Thursday, November 4, 2010

Not sure who I'd be without it

I’ve always been amused by bloggers who announce their sabbaticals or exit from online journaling with big fanfare.

And I’m in awe of “day writers” and other nine-to-five creatives who write or produce short films in their spare time, or freelance or actually get published. They must have better time management or simply watch less TV than I do.

I love writing and this blog. Pulling stories from my hands is almost magical; time stops a little while I do it. As dramatic and Sarah Bernhardt as it sounds, I make sense of things here. I own this name, bought it earlier this year thinking I could do something more with it than attract a handful of page hits a day. Because what I do here isn’t sharing cute kids stories, or keeping up with extended families, or veiled messages (usually, although sometimes), or trying to shock you from behind a character. This is me and I want this to be something. It’s not a hobby. This is a dream and it’s lost.

But maybe there’s no big discovery anymore, no Diablo Cody moment of tripping across a lone blog among millions on the web and offering a new voice the chance to soar. Unless that blog is about shit my Dad says or awkward family photos. I’ve been here, doing this, for four years now. And although I’ve discovered and envied others talent and lusted after some and flirted with many and sometimes brought a tear and often a laugh or helped a boy fall in love with me, I haven’t found the audience that wants more. I haven’t done anything to do something.

I haven't sold me.

Sadly I don’t really call what I do for work “writing” anymore. It’s more like “word dissemination.” But I need to direct energy and attention into those words, the commerce words. I haven’t written more than a few pages this past week (and last) because I’m blocked, with no desire and little momentum and deadlines looming, editors at my chops. I need to write over there.

And not here. I may post some classic stuff, some of the things I wrote in some 429 blogs that I really like, that are really good. I said it. My writing, this storytelling is good. Really good.

So at the end of the page I don’t know the etiquette, and probably wouldn’t follow it if I did. Does one say goodbye or later gator or I’ll see you around, maybe or I may come back now and then?


Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I do declare

It’s okay to be gay week on Oprah.

I tease because I love. And I happen to love men, I just never had to come out and proclaim it. No need to name my side, publicly choose team mates, define myself by my genitals. As a heterosexual woman I was allowed to taste and savor and straddle without fanfare or laying myself open to judgment or ridicule or hatred or hopeful acceptance. And tears. I bet a good deal of tears.

Monday on Oprah, Portia (de Rossi) DeGeneres appeared touting a new memoir about her battle with anorexia and bulimia, a defeating body image and being a gay woman and actress. Tuesday Ricky Martin appeared touting a new memoir about his coming out as a proud gay man and life as a single parent, mother and father to twin moppets.

On today's show, “Oprah and Gayle's Camping Adventure, Part 2.” Wonder if Oprah is gearing up to tell us something.

It’s painful and shameful to hide who you are. Denying sexuality is denying self and goodness knows emotion and lust and desire and love and nakedness and penetration makes it fuzzy and difficult for some. Virgins are misunderstood (especially the late in life ones), so are whores. Preachers kids were always the wildest of my high school bunch, because tell a kid they can’t have a brownie and you have a diabetic in the making.

Society still looks at sex with a giggle or hand in front on a gasping mouth. I had a woman friend years ago (not like that, giggly) separating from her husband who’d invite me over for dinner and movies with her two young girls. One night she queued up Legends of The Fall. During the more violent and splatty scenes, she’d excuse her daughters from the room, ask them to get a snack or simply cover their eyes. During the sex scenes she did nothing.

My Mom shooed us away if a kiss lingered or jaw slightly unhinged on an episode of Guiding Light or one of her other stories. I was taken aback by my friend, respected and honored her and the women her daughters were no doubt destined to become. And never forgot it.

Hiding sexuality, shaming it or defining it as wrong or different or against God, there can be no peace.

We all need a little peace and, if you’re so inclined, a little piece. Not everybody does it, but everybody should.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Monday, Monday can't trust that day

Talk about a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Okay, well I did wake up and had the ability to walk myself down the stairs. That’s something, definitely a big something. Still the bad ones creep in here and there. Some of it stress, some of it lackadaisical attitude, some of it self-medicating. All of it my own doing.

Wish I had the truth pill to pinpoint what’s eating me. I can assume, I can guess, I can fill it with pretty words that make you think I’m deep and silently tortured in my genius.

But I think I’m simply lazy. Today is Election Tuesday and I haven’t educated myself enough on ballot issues to cast a qualified vote. Instead it may come down to bubbling in answers with a No. 2, high-school-test-taking style, which is more offensive than simply opting out. Yes, I know it’s a right, a duty even, and my guilt may get the best of me – meaning an hour pouring over the blue book (which they don’t mail anymore) instead of gearing up for deadlines due. And past due.

Is this depression or simply slacking?

I know I’m angry with myself. At my body, which I feed well and which I try to take out for exercise but which feels both foreign and painfully familiar right now. I’m angry at the number of empty wine bottles in my weekly recycling.

I’m angry that what I love the most is what I’m paid to produce on a schedule because it dilutes it. I’m angry that I don’t have a passion for it, because I’m good at it. I’m angry that I’m judged and constantly pulled. I’m angry my pants don’t button. I’m angry that I don’t bother to even get dressed most days, because I don’t have to.

I’m angry that I’m lying about what I'm angry at. Which is simply me. Angry that I think less of myself when I'm not "perfect." Angry that I think you do too.

So right now I'm going to shower and put on my big girls pants. Slap myself hard in the face then sit back down right here and put words together. Go to spin class at 5:30. Eat a sensible dinner. Call the boyfriend or best girlfriend later.

And right now I’m going to try not to cry because I don't want to. Probably don't need to if I was honest with myself.

Sometimes it just works out that way.

Monday, November 1, 2010

“It’s nice to have someone to eat chicken wings with”

That's what he said.

No longer chasing guitar players and firemen, now rarely ducking into little bars and dives in search of live local music. No more online meet-ups and greet-ups. I miss that girl and the attention she got. But maybe I've simply stopped running about because she found good stuff at home, a cozy home that always smells good. And to quote Clueless, “My party clothes are so binding.”

Spent Saturday night in leggings and a tank (no underwires) and a snuggly much-too-big zip hoodie on his couch munching chicken wings and nachos. Being All Hallows Eve eve, we watched Zombie Strippers, a silly and groan-worthy, not-porn romp starring Jenna Jameson. I nearly lost it when she loaded up her zombie hooch with pool balls to shoot at a rival zombie stripper. You read that right. Later a documentary we’d queued on Netflix, one of my choices. Then we all curled up together, him and me and the dog and the cat and slept. Slept until almost 10 a.m. Then he took me for Sunday brunch.

A friend recently wrote about “the middle,” the part of the relationship past the flutter, the courting, the crazy sex, the lingering dinners. The middle moves the two of you into edging towards arguments, or coming home to a dog who's been sick in his kennel. Or job or family or health worries. Or being brave enough to ask, "Are you happy with me?"

“Middles are life,” she said.

And her words made me think about the hand always looking for mine to hold and not seeing the extra 15 on me and the latte every morning I wake up there and falling asleep during almost every movie watched.

Sometimes it’s nice to just have someone to eat chicken wings with.

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