Lord, save me from your followers

June 17, 2007

The inevitably jumpiness of what you are about to read is indicative of both the late hour of its writing and the writer's sudden feeling that all events great and small, all the moments that make up the day and your life are inevitably connected, no matter how random or insignificant they may seem.


I can attribute this feeling of equanimity mingling with synchronicity and a dash of serendipity to (1) several days spent communing with a dear friend, the desert, and my mind's inner workings in surprisingly bearable West Texas heat, and under the starry skies of Big Bend, (2) acknowledging and admitting a resurgence of deep, loving feelings, and then surrendering to letting whatever happens happen, (3) a great dinner date and conversation with the gay love of my life who will inevitably break my heart when he moves back to Boston.

Tonight, I began to face my shame at being one month into the summer and having far too willingly embraced writer's block. Or, more accurately, my writer's-unwillingness-to-sit-down-and-face-the-page-and-write-what-needs-to-be-written. I have a story to tell. It's heavily based on the reality of a relatively recent period in my life. I guess part of my resistance to the writing process is the underlying thought, "Who am I to write a book? Is my life oh-so interesting that it must be documented in print, possibly even published?"

I don't know. I just know that I write. Always have and always will. To effectively complete this manuscript, I have to write from the heart, and that can be very hard to do. Hard, but not impossible. I love writing because thoughts are so fleeting. The act of putting words on paper helps me make sense of things. The fact that I am having such difficulty putting my story together is Not Cool. But I guess if it were easy, I'd take it for granted.

I have a stack of books sitting on the floor by my bed which includes these titles: The Bhagavad Gita; That's Funny, You Don't Look Buddhist; The Lie That Tells A Truth: A Guide to Writing Fiction; and Mexico. I just finished The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. I checked out War and Peace from the library but have yet to crack it.

I know a number of people personally (young and old) whose life stories would make excellent reads. But my story is the only one I can really tell. And until I get it all out with a beginning, middle and end, in a state that is readable and enjoyable for me and hopefully others, I won't be satisfied. I know the themes. Hell, everybody I know knows the themes: quarterlife crises, Catholicism, Christian Fundamentalism, falling in love, manic depression, advertising, yoga, Buddhism, sex... I know the characters' names, food allergies and zodiac signs. I have an outline of the plot. I have volumes and volumes of old material, laboriously edited over and over, and mostly headed for the recycle bin. All I really have left to do is write the fucking thing.

Have you ever had an orgasm and a splitting migrane headache at the same time?
Oh...oh...Ooooh. Ow!

My friend yesterday said something so succinct and right on that I just have to pass it on: "I love Jesus, it's the Christians I can't stand."

And now I'll bid you goodnight with my favorite verse from perhaps the most prophetic pop song I have heard in recent years, "On the Radio" by Regina Spektor.

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

---
p.s. (Here's to doing it all again.)

yoga freedom. feel free. (c) 2007. All rights reserved worldwide.