and if you simply look at things in your own natural way then it will be different than the way others see them. To be more reductive—be yourself. If you want an Amazing Body of Work it will have to come from you. And not from you-who-is-trying-to-appease-others, and not from you-who-is-writing-to-the-market, and not from you-who-is-trying-to-offend-no-one. An Amazing Body of Work comes from the essential you, the one deep down, from the Inner Voice, and nowhere else.
I think that's what it takes. We must become Unstuck. We must have courage. We must be sincere. Our eyes must be Open. And, above all, we must write a lot.
Here are a few more quotes. They didn't quite fit in to my post as I was writing, but they're too good not to pass along.
"Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading, or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic." Stephen King, On Writing
"Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open." Stephen King, On Writing
“One of the few things I know about writing is this; spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water.” Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
Here's a link to Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Rules For Writing Fiction. These I love.
This is essential viewing: Maurice Sendak on the Colbert Report. (And don't miss part 2.)
And a great TED Talk on writing and creativity by Amy Tan.
What's an Amazing Body of Work? It's a lot of work. For me an Amazing Body of Work means being prolific, because if you're prolific that means you're getting a lot of practice, and if you have a lot of practice then, very probably, you're writing is good. It is the best sort of self-fulfilling prophecy—write a lot, be good a lot, rinse, repeat.
How do you become prolific? Besides the obvious answer—Just suck it up and write already—it means becoming Unstuck. Becoming Unstuck means getting out of the way of your own writing, it means letting things flow freely and often and always. Becoming Unstuck means listening to your Inner Voice and letting it do the crazy things, because who knows in what strange and wonderful places you'll end up. Becoming Unstuck means removing the filter, it means go go go, it means writing habits and it means looking at the world with genuine wonder.
An Amazing Body of Work begins with writing—a lot. And it means turning the filter off, and it means making a mess and worrying about it later. Maxwell Perkins said, "Just get it down on paper, and then we'll see what to do about it," and that's useful. It takes the pressure off, let's you go and go without waiting for the inner editor to catch up and whisper murky doubtful things in your ear. And then you have to be hard nosed, you have to press yourself and get tough. Stephen King said it best in his wonderful book On Writing, "Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work."And there's no way around it—an Amazing Body of Work means a lot of hard work.
And we must have courage. And we must be sincere.
Tim O'Brien gave a talk at Stanford last year. And Tim O'Brien writes about war. And Tim O'Brien said that he doesn't write about war—that war was the vehicle he used to write about the human heart. And we all write about the human heart, in one way or another, and we use our own vehicles to get at some Truth. And Truth means describing something deep in our chest to the best of our abilities. What I mean is—we must have courage to write about the things close to our heart, and we must be sincere in writing about them. Kurt Vonnegut said, "Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style." And that is advice that is true now and will be true when we are middle aged and when we are old and when we are long gone.
Michael Chabon said, “Nothing is boring except to people who aren't really paying attention.” I think we, as writers, not only should see things differently but I feel it is our charge, our obligation to do so. Roald Dahl said, “Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” And Albert Einstein—who was not famous for his writing but is certainly one of those sorts of people—said, "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
All of this is to say, our eyes must be Open. We must see things in a way no one else does. And actually this is easier than it sounds, because you are you, and no one else is you, and if you simply look at things in your own natural way then it will be different than the way others see them. To be more reductive—be yourself. If you want an Amazing Body of Work it will have to come from you. And not from you-who-is-trying-to-appease-others, and not from you-who-is-writing-to-the-market, and not from you-who-is-trying-to-offend-no-one. An Amazing Body of Work comes from the essential you, the one deep down, from the Inner Voice, and nowhere else.
I think that's what it takes. We must become Unstuck. We must have courage. We must be sincere. Our eyes must be Open. And, above all, we must write a lot.
Here are a few more quotes. They didn't quite fit in to my post as I was writing, but they're too good not to pass along.
"Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading, or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic." Stephen King, On Writing
"Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open." Stephen King, On Writing
“One of the few things I know about writing is this; spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water.” Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
Here's a link to Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Rules For Writing Fiction. These I love.
This is essential viewing: Maurice Sendak on the Colbert Report. (And don't miss part 2.)
And a great TED Talk on writing and creativity by Amy Tan.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Second Try: To Tata, on the eve of Something I Do Not Understand
I have been avoiding this. Doing it well, too: I have found every speck of dust to be plucked away on the floor of my room, I have made and gone to appointments, done my work early—I have finished every unfinished thing in order to prolong the inevitable, which is my second try at this big thing, this Something I Do Not Understand, which is Tata living in that strange twilight between this world and the next. She's not fully here, she's not fully there, and we can only get sips of her, cool little refreshing bursts of the Tata we knew before the bottom dries out again and the fog clouds her eyes and when I ask her ¿Entiendes? she replies in English, Not really.
When we arrive I hear her before I see her and she sounds tired and when I round the corner I see her—there, in that big armchair, looking small, looking around, seeing things a second after they happen. I go up and say what I always say—¿Qué pasa chica? ¿Qué pasa linda?—What's up girl? What's up pretty thing? and I bend down and kiss her on the cheek. Mi corazón, she says—My heart.
For the first time I see my grandmother's scalp. It's tan somehow, and leathery. Her skull is a good, round shape. Thin grey hairs sprout like so many untended blades of dying grass—and my grandmother is proud, too proud to have no hair, and I know this. You look like me, I say, I can give you haircuts from now on. I motion with my invisible electric clippers around my shaved head. Zip zip zip. And she laughs.
I sit down on the carpet next to her. I think she must feel very small these days, and I want to be small with her. So I sit on the carpet and rest my hand on hers, and mine is live and strong and hers is splotched with liver stains, and her veins rise up blue and inky like gorged rivers, and we talk.
Tata asks, How is your girlfriend? I tell her we're not dating anymore and she nods. She holds on too tight, she says. And I say, Yes. A few minutes later she asks me, How is your girlfriend? And I say steadily that we are not dating anymore and she nods again. You are so young, she says, and there are so many. Yes, I say.
I am holding her hand and I've never done this before. I've never held her hand, not really. I forget that so much can be communicated through the strength of a grasp, through a squeeze, and I'm suddenly terrified she will communicate something to me that I do not want to know. I squeeze her hand, which means, I'm here, Tata. She squeezes mine, meaning, Hello, mijo.
I squeeze hers, I don't mind sitting next to you on the ground.
She squeezes mine, I can't understand what they're saying.
I squeeze hers, I can't understand what is happening to you.
She squeezes mine, It is lonely here.
I cup her hands in mine, Does anyone else hold your hand anymore?
Her hand is limp, I can't understand what they're saying.
I turn over her palm, What are your dreams like?
Her hand is slack, I get so tired.
Then—I squeeze my grandmother's hand. Are you afraid like I am?
She squeezes mine. I love you, mijo.
I excuse myself for a glass of water downstairs. Really I'm leaving to take a break. It takes a lot of energy to hold onto someone's hand when they're trying so hard and wanting so much to float away from this world, and I'm exhausted. Dad is downstairs on a conference call and I'm yelling loudly inside my head, Help, Help, because I've left Tata and my stepmom and Tata's sister alone upstairs and what will they talk about? And who will make jokes about my bald head? And who will hold her hand?
When Dad is done we go upstairs together. I take my spot again on the carpet, make myself small up against her arm chair, and take her hand. I start to say things but her eyes remind me of a clean cup of water clouded with milk. I ask, ¿Me entiendes?—Do you understand? She says in English, Not really. So I start doing my best to speak to her in Spanish and it's as if her mind turns on again after so many years of disuse. I see the light behind her eyes, she understands my every word—I have my Tata again, after I thought I had lost her completely. We chat excitedly for a bit, and I tell her that when I was in Spain the locals would always turn their noses up at me when I tried to speak Spanish to them. She says something too fast for me to hear—later I figure out it was métetelo en el culo—and my dad laughs, and I ask what she said, and Dad says, She said they should shove it up their ass. This is my grandmother.
