archive: 27 august 2005: write write

"Write! Write!" the crickets keep chirping, and I sit in my chair on my porch, and think, "What? Write what?" I have read about lives lived years ago, traveling to and fro from South to North, to Europe and to the West; of relationships and friendships, and of war, poverty, surviving, and fighting. I have read about writers overcoming blocks, filtering creativity into other avenues, and then growing frustrated as I do now, facing the same situations, or not. I cannot compare myself with great writers. What have I done? What great ideas do I possess? Only idealistic ones, as my father told me once, "You're an idealist," as I sat wearing a tie-dyed blouse and jeans, hemp shoes and a denim purse. That was high school and here I am, ten years later, still an idealist. And my ideas... what are they? What to write about, what to say? I have drank two classes of shiraz, smoked a few drags on a cigarette -- mostly to watch it burn, but a little to feel the dry ache in my throat as it burns with the smoke, and wave the red tip around -- a roman candle -- watch it make figure-eights in the air -- and wonder, what have I got to write? And I force myself to stop self-editing as I write, since a writer once said "never stop to self-edit as you write." But the Virgo in me, the ever perfectionist, -- or is that me rationalizing my actions? -- keeps wanting to edit, to self-criticize, to hone the correct words to the right moment, make them fit just-so, like a puzzle. I want to tell friends how much I love them, would do anything for them if they asked, because I am only a person -- only human -- with flaws and imperfections. I run when I shouldn't run away, avoidant, even when what I crave most is to say, "hello, how are you? I missed you so." In the moments when I lay to sleep, my mind races with what I want to tell one friend in Jackson, or someone I love, memories, ideas, thoughts, plans... entire paragraphs come into being, but they cannot be lassoed to a page, type-set or script, email or postcard; they run so fast for fear of face. I stubbed out my cigarette after one last drag, watched the little red dots scatter, little lightning bugs on concrete suffocating tiny lives. I think, "Maybe I will take a long walk, night stroll through the small town, see the dark window faces, think about the carlights passing by, the constellations above hidden by clouds, the sunrise in the morning, and the sunset I caught on film today, wonder about what I would write if I had stayed home to sit at the keyboard, staring at an empty screen, angry. Instead, I stayed home, typed, forcing, coercing myself to move forward, word by word by word by word until the breath could no longer speak, sighing the last word now. ------ (I thought of the below lines but they don't fit the poem above... they should be in their own poem, but... whatever.) I watched the lives of women who fought through picket lines, hunger strikes, marches, petitions and posters, and fiercely silent protests. ----------- Say whatever you want. I don't know (or think) that this could be any good.