She won't share his face. And I can't steal myself.
There are some things we just don't say outloud.
Like, how badly I want to publish my novel. The Novel. The Words. Of all things real and tangible, of all things worth a war, this is mine. Years in the making. It's not just finished: it's ripe.
I woke up at 4 am. She was gone; I didn't hear her leave. I pulled on my Rangers sweatshirt and picked up the empty wine bottle from the floor. I walked barefoot up the hall to the kitchen. I stood over the sink in the stillness and I watched the water run, thinking about what she said:
Fuck anybody famous lately?
Sometimes you're the arrow. Sometimes, you're the target. Tonight there was a bullseye on my back. I'd be a fool to think she didn't know exactly what she was doing last night. Hey, I have been the arrow once or twice myself.
I lean back against the sink and contemplate the time. I could make coffee. I could just open another bottle of wine. That's when I see it. My manuscript is off the shelf, and opened wide on the dining room table.
She left one of her earrings, and a note. The note said, "Women hate to find other women's earrings in their lover's shit."
I smile. It's all OK.
February 28, 2006
February 25, 2006
Connected. Linked. Out Here.
She wanted to do the entire exchange online, which is fine with me. I've had those transactions before. Paypal & email. Clean & easy.
She was very satisfied with the writing. She asked if I would accept a tip. Of course I accept tips. And I tip every body. My waiter , my garbage man, the guy that snowplows my driveway, the guy that cuts my lawn, my hairdresser, my dog's groomer, the kid that washes my car, my maid, the pizza delivery guy ... I am capitalism.
Somehow in her mind, the professional part of our relationship was closed at that point. She viewed the tip in a more personal way. I can get behind that. The email that accompanied the tip was 2 paragraphs, about the holidays. Her sister was stopping by to start on the sauce, her mother picked up eggnog and she would bring that later. This friend stopping over, that friend already in the kitchen chopping walnuts. Sharing. Talking. Making. Stopping over, extended home, open doors and family.
I closed my eyes, and made the picture.
I had hoped mine would be bigger. I want it to be bigger, closer. Bloodlines and habits don't mean anything.
I didn't have that. Sisters, family, closeness. Who's going where, who's cooking what. I don't have that. I would like to have had that. Selectiveness, habitation, the way things worked. The ones that leave. The ones that were sent away. The people I don't meet.
It's so hard to get close, to forge new real relationships. To make closeness. I'm on the outside. I have always been out here, and I think I will always be out here, no matter what. Where the universe meets. I'm in here. I'm out there.
And maybe that is why I write here.
I really like getting the comments.
Connected. In here, and out there. It matters.
Thank you.
She was very satisfied with the writing. She asked if I would accept a tip. Of course I accept tips. And I tip every body. My waiter , my garbage man, the guy that snowplows my driveway, the guy that cuts my lawn, my hairdresser, my dog's groomer, the kid that washes my car, my maid, the pizza delivery guy ... I am capitalism.
Somehow in her mind, the professional part of our relationship was closed at that point. She viewed the tip in a more personal way. I can get behind that. The email that accompanied the tip was 2 paragraphs, about the holidays. Her sister was stopping by to start on the sauce, her mother picked up eggnog and she would bring that later. This friend stopping over, that friend already in the kitchen chopping walnuts. Sharing. Talking. Making. Stopping over, extended home, open doors and family.
I closed my eyes, and made the picture.
I had hoped mine would be bigger. I want it to be bigger, closer. Bloodlines and habits don't mean anything.
I didn't have that. Sisters, family, closeness. Who's going where, who's cooking what. I don't have that. I would like to have had that. Selectiveness, habitation, the way things worked. The ones that leave. The ones that were sent away. The people I don't meet.
It's so hard to get close, to forge new real relationships. To make closeness. I'm on the outside. I have always been out here, and I think I will always be out here, no matter what. Where the universe meets. I'm in here. I'm out there.
And maybe that is why I write here.
I really like getting the comments.
Connected. In here, and out there. It matters.
Thank you.
February 22, 2006
The Waiting
Untouched.
Like the pile of stories I would write as a kid, and give to my mother to read.
The weekend before my father left us, we drove out to Flatbush as a family, for the last time, to visit my cousins. As usual he was angry and screaming at us.
And then he was gone.
And then my mother told me it was my fault.
And we all changed.
Trust is a difficult thing for people who've waited for something that never arrived.
Unused.
Like that drop dead gorgeous black dress from Saks still hanging in my closet with the tags still on. Waiting for someplace to go.