After a while it gets hard, it gets impossible. It's too exhausting—trying to hold onto Tata's hand to keep her from floating away, swimming in my sloshy brain that's halfway between Spanish and English and doing neither well, seeing Dad smiling and knowing how he will cry when we get downstairs. It's too hard to communicate. So I just hold Tata's hand and hope that will be enough.
There are so many things I want to tell her and ask her, so many things I want to say to comfort her, but she won't understand me in English and I don't know enough Spanish. I think for a while. Finally I look at Tata in the eyes and I say, Somos dos personas en la neblina—We are two people trapped in fog. And she says tiredly, thankfully, Sí, nosotros dos—Yes, us two in the fog.
They talk. My dad, stepmom, great aunt, and the caretaker. They chat, this and that, nothing really. The new Hunger Games movie, magazines, work, travel—my great aunt is going to Panama soon—and I can tell Tata isn't understanding all of these English words buzzing by her. I wonder what's going on inside that tan scalp, what she's thinking, what happens in a dying brain. ¿Que estás pensando? I ask, What are you thinking about? She says, without hesitation, Musarañas. I ask Dad what it means. If there was any light flitting around in his eyes, it drains away. He looks at his mother and says, Cobwebs.
They talk more. I'm still there, small on the dark yellow carpet next to my Tata holding her hand. English words zip by us. I want to know if she's still thinking of musarañas, because if she is I think I will have to get up for another glass of water. I ask, ¿En qué estás pensando ahora?—What are you thinking of now? She looks down at me. En tí, she says—Of you.
It is time to go. We get up to say our goodbyes and I promise Tata I will send her a letter in Spanish and attach a poem by Pablo Neruda. We shuffle out. Inches by the door, my great aunt says, Pórtate bien—Behave yourself. My grandmother looks up at us, looking small in the enormous armchair that swallows her. She is far away, or deep underwater, or high up behind the clouds—somewhere that is not here. He tratado, pero no es divertido. And I don't need a translation for that one. She said—my Tata—I've tried, but it isn't any fun.
When we arrive I hear her before I see her and she sounds tired and when I round the corner I see her—there, in that big armchair, looking small, looking around, seeing things a second after they happen. I go up and say what I always say—¿Qué pasa chica? ¿Qué pasa linda?—What's up girl? What's up pretty thing? and I bend down and kiss her on the cheek. Mi corazón, she says—My heart.
For the first time I see my grandmother's scalp. It's tan somehow, and leathery. Her skull is a good, round shape. Thin grey hairs sprout like so many untended blades of dying grass—and my grandmother is proud, too proud to have no hair, and I know this. You look like me, I say, I can give you haircuts from now on. I motion with my invisible electric clippers around my shaved head. Zip zip zip. And she laughs.
I sit down on the carpet next to her. I think she must feel very small these days, and I want to be small with her. So I sit on the carpet and rest my hand on hers, and mine is live and strong and hers is splotched with liver stains, and her veins rise up blue and inky like gorged rivers, and we talk.
Tata asks, How is your girlfriend? I tell her we're not dating anymore and she nods. She holds on too tight, she says. And I say, Yes. A few minutes later she asks me, How is your girlfriend? And I say steadily that we are not dating anymore and she nods again. You are so young, she says, and there are so many. Yes, I say.
I am holding her hand and I've never done this before. I've never held her hand, not really. I forget that so much can be communicated through the strength of a grasp, through a squeeze, and I'm suddenly terrified she will communicate something to me that I do not want to know. I squeeze her hand, which means, I'm here, Tata. She squeezes mine, meaning, Hello, mijo.
