saturday afternoon
So I was thinking today about things that people are born to do. Stevie Wonder and Alisha Keys. They were born to play the piano, they were born to sing. Or Jimmi Hendrix and John Mayer, they were born to play the guitar and touch millions with their lyrics.
I've always thought writing was my thing. Not because I was particularly good at it but because it just is. It makes sense to me. Is it something I'm amazing at? Do my words really touch peoples hearts? Was this God's gift to me? I don't know.
I read my words now and they don't seem to bring me as much joy as they used to. They don't flow out of me with alarming clarity as they once did. What if I'm really not meant to do this? What if this wasn't my calling? And that makes me question, then what is?
I want to be a writer. I want to touch someones heart with my words. I want to write the kind of novel that has absolutely no structure, because my mind certainly doesn't. I want Wuthering Heights and The Bell Jar and The Incredible Lightness of Being and Hanging in the Tournefotia to be my muses, to be my rivals. Not in genius but in emotion. I can be so strong and so week at the same time. I can be so sure of myself, and question my purpose all within the same second.
I have always been this way. Somehow I don't think this is going to ever change. No matter my circumstances and surroundings. And for some reason I just can't embrace it. I can't embrace this absolute chaos within myself that has always been with in myself. And If I cannot change it how do I let it define who I am, but in a beautifull way?
I have always, always worried how others perceive me. Nothings changed. Even as I write these words I worry who will read them and who will make what of them instead of just letting it be! Will I ever be okay with that? Will I eventually give up my questioning/out reaching nature and just settle for moments of enlightenment? Will the occasional click in my brain be enough to sustane me for the rest of my life?
I don't think so. Actually I know so. This is me. I cannot change it. I will not change it. All I can hope is the ones who love me can understand this is who I am. I will forever come back to the point of my fathers death. It will forever be the turning point in my life. And I will always write about it. I will always cram together peices of emotion and prose and nonsense and call it poetry. I will always leave notes saying "I love you" to my husband and my daughter because for me it brings a bit of comfort. I will always strive to give a thousand percent to be atleast a good wife and a good mother because questioning my ability to perform those two tasks with out atleast my whole heart would break me in a way I cannot begin to imagine. I will always question life and my purpose in it and embelish on things that really have nothing to do with the here and now.
This is rambling. I can't seem to quit it. So I leave you with an old blurb. I wrote once about the perfect second. It was shortly after Chip and I moved in together.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
the perfect second...
If ever I wake having fallen asleep in front of the t.v. everything for a few moments seems to hover. Time, the characters in the t.v. screen. I shake my head and slowly lift my 23 three year old bones(which by the way more often than not,feel atleast 4 times that) out of the deep chair.
I drag my feet back to the bedroom and climb in beside Aiva. I smooth her hair back away from her face and kiss her soft cheek. She sighs deeply. And I smile.
I lay my head down and suddenly all the cobwebs of sleep instantly vanish. And I know. It's going to be another one of those nights.
Filled with counting the ceiling tiles, tracing shadows shapes in the corner,reciting poems and random movie quotes in my head.
So I lie there,watching the minutes slowly change in the flourescent red alarm clock on the table. Beside my bed. And I see how close I can get to counting the perfect second.
Mississippi one...
Mississippi two...
Mississippi three...click,click,click
and I think about my last day in New York. My last night in my last bed in New York. Waking up and opening my eyes to sunlight and clouds and tree tops. (My room was an attic that spanned the entire length of that old Calonial House that had at some point through time been stransformed into and upstairs and down stairs apartment.) My mom and I moved into it a few years after my dad passed away. As my eldest sister drifted up North to Massachusettes. As my second eldest sister drifted down to Florida. And my brother went away to College a few hours north of us.
I think about walking down the stairs and loading my last few personal items into my moms pretty forest green two door car. My purse,a brush,a book and of course the ever present lipgloss.
I think about driving away. Watching my best friend and my god daughter wave at me from the side mirror. How I don't look back but smile as we turn a few corners and pass more than a few memories on our way to Route 17.
I think about my first night in this huge city. This huge city that has shrunk down and conformed to my shape. And feels more like home than home does anymore. I think about the miles passing. Huge green Spruce becoming flat open fields. Corn,tobacco and more than a few things I couldn't even name on close inspection.
I think about finding a job. About moving to the Highlands with my sister Natalie. Spending our days off taking long walks,making jewelry. Or just lying on our apartment floor on our backs,just knowing that if we stayed still enough or concentrated hard enough that we'd be able to guess the number between 1 and 100 that the other was thinking about.
And I think about my heart being so empty. And I think about my heart feeling broken. And I think of my heart mending again. Frightening and beautiful.
I think about upset stomachs and hours of crying. Feeling so absolutely alone. I think about seeing her for the first time. Counting her tiny fingers and toes, and how just the other day I picked on my mom for doing the same to me. I think about dirty diapers and clean diapers and "Why are these so expensive "??diapers. I think about paid bills and due bills and the Bufallo Bills. About time outs and time off. About what do I have to do tomorrow and wait...what did I do today?
I look over. To the red flourescent lights as the third number clicks to a 6.
It now reads 4:46.
And I look over at my Aiva. And I brush her hair back from her face and I kiss her soft little cheek. And I do this only to make sure she doesn't have a fever. But really mostly just to assure myself that some things are real
And I relax. I look up and begining counting the tiles. Counting slowly. Seeing how close I can get to the perfect second.
