Author: Julia

see, but all I can say is —

Advice to Aspiring Writers: Writer’s block — it happens.

More soon.

…yep, that’s what I’m in. Mostly because I’ve been so swamped, with the newspaper changing dates of publication (from Friday to Thursday), with elections, with running around and commuting and general busy-ness, I just haven’t had the time to post. It feels bad to miss it, so thanks for your messages and e-mail, and I will endeavor to provide.

Advice to Aspiring Writers: Life gets in the way of the writing sometimes. But that’s what it’s all about, baby.

I’ve found myself writing a lot in my head these days, with no way to get it onto paper (or electronically), and that is both satisfying and frustrating. Any fantasy is satisfying while it’s happening, but it’s vexing to know that while you’re having the fantasy — i.e., writing in my head — it isn’t the real thing. And the recreated effort later is never as pure as the first rush. I have written at least five long columns, a goodly 500 words or more, just driving, or waiting, or musing out in the world, and when I’ve finally had the time to write them, it becomes this stale drivel. Ugh. Not pleasant reading even for me.

That’s why it is a good idea to carry a notebook at all times. I’m still trying to figure out how to write and drive at the same time, on my 100-mile-round-trips daily. A laptop with voice-recognition software is my first choice, but anything will do. I guess I could even go for one of those stupid mini-recorders. But I hate listening to the sound of my own voice on tape — my apologies to those of you who have to hear it on a daily basis. But it would help me remember what I wanted to write about later.

Note to self: make more notes to self.

There’s more to talk about: children and religion, the great steeplechase, gibberish everywhere and the horror of one white hair. Later — when it isn’t so late.

…for intimacy.

Really.

Picture this: You’re walking up a dark, cold, cement stairwell, with graffiti on the walls. At the top of the stairs is a heavy door. You go inside, and there are strange, frightening people — young burly men, scary women. You pass into a room walled with mirrors, where you are to undo your pants (or remove your shirt or other article of clothing). You bare your back to the artist, who touches you gently at first, smoothing your skin with a warm salve before starting up the needle. The first touch startles you nearly out of your seat, but you settle into it, bearing each stroke with a grimace, or with a poker face, or with composure, or with a steely gaze — whatever gets you through.

At another table is a young couple, she holding his hand, he sitting with a stoic look, an occasional eye-roll or movement of his mouth to indicate the discomfort, as he is branded with stars across his back. They seem connected in a web of love and pain, a kiss, a finger. They will not leave the room unchanged.

And you — you feel each stroke, each movement, each tiny line, fine and sharp, as if being scratched with the sharp tine of a safety pin. Your legs shake, you sweat, there is nothing for it but to endure, your gaze nailed to the poster on the wall, tracing each letter with your eyes to keep your mind from the scritch at your back. And when at last he tells you it is over, you look and see that it isn’t quite finished, and that you need more, despite your fear and loathing of the pain. He applies himself again to the task, and you endure it a bit longer, until he is finished at last. He shuts off the needle. The pain stops almost immediately — but you are marked forever.

That is tattooing. And that is intimacy. Becoming close to another person is an exercise in pure terror. Opening yourself up — stripping yourself bare, as it were, and laying yourself open to derision and scorn, or searing love — is pure vulnerability. Feeling the needle of experience is real. Some people won’t do it once. Some try, fail, won’t do it ever again. We are locked up like a fist in the dark, unable to let go enough, pry our fingers open and let someone else take our hand. And what you miss is the ability to hold someone’s hand, have your own hand taken. It is simple and sweet — and impossible without opening the fist.

I’m not saying love is pain, or that intimacy inevitably leads there. But being truly close to another person inevitably leads to feeling real feelings, which is frightening, and it is hard to wallow in that space if you aren’t ready. Before this becomes pure psychobabble, let me finish:

I would rather feel the emotions and experiences that come my way wholeheartedly, embrace them fully, than (continue to) live half-way, or not at all. I was almost physically ill during the tattoo, my legs shaking and my body faint with nausea. It was all I could do to sit back down and ask for more — pure torture. But I think of where I am in my life, where I’ve been, the things I have assiduously not-felt, ignored, pretended didn’t bother me, pretended didn’t hurt, and I just don’t want to live like that anymore. If I have to hurl myself on the bloody spike of life and feel every inch of pain as it pierces through me, I will. It’s too precious to miss.

Advice to Aspiring Writers: Some lessons are worth repeating: Symbolism is everywhere.

…in Sonoma. Back after a long weekend, a long (birthday) week, a long month, even though February is the shortest one. I was road-trippin’ with my gal pals, women I’ve known since early high school. It’s all good — catching up, comparing our lives, aches and pains, loves, kids, jobs, gray hair. Fun, if frightening. I think I need a few days to digest it all. So instead, apropos of nothing, here are some other random thoughts, in no particular order, but bubbling around my brain at 1:30 in the morning.

***

The biggest thing: Falling for a new guy is a marvelous thing. The warm fuzzies, the firsts, the giddy stomach, laughing about everything all the time, daydreaming. It’s a lot nicer than cursing my ex. I think I’m in danger (biting knuckle).

***

Ex = (silent scream). New car. Fat paycheck. Whining about child support. Need I say more?

***

I got myself a tattoo and a belly piercing for my birthday — it’s the gift that keeps on giving. I’m not a gal who likes her belly button touched — in fact, it’s a mark of the Park clan that you’re a true scion if you don’t like to be touched there. What possessed me? I was already in the piercing parlor, so what the hell; I was a bit out of it from tattooing torture and figured it couldn’t hurt any more (it actually hurt worse than the tattoo); I was ready to shed some crap from the past and a minor phobia like the belly button thing seemed a good place to start.

The tattoo is of a quill pen and it’s on my lower back, where I will never have to look at it, and yet it’s always with me. When I stood up after the process, the young guy and his girlfriend on the next table said, “Whoa, that’s bad-ass.” When I got home, my eldest daughter said, “That’s sick.” (sick = good, fyi) My kids told me I’m cool. I think it’s funny and weird and am glad I can’t see it, else I might be horrified at the whole idea. We’ll revisit this topic when my skin has healed and I’ve had a stern talking to by my mother.

Bad-ass. Hmm.

***

Bills, health, kids, deadlines, paperwork, taxes, divorce, minutes from a meeting to type; problems with the well, with the phone line, with the escrow; why can’t I sleep; still awake; cat fight outside my window, peeper frogs on the creek, some endless beeping from the electric dog-fence, and a low thrumming in my ears that could be tinnitus, passing traffic, hearing damage from too many rock concerts many moons ago, or my imagination; plants needs watering, floors need mopping, car payment due, gotta buy nail polish to match my dress for Saturday night, can’t get this guy off my mind, and what am I doing here? How did I get to this point in my life? When am I going to grow up? Why am I always the fuck-up? Why can’t I get the approval of certain people, and, conversely, why do I need it?

Etc. etc. etc.

***

Can’t sleep. Still can’t sleep. The merry-go-round in my head won’t shut off. Write me some letters, friends, and tell me how to sleep.

absent…but I’ve been swamped with work, extra projects (a newsletter, a fund-raising gala, sick kids), etc. and a new beau besides, and now going away for the weekend. I will be back Sunday night with another Muse. Cheers, mates.