I squeeze hers, I don't mind sitting next to you on the ground.
She squeezes mine, I can't understand what they're saying.
I squeeze hers, I can't understand what is happening to you.
She squeezes mine, It is lonely here.
I cup her hands in mine, Does anyone else hold your hand anymore?
Her hand is limp, I can't understand what they're saying.
I turn over her palm, What are your dreams like?
Her hand is slack, I get so tired.
Then—I squeeze my grandmother's hand. Are you afraid like I am?
She squeezes mine. I love you, mijo.
I excuse myself for a glass of water downstairs. Really I'm leaving to take a break. It takes a lot of energy to hold onto someone's hand when they're trying so hard and wanting so much to float away from this world, and I'm exhausted. Dad is downstairs on a conference call and I'm yelling loudly inside my head, Help, Help, because I've left Tata and my stepmom and Tata's sister alone upstairs and what will they talk about? And who will make jokes about my bald head? And who will hold her hand?
When Dad is done we go upstairs together. I take my spot again on the carpet, make myself small up against her arm chair, and take her hand. I start to say things but her eyes remind me of a clean cup of water clouded with milk. I ask, ¿Me entiendes?—Do you understand? She says in English, Not really. So I start doing my best to speak to her in Spanish and it's as if her mind turns on again after so many years of disuse. I see the light behind her eyes, she understands my every word—I have my Tata again, after I thought I had lost her completely. We chat excitedly for a bit, and I tell her that when I was in Spain the locals would always turn their noses up at me when I tried to speak Spanish to them. She says something too fast for me to hear—later I figure out it was métetelo en el culo—and my dad laughs, and I ask what she said, and Dad says, She said they should shove it up their ass. This is my grandmother.
After a while it gets hard, it gets impossible. It's too exhausting—trying to hold onto Tata's hand to keep her from floating away, swimming in my sloshy brain that's halfway between Spanish and English and doing neither well, seeing Dad smiling and knowing how he will cry when we get downstairs. It's too hard to communicate. So I just hold Tata's hand and hope that will be enough.
There are so many things I want to tell her and ask her, so many things I want to say to comfort her, but she won't understand me in English and I don't know enough Spanish. I think for a while. Finally I look at Tata in the eyes and I say, Somos dos personas en la neblina—We are two people trapped in fog. And she says tiredly, thankfully, Sí, nosotros dos—Yes, us two in the fog.
They talk. My dad, stepmom, great aunt, and the caretaker. They chat, this and that, nothing really. The new Hunger Games movie, magazines, work, travel—my great aunt is going to Panama soon—and I can tell Tata isn't understanding all of these English words buzzing by her. I wonder what's going on inside that tan scalp, what she's thinking, what happens in a dying brain. ¿Que estás pensando? I ask, What are you thinking about? She says, without hesitation, Musarañas. I ask Dad what it means. If there was any light flitting around in his eyes, it drains away. He looks at his mother and says, Cobwebs.
They talk more. I'm still there, small on the dark yellow carpet next to my Tata holding her hand. English words zip by us. I want to know if she's still thinking of musarañas, because if she is I think I will have to get up for another glass of water. I ask, ¿En qué estás pensando ahora?—What are you thinking of now? She looks down at me. En tí, she says—Of you.
It is time to go. We get up to say our goodbyes and I promise Tata I will send her a letter in Spanish and attach a poem by Pablo Neruda. We shuffle out. Inches by the door, my great aunt says, Pórtate bien—Behave yourself. My grandmother looks up at us, looking small in the enormous armchair that swallows her. She is far away, or deep underwater, or high up behind the clouds—somewhere that is not here. He tratado, pero no es divertido. And I don't need a translation for that one. She said—my Tata—I've tried, but it isn't any fun.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
To Tata, on the eve of Something I Do Not Understand
This is hard. I'm back at Stanford now and I know I need to write about my visit with Tata. I know I want to write about it . . . it's just not easy.