Like the pile of stories I would write as a kid, and give to my mother to read.
The weekend before my father left us, we drove out to Flatbush as a family, for the last time, to visit my cousins. As usual he was angry and screaming at us.
And then he was gone.
And then my mother told me it was my fault.
And we all changed.
Trust is a difficult thing for people who've waited for something that never arrived.
Unused.
Like that drop dead gorgeous black dress from Saks still hanging in my closet with the tags still on. Waiting for someplace to go.
February 20, 2006
Panning for Gold
And then it becomes darker.
Warranted. It was warranted. Bottom line is, self preservation wins.
Sometimes reaching out is not an option. I got as close as I could. I got to the line, and I took a long hard look over. The edge is not a place where I get uncomfortable. But I can't jump. I can't take that step.
I walk through my house, trying not to think about it. I look around, trying to distract myself with other things. I think about the arrogant asshole that I hired to do my kitchen floor and how bad it looks. I think about the laundry I haven't done. I think about cleaning... something. But I keep coming back to the edge. I keep returning, and staring, and refusing.
I haven't had a lot of good friends. I've been choosy about that. I've had some, at different times. Of earth there is no finer gift.
Wading through accomplices and acquaintances is like panning for gold.
I see this.
But self preservation wins.
There's only one pure thing. Only one.
Everything else is bastardized in one way or another. Manipulated. Contrived. Altered. Obligated.
Darker.
It's never too late for coffee.
It's never too early for a Bloody Mary.
Warranted. It was warranted. Bottom line is, self preservation wins.
Sometimes reaching out is not an option. I got as close as I could. I got to the line, and I took a long hard look over. The edge is not a place where I get uncomfortable. But I can't jump. I can't take that step.
I walk through my house, trying not to think about it. I look around, trying to distract myself with other things. I think about the arrogant asshole that I hired to do my kitchen floor and how bad it looks. I think about the laundry I haven't done. I think about cleaning... something. But I keep coming back to the edge. I keep returning, and staring, and refusing.
I haven't had a lot of good friends. I've been choosy about that. I've had some, at different times. Of earth there is no finer gift.
Wading through accomplices and acquaintances is like panning for gold.
I see this.
But self preservation wins.
There's only one pure thing. Only one.
Everything else is bastardized in one way or another. Manipulated. Contrived. Altered. Obligated.
Darker.
It's never too late for coffee.
It's never too early for a Bloody Mary.
February 16, 2006
Unsaid
My favorite colors are gold and cream.
When I first saw her she was wearing a long cotton skirt, cream with blue and gold flowers. Long sweater, cowboy boots. She looked Ivory Soap and J Crew and all natural 100%. She was leaning against the bar drinking Michelob.
We would spend hours in Pier 1, smelling candles and picking out bamboo arrangements. Her boyfriend was an actor. Her mother was a nurse. My mother was a drunk. My favorite colors are gold and cream.
When she made reservations, she would always use the name Bubbles Laverne. She told me that her boyfriend would sing her lullabies when he thought she was alseep, and that was why she loved him.
Her favorite colors were green and black.
She wrote. Good stuff, good work. Nothing like my work. Much more main stream. Much more accessible. She had something published in Reader's Digest once. She was very proud of that. I took her out to celebrate. She was a good writer, and my favorite colors are gold and cream.
I hadn't seen her in years, but we exchanged phone calls and emails once in a while. And then I didn't get a Christmas card. A few weeks later, purely by an accident that's not relevant, I learned that she killed herself.
I drove to Pier 1. And I sat on the floor in the candle section. I smelled the jade and the Asian spice.
This is not my garden. I don't live here.
I didn't go to the funeral.
She said something. Maybe one of saddest things a writer can say:
She didn't leave a note.
When I first saw her she was wearing a long cotton skirt, cream with blue and gold flowers. Long sweater, cowboy boots. She looked Ivory Soap and J Crew and all natural 100%. She was leaning against the bar drinking Michelob.
We would spend hours in Pier 1, smelling candles and picking out bamboo arrangements. Her boyfriend was an actor. Her mother was a nurse. My mother was a drunk. My favorite colors are gold and cream.
When she made reservations, she would always use the name Bubbles Laverne. She told me that her boyfriend would sing her lullabies when he thought she was alseep, and that was why she loved him.
Her favorite colors were green and black.
She wrote. Good stuff, good work. Nothing like my work. Much more main stream. Much more accessible. She had something published in Reader's Digest once. She was very proud of that. I took her out to celebrate. She was a good writer, and my favorite colors are gold and cream.
I hadn't seen her in years, but we exchanged phone calls and emails once in a while. And then I didn't get a Christmas card. A few weeks later, purely by an accident that's not relevant, I learned that she killed herself.
I drove to Pier 1. And I sat on the floor in the candle section. I smelled the jade and the Asian spice.
This is not my garden. I don't live here.
I didn't go to the funeral.
She said something. Maybe one of saddest things a writer can say:
She didn't leave a note.
February 13, 2006
Thank you, Jason.
It was a first date.
When I answered the door, he handed me a giant rubber centipede. It had movable legs, and long eye lashes. It made me smile. I brought it on the date. We went to the drive in and saw "The Company of Wolves." By the time the second movie was on, we had shut the speaker off so we could talk. I played with the centipede and listened intently as he told me about Tarot Cards, and Los Angeles, and his neighbors. We talked about so many things. We listened to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang by Specimen on a mix tape. He was unpretentious and interesting. He asked me all about myself, and he paid attention when I answered.
He made me smile.
When he drove me home, he said I would have many first dates. I would travel many places, and meet all kinds of guys. And grinning he said, "But no matter what, I will always be the guy that brought you a rubber bug."
There were a few more dates, and a few months of friendship before life moved on, and I eventually left that coast. We were young, we had fun. It's a good memory.
And he was right. There have been many first dates. And to this day, he was the only one that ever gave me a rubber bug.
Sometimes you don't have to do anything grand to make your mark. Sometimes, all you have to do is make somebody smile, to be remembered forever in kind.
When I answered the door, he handed me a giant rubber centipede. It had movable legs, and long eye lashes. It made me smile. I brought it on the date. We went to the drive in and saw "The Company of Wolves." By the time the second movie was on, we had shut the speaker off so we could talk. I played with the centipede and listened intently as he told me about Tarot Cards, and Los Angeles, and his neighbors. We talked about so many things. We listened to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang by Specimen on a mix tape. He was unpretentious and interesting. He asked me all about myself, and he paid attention when I answered.
He made me smile.
When he drove me home, he said I would have many first dates. I would travel many places, and meet all kinds of guys. And grinning he said, "But no matter what, I will always be the guy that brought you a rubber bug."
There were a few more dates, and a few months of friendship before life moved on, and I eventually left that coast. We were young, we had fun. It's a good memory.
And he was right. There have been many first dates. And to this day, he was the only one that ever gave me a rubber bug.
Sometimes you don't have to do anything grand to make your mark. Sometimes, all you have to do is make somebody smile, to be remembered forever in kind.
The Places I Know
Don't let em take away the empties. Leave the empties. I want to see them.
I go to them now, the wells. Deep in my head. I dont let them heal, so i can draw on them from time to time, to use in something I am writing.
Tucked away. Unsafe. In wells, in places I know.
And I admit I dig new wells. I seek fuel. I do things, for emotional research. Some of those things are harmless. Some of them aren't.
Calculated risks, and the price you pay. What you're willing to do. What you're willing to take. What you're willing to lose.
Linger.
Part of the art is the displacement. Only so much can be surrendered. Only so much can be let go. Like dragging an anchor.
"Can't move on
But I can't go home
And I'm not so strong
But I make my way
To the place I know
Inside my heart
Where I used to go
To get brave."
-Esthero
I go to them now, the wells. Deep in my head. I dont let them heal, so i can draw on them from time to time, to use in something I am writing.
Tucked away. Unsafe. In wells, in places I know.
And I admit I dig new wells. I seek fuel. I do things, for emotional research. Some of those things are harmless. Some of them aren't.
Calculated risks, and the price you pay. What you're willing to do. What you're willing to take. What you're willing to lose.
Linger.
Part of the art is the displacement. Only so much can be surrendered. Only so much can be let go. Like dragging an anchor.
"Can't move on
But I can't go home
And I'm not so strong
But I make my way
To the place I know
Inside my heart
Where I used to go
To get brave."
-Esthero
February 12, 2006
Once Upon a Time
And then it is cold.
It's only safe to write about things well passed. Things technically over. Things removed, by enough space and time that all rabies have disintergrated. And simmered.
I hadn't spoken to him in a couple years. His call would be referred to as out of the blue by someone who would use that expression. I like that he does not feel obligated to exchange pleasantries. He is polite but cuts right to the chase- which, is an expression that I would use.
"I need a paper written."
"No problem."
He rattles off some factoids relevant. He's done all the research. He's sketched an outline he thinks will work. This is for his doctorate. He stresses how important it is. He stresses.
He says when he will meet me, to give me everything including a downpayment. In my world, this is the equivalent of an advance. I let him know for that many pages, and that kind of grade, this might take me 4 or 5 months. He says that will work.
For the record, he is intelligent. He is capable of writing his own paper. But he is busy, he's done the real work, he's put all the information together. Why not hire a professional to do this right? In theory, we could all do our own electric work. Our own oil changes, our own plumbing. But instead we pick and choose how we spend our time, we do what's most important for us and our needs, and we often hire professionals to take care of the rest. Nothing is lost. Nothing is sacrificed. These are decisions.
Not a problem.
This is how it all started, 25 years ago. Selling book reports, term papers. Short stories, poems, iambic pentameter... whatever English assignments we had in High School. One after the other.
There were a lot of emotions to deal with. One English teacher who lived to point out my flaws, showed me "another student's" paper to make sure I knew it was the best one he had received. Much better than the one I had turned in. He had several more "other student's" papers in his hand, which he cheerily said were all really good, much better than mine. At least 8 papers I had written, were better than mine, and this person took great pleasure in trying to hurt me with that. That was a very odd emotion to process for the first time at 16. And then it is cold.
Speech contests, essay contests. The essay portion of college applications. The class president's speech at graduation.
I was someone who didn't fit in. For the most part, other students were fair to me. After all, they were all ace-ing English, and being accepted to good universities.
There was some kind of slight and temporary intimacy, as I would take on their styles. Reading their work, talking to them. Spending a few moments. Learning them. It was as close to intimate as I was capable of at the time. And it kept me writing, all the time. Honing my craft. And it just never stopped. The same students, and their friends, and their friends' friends. Papers and assignments through college. Letters. Essays. News articles. Dissertations. Applications. Senior thesis. And it kept going. Into their jobs, into their lives. The associates they had, and their businesses. Canned letters. Marketing solicitations. A marriage proposal. And the editor. Word of mouth. Moving. And moving.
The road came to a fork, and the life I did not choose keeps going and going.
He sounds very relieved that he can give this to me. "You know, Veronica, you can write. Every body knows you can write. But it's another talent all together that you can write in the style of anyone else."
"Thanks." I'm not really here, I think. I'm not really here.
"You're like a literary cover band. You can play anything."
I like that. Maybe I'm here a little.
"You've been writing things for me for 20 years. Huge things, things that are really significant in my life. Sometimes I think no one will ever know me like you do."
And then it is cold.
I hang up the phone. I'm laying on the living room floor on my back. I can't stop picking at the hole worn into the knee of my oldest levi's. I see a cheese doodle underneath the coffee table, but only a few seconds before one of the dogs sees it as well. I'm thirsty.
I wonder what it's like to feel like somebody really knows you.
And then, it is cold.
It's only safe to write about things well passed. Things technically over. Things removed, by enough space and time that all rabies have disintergrated. And simmered.
I hadn't spoken to him in a couple years. His call would be referred to as out of the blue by someone who would use that expression. I like that he does not feel obligated to exchange pleasantries. He is polite but cuts right to the chase- which, is an expression that I would use.
"I need a paper written."
"No problem."
He rattles off some factoids relevant. He's done all the research. He's sketched an outline he thinks will work. This is for his doctorate. He stresses how important it is. He stresses.
He says when he will meet me, to give me everything including a downpayment. In my world, this is the equivalent of an advance. I let him know for that many pages, and that kind of grade, this might take me 4 or 5 months. He says that will work.
For the record, he is intelligent. He is capable of writing his own paper. But he is busy, he's done the real work, he's put all the information together. Why not hire a professional to do this right? In theory, we could all do our own electric work. Our own oil changes, our own plumbing. But instead we pick and choose how we spend our time, we do what's most important for us and our needs, and we often hire professionals to take care of the rest. Nothing is lost. Nothing is sacrificed. These are decisions.
Not a problem.
This is how it all started, 25 years ago. Selling book reports, term papers. Short stories, poems, iambic pentameter... whatever English assignments we had in High School. One after the other.
There were a lot of emotions to deal with. One English teacher who lived to point out my flaws, showed me "another student's" paper to make sure I knew it was the best one he had received. Much better than the one I had turned in. He had several more "other student's" papers in his hand, which he cheerily said were all really good, much better than mine. At least 8 papers I had written, were better than mine, and this person took great pleasure in trying to hurt me with that. That was a very odd emotion to process for the first time at 16. And then it is cold.
Speech contests, essay contests. The essay portion of college applications. The class president's speech at graduation.
I was someone who didn't fit in. For the most part, other students were fair to me. After all, they were all ace-ing English, and being accepted to good universities.
There was some kind of slight and temporary intimacy, as I would take on their styles. Reading their work, talking to them. Spending a few moments. Learning them. It was as close to intimate as I was capable of at the time. And it kept me writing, all the time. Honing my craft. And it just never stopped. The same students, and their friends, and their friends' friends. Papers and assignments through college. Letters. Essays. News articles. Dissertations. Applications. Senior thesis. And it kept going. Into their jobs, into their lives. The associates they had, and their businesses. Canned letters. Marketing solicitations. A marriage proposal. And the editor. Word of mouth. Moving. And moving.
The road came to a fork, and the life I did not choose keeps going and going.
He sounds very relieved that he can give this to me. "You know, Veronica, you can write. Every body knows you can write. But it's another talent all together that you can write in the style of anyone else."
"Thanks." I'm not really here, I think. I'm not really here.
"You're like a literary cover band. You can play anything."
I like that. Maybe I'm here a little.
"You've been writing things for me for 20 years. Huge things, things that are really significant in my life. Sometimes I think no one will ever know me like you do."
And then it is cold.
I hang up the phone. I'm laying on the living room floor on my back. I can't stop picking at the hole worn into the knee of my oldest levi's. I see a cheese doodle underneath the coffee table, but only a few seconds before one of the dogs sees it as well. I'm thirsty.
I wonder what it's like to feel like somebody really knows you.
And then, it is cold.
February 05, 2006
Living Room
I am in the rumination.
The 5 of them are in the living room.
These people, in my house. Sitting on my furniture, listening to my Sirius radio, drinking my dirty martinis. I'm in the kitchen and they are all in the living room. I can hear them talking, and laughing. They are having a pleasant time. I pick up pieces of the conversation, as I impale awaiting olives on small wooden skewers. One is saying if she was ever going to be with a woman, it would be Natalie Portman. One is saying he loves this Gabriel & Dresden mix on Area 33, and I can hear another announcing he has got to get the fuck out of his house before his roommate drives him insane.
They are all in the living room. My living room. And I am in the kitchen. I tap my pocket to make sure I have a pen, and I decide I am as prepared as I can be. I'm not depressed, I'm just removed. Rumination. In the kitchen.
They're fine people. Really, they are. One of them even showed up tonight with a box of milk bones for my dogs; a gesture that meant more to me than even he realizes. I want to be in the living room. I invited them over.
Now I can hear them saying, where'd she go, where is Veronica.
I put the fresh olive garnishes and cold martini shaker on a little tray, and I head back in. I head up that long hallway. And finally, I am in the living room.
They smile. They hold glasses up for refills. One takes the toothpicks from me, and re-olives everyone's drinks. It's friendly, and casual. One guy has his feet up on my couch as he pets one of the dogs, which makes me feel good because he obviously feels relaxed. More relaxed than I feel. I'm actually jealous.
I sit down on a big pillow on the floor. I listen to the changes, to the wind outside, and the music. I listen to cocktail conversation and the sounds of sips and chews. I listen to voices of good people, in my living room.
Nothing in this room is going to change the world, or my life. Nothing that is being discussed is incredibly deep or infinitely wise. But it's nice. It's pleasant, and comfortable, and warm. Soon I'm smiling.
I claw through the rumination to just be here, to just touch down for a little while. In my own living room.
The 5 of them are in the living room.
These people, in my house. Sitting on my furniture, listening to my Sirius radio, drinking my dirty martinis. I'm in the kitchen and they are all in the living room. I can hear them talking, and laughing. They are having a pleasant time. I pick up pieces of the conversation, as I impale awaiting olives on small wooden skewers. One is saying if she was ever going to be with a woman, it would be Natalie Portman. One is saying he loves this Gabriel & Dresden mix on Area 33, and I can hear another announcing he has got to get the fuck out of his house before his roommate drives him insane.
They are all in the living room. My living room. And I am in the kitchen. I tap my pocket to make sure I have a pen, and I decide I am as prepared as I can be. I'm not depressed, I'm just removed. Rumination. In the kitchen.
They're fine people. Really, they are. One of them even showed up tonight with a box of milk bones for my dogs; a gesture that meant more to me than even he realizes. I want to be in the living room. I invited them over.
Now I can hear them saying, where'd she go, where is Veronica.
I put the fresh olive garnishes and cold martini shaker on a little tray, and I head back in. I head up that long hallway. And finally, I am in the living room.
They smile. They hold glasses up for refills. One takes the toothpicks from me, and re-olives everyone's drinks. It's friendly, and casual. One guy has his feet up on my couch as he pets one of the dogs, which makes me feel good because he obviously feels relaxed. More relaxed than I feel. I'm actually jealous.
I sit down on a big pillow on the floor. I listen to the changes, to the wind outside, and the music. I listen to cocktail conversation and the sounds of sips and chews. I listen to voices of good people, in my living room.
Nothing in this room is going to change the world, or my life. Nothing that is being discussed is incredibly deep or infinitely wise. But it's nice. It's pleasant, and comfortable, and warm. Soon I'm smiling.
I claw through the rumination to just be here, to just touch down for a little while. In my own living room.
February 04, 2006
Emotional Research
Research.
Gather what you need.
The job really called for an emotion I knew. I have had that emotion, and I know summoning that demon is the way to go, to conjure The Words. To really do this assignment right.
So I backtrack, I go back to that well, deep in the earth of me. Deeply dug, tightly sealed. I have owned this emotion. I've bottled and kept it, never fully working it through. I break the seal.
Chocolate covered raisins. Seashells from Mexico. Old photos and cards. His old leather jacket. I buy a bottle of his aftershave, and I sleep with it, wearing nothing else. I watch his favorite movie. I cook and eat linguini with clam sauce, I drink gin and tonic. Many gin and tonics.
I call him.
"Jesus, Veronica. It's two in the fucking morning. What are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" I sob.
He sighs. I remember that sigh.
And he whispers, "What are you writing?"
I walk the park at night. I sink. All over again. I eat, breath and sleep him. I remember. I re-live it. I re-feel it.
Until I am immersed.
And then, I separate it. I separate the feeling from the event where it Became. The event is not coming on this trip.
Only a few days later and I am living this perfect raw emotion. Overwhelming. Hard. Painful. Terrifying. I let it take me, focused forward, not backward. And then I use it to create The Words. The new work.
It is not the emotion that is toxic, it's the association.
Rescued.
Lent.
"Veronica, this is exactly what I wanted. God, it sounds so personal. I'd almost swear this happened to you, instead of the character. How do you do this?"
Emotional research.
He's handing me my pay. And I am taking it. I'm having one of those whore moments, so I pick up the check for our dinner, seeking redemption.
He's trying to see how much I'm tipping. Hey, I'm feeling uneven, and I read Waiterrant ... I leave a fifty on a $100 dinner bill. The service was excellent. But, that has nothing to do with it sometimes.
He raises his eyebrow when he sees, but shrugs. "Where have you been, anyway? I've been trying to reach you for weeks."
Sometimes it's hard to get the emotion back into the well.
"Pale runs the ghost swollen on the shore every night in every pore. The scales that do slither, deliver me from."
-The Mars Volta
Gather what you need.
The job really called for an emotion I knew. I have had that emotion, and I know summoning that demon is the way to go, to conjure The Words. To really do this assignment right.
So I backtrack, I go back to that well, deep in the earth of me. Deeply dug, tightly sealed. I have owned this emotion. I've bottled and kept it, never fully working it through. I break the seal.
Chocolate covered raisins. Seashells from Mexico. Old photos and cards. His old leather jacket. I buy a bottle of his aftershave, and I sleep with it, wearing nothing else. I watch his favorite movie. I cook and eat linguini with clam sauce, I drink gin and tonic. Many gin and tonics.
I call him.
"Jesus, Veronica. It's two in the fucking morning. What are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" I sob.
He sighs. I remember that sigh.
And he whispers, "What are you writing?"
I walk the park at night. I sink. All over again. I eat, breath and sleep him. I remember. I re-live it. I re-feel it.
Until I am immersed.
And then, I separate it. I separate the feeling from the event where it Became. The event is not coming on this trip.
Only a few days later and I am living this perfect raw emotion. Overwhelming. Hard. Painful. Terrifying. I let it take me, focused forward, not backward. And then I use it to create The Words. The new work.
It is not the emotion that is toxic, it's the association.
Rescued.
Lent.
"Veronica, this is exactly what I wanted. God, it sounds so personal. I'd almost swear this happened to you, instead of the character. How do you do this?"
Emotional research.
He's handing me my pay. And I am taking it. I'm having one of those whore moments, so I pick up the check for our dinner, seeking redemption.
He's trying to see how much I'm tipping. Hey, I'm feