letter to a friend

dear KATE,

most of the time i'm not really sure what i'm doing.  what The Work is and is not.  it all feels like The Work to me.  it all feels like a world i'm creating, like a world i'm mustering-  me and my spills of ink.

language is a crazy thing.  and writing.  and poetry.  i'm not even sure if poetry is what i write.  what are these snippets that come out of me?  these fragments of a life, of a human being, of wishes and dreams.

sometimes i feel like maybe i'm doing something wrong by giving away so much of my writing here on the BLOG.  i worry that i'm going about all this the wrong way and that i should actively try for "real" publication, that i'm somehow selling myself short by not trying to be published.  i'm just too impatient for all that at this point in my life.  i like the instant connection.  i like the rush of blood. 

i kinda hate the word BLOG too.  i definitely hate the word BLOGGER.  i do not title myself as such.  i tend not to think of this space in those terms.  like you, i see it as a notebook.  or better yet, as the white cube.  i see it as a gallery space that is entirely open to hosting any performance, any image i want to display.  in some ways, this is definitely where the real work is done.  or, at least, begins.  some of the best writing i've ever done is nestled here, in electric light, lost in the backward reaching scroll of the blog format.  i don't know if i will ever go back and fish them out from the messy wad of text i've coughed up here.  maybe one day i'll be strong enough for that.  maybe one day i'll be Writer enough for that.  i'm so impressed with you for being able to do it and i can't wait to read Heroines.

but for all my worry and ambivalence, i'm delighted by this little playground of mine.  these games of identity.  the shifting nature of the Self reinforced by the shifting nature of language.  words make the world.  we build our own images.  we erect our own mirrors, our own temples, our own sloppy signs.  not everything is accurate and maybe it doesn't need to be? 

for a long time i was obsessed by the idea of accuracy.  i wanted to be as accurate as possible.  needed to be. otherwise, i felt like a liar.  then one day, i noticed the difference between accuracy and honesty and i chose to move in the direction of honesty instead.  sometimes fogginess, sloppiness, sketchiness is the most honest expression there is.  the diary.  there's something about it that is so barbed, so dangerous.  the potential for danger, the potential for making a mess, the probability that a mess will be made is so attractive...  the taboo of keeping secrets, the danger inherent to teaching females how to read and write.  who knows what the bitch might say?  i don't want to be calm.  i don't want to be measured.  at least not when it comes to writing and not when it comes to art and definitely not when it comes to my own life.  sometimes i think my diary is the best work i have ever done.  it is where everything begins.  all my work starts there, on the cool blue lines of my private notebook.  it is my life's work.  daily, i reach for my pen and, daily, i tell the truth.  it isn't an easy thing to do.  to tell the truth, i mean.  especially about myself.  there are times when the mirror i create in the pages of my diary is quite brutal.  i have felt such massive shame.  but it is a necessary and good thing. i could only watch myself write the same words over and over for so long before i had to act, before i had to cry out against the life i had allowed to spring up all around me, before i had to cut it down.  i cut it down with my pen.  i cut it down with your books by my bedside.

anais nin's diary changed my life.  it's still changing my life.  we've talked about her so many times-  her undeniable courage and dedication.  i think of her when i get afraid.  i think of her when i don't feel equal to the challenges in front of me.  i think of her laying in bed with her diary, the same way i lay with mine, scribbling a world in to existence.  a world she needed, a world she preferred.  i think you're right that she would've kept a blog.

it is brave work you do.  your example has helped me become capable of my own bravery.  and not just bravery on the page either.  if it has been your Work this year, i am thankful to have had access to it.   the world you are building encourages my faith.  i read your words and gather strength.

all my love,
angela

writing and life and my writing-life

funny... now that i'm not tucked away in the countryside and spend most days at work in san francisco, i am a bit more aware of this space, this blog. i log in to my account and stare at the white rectangle where i am supposed to type, the space i've laid down so many words before, so much yearning and confusion, so many attempts at self-knowledge, and feel such a heavy ambivalence. key-stroke after key-stroke, in the hope of unearthing even the smallest clue as to what direction i should be moving in, some sort of clarity, some sort of assurance, and now this... this streak of days where i just stare stare stare at the white or, worse, fill it up with text and then log out without posting it when i like having the document of my struggle. i like that that's pretty much what this blog is all about now. it's just weird, i guess... by moving back to a more populated place where i run in to friends and acquaintances, both personal and professional, on a regular basis my blog actually comes up in conversation. it's sort of weird. like my alter-ego just had her "true" identity exposed. very much like looking under batman's mask (not that i'm performing any sort of heroism here), ripping away the warm black shield of relative anonymity. it's been interesting. i mentioned it to my friend freya (who reads my blog and we discuss it's contents sometimes and i feel really thankful for that and the massive presence of art/lit/meaning in our friendship) and told her that in some very deep , very serious ways i feel like the people who read my blog know me infinitely better than people who don't. there are people in my flesh-based reality who can't stand the blog. they do not read it. they've tried and it either makes them uncomfortable or sad or they simply don't want to see this side of me. i am reminded of another anais nin quote right now as i am typing this:

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

i haven't made up my mind how i feel about that statement yet but something about it caught my attention in a very forceful way. maybe i feel that i am also guilty of this? maybe i feel there are people around me who are guilty of this and it hurts me? and also, getting to know someone in a meaningful way takes time... and sometimes i wonder if/fear that this blog might do a disservice to that meandering road of friendship; the nebulous curiosity and intrigue that is so much fun and integral to a relationship of substance. but then another Nin quote comes to mind:

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

in so many ways, this blog lays a lot of my cards out on the table. i've chosen to live that way. i've chosen to be this honest. but maybe providing "knowledge" only increases my "mystery", as it were?

i'm being a big fraidy cat, i know. and i'm letting my fear of saying too much or saying the wrong thing hold too much sway lately. i've been writing like crazy in my journal. every day, every day, every day. and i still magically find that inner zone of devilish trance-like fluidity where poetry becomes possible and i am able to bang out a few sentences, sometimes a few paragraphs, and write with the full comfort of no one standing over my shoulder.

i read this late last night (thanks for the link, rebecca!) and it calmed me so much. i read it and i thought: just work. fuck it.

if i end up embarrassing myself here it definitely won't be because i expressed myself badly. or suppose did? so what? i'd rather risk saying too much than never enough. "never enough" is not where art lives, not where meaning lives, not where passion lives and those 3 things are the 3 most important things in my current world-view. i'd rather be here and give you this crazy shit to read. you honor me by spending time with all these words. feel free to mention this blog when you run in to me if you feel like it. this world and the other are not separate. i'd like to see them gel.

what is this place and who am i when i'm here?

shall i tip-toe back in to this room?

this quiet confessional, all text and light? beaming beaming.

throwing words. tears. longing. sorrow. my sad vomit. so sad i vomit. has that ever happened to you? have you been so sad that your body rebels against you?

my mother's death has sped life up in certain ways. slowed it down in others. the world is an entirely different place now.

i was driving in the dark winding roads back home from work one night and suddenly i said to my self, out loud, "her death is going to impact my life in ways i can't even begin to imagine and it is going to go on like that for years." this is a fact. this is one of the few truths i know and i'm not sad about it. i don't ever want this to stop hurting. i want it to hurt forever. i'll find a way to let it polish me.

there is too much to catalogue. all that has happened. all that is still happening. all that will continue to happen...

for months, i've been recoiling from using this space in certain ways. i needed it to become more artistic, more invested in blogging as a particular form of writing like fiction or poetry. roz thinks it could be Performance. i like that idea. but it remains that i have no clue what i need this space to be anymore. i have no clue about of a lot of things these days.

i'm taking german and pottery at my local community college. i spend a lot of time listening to Rammstein and Bauhaus and Patti Smith, deciding on some level to go ahead and let the goth-girl in me flourish for awhile. let her have her say. my dear friend sent me a tube of bright red lipstick. i've only had the guts to wear it outside once. i think i need to go blonde. and every chance i get, i read Anais Nin's Diary. i'm on volume 2. i see myself in her pages. i know that world. i know those longings. i know those struggles. i can catch a glimpse of the girl behind my reflection... the one who is trying to wake up, trying to talk, trying to Become... if only the outside expectations would stop choking her out. if only i were strong enough to bar them from my life and heart.

but it's safe to say that, with each day that passes, i give less and less of a fuck what people think of me or who they would like me to be... the performance they want, the image they prefer. Lea, Freya, and i talked about feminism while we installed the new show. Lea said "some stories need to continue to be told and i take it as a personal duty to tell them". this made my heart jump and shiver. it made me feel thankful.

this is post 971. i will get to 1000 before i make any decisions about this space. i will let this space twist up on itself, writhe around on the floor, fight to become whatever it is that it needs to become. or else i will kill it. we'll see what we see. but there are no more rules. there are no more requirements about how often i post or what i post. i believe words can work magic. i will be patient, for 30 more posts anyway, and see what finds me.