I have been so afraid to visit her. What if she does not recognize me and I can't talk to her? What if she does, and I have to? What do I say? How much can I handle? It is not easy to see a dying person.
She is sitting in her chair looking small. She has thin grey hairs dotting her wrinkled scalp and I say, I got the same haircut as you! And she laughs. I tell her I can give her haircuts from now on. I motion with my invisible electric clippers around my head. Zip zip zip.
And this is hard to write, and this is close to the chest, and this and this and this—
She says to Dad, Mira que grande es—Look how big he is. She asks me about my girlfriend and I say that we're not dating anymore. She nods her head and says, She holds too tight, and I say, Yes. We chat about some things for a while and then she asks about my girlfriend and I say that we're not dating anymore, careful to be just as invested in my response as the first time. She says, You are young, and there are so many, and I say, Yes, and she doesn't remember to ask again.
I show her the front of the journal Dad and Shakti got me in Tulum. It says, El tiempo ne elige lo que se lleva—nosotros elegimos lo que se queda—Time does not choose what it takes—we decide what remains. She says, Bonito, and I say, Yes.
I tell her about the dream I had, about her in the ocean swimming, diligently smoking a cigarette, about me flying over on a kite, about her asking, What are you doing? and me saying, Estoy volando—I'm flying. I tell her about the way she chased the escaping gray sinews of smoke and inhaled them back in, making a big show of it, and she laughs and laughs.
And this is hard, so hard, I can't get the creative juices out of me, and it feels like trying to pull essential things from out of my chest and I just can't get them out. When I wrote about my dream earlier, I relished the moments when I could make it sound beautiful, when I could observe things, when I could twist those words around my tongue and light them delicately on the page. Now—I don't want to. Because it's writing about someone who's disappearing right in front of you, who's disappeared a little more every time they ask you about your girlfriend, and you tell them and you can see they had no idea.
...will finish later~
I have been so afraid to visit her. What if she does not recognize me and I can't talk to her? What if she does, and I have to? What do I say? How much can I handle? It is not easy to see a dying person.
She is sitting in her chair looking small. She has thin grey hairs dotting her wrinkled scalp and I say, I got the same haircut as you! And she laughs. I tell her I can give her haircuts from now on. I motion with my invisible electric clippers around my head. Zip zip zip.
And this is hard to write, and this is close to the chest, and this and this and this—
She says to Dad, Mira que grande es—Look how big he is. She asks me about my girlfriend and I say that we're not dating anymore. She nods her head and says, She holds too tight, and I say, Yes. We chat about some things for a while and then she asks about my girlfriend and I say that we're not dating anymore, careful to be just as invested in my response as the first time. She says, You are young, and there are so many, and I say, Yes, and she doesn't remember to ask again.
I show her the front of the journal Dad and Shakti got me in Tulum. It says, El tiempo ne elige lo que se lleva—nosotros elegimos lo que se queda—Time does not choose what it takes—we decide what remains. She says, Bonito, and I say, Yes.
I tell her about the dream I had, about her in the ocean swimming, diligently smoking a cigarette, about me flying over on a kite, about her asking, What are you doing? and me saying, Estoy volando—I'm flying. I tell her about the way she chased the escaping gray sinews of smoke and inhaled them back in, making a big show of it, and she laughs and laughs.
And this is hard, so hard, I can't get the creative juices out of me, and it feels like trying to pull essential things from out of my chest and I just can't get them out. When I wrote about my dream earlier, I relished the moments when I could make it sound beautiful, when I could observe things, when I could twist those words around my tongue and light them delicately on the page. Now—I don't want to. Because it's writing about someone who's disappearing right in front of you, who's disappeared a little more every time they ask you about your girlfriend, and you tell them and you can see they had no idea.
...will finish later~
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)