I've kept many diaries; some of them were gorgeously wrapped things, all of them were purchased or procured in a near-fevered fashion, for I was certain that having the right tool would naturally lead to getting the right words down. The impulse was there, always. But it was clouded, because any words I wrote down were always with some unknown reader in mind, some fantasy other who marveled at my wit, or creativity, or candor. None of these books were filled, to my memory. Quarter-filled notebooks full of overmediated yuck. I remember a self who used to love to write, but I can't actually seem to access that self - so I wonder if that was a bit of a fiction, too. Or perhaps the retelling has muddied things.
I'm going to try to write to write, not write to be read. I mean, the ultimate goal is to be read, of course, but I think I need to practice the messaging-as-such. The writerly is one of the ways that I need to connect, so feeling so very disconnected from the basic practice, from the muscle itself, must be a sign, indeed.
I have figured out that - huh - I'm angry a lot of the time. More accurately, it's just on-the-verge-of it, but this is part of my state, my general being, and I don't really get it. This isn't a comment on the particulars of my life (I'm surrounded by really hilarious awesomeness and lots of natural gorgeousness - truly lucky & I know it), but rather something in the way that I approach feeling in general, or reacting, or remembering. I think part of the rather complete denial has to do with an unwillingness to feel out of control - because a big emotion must surely lend itself to that, yes? - but I don't really understand how I got to being so needy of being in control, so much so that it amounts to me sort of cutting off large-ish chunks of my own reactions, experience, likely memories, too. I wonder what I've buried, what's been cordoned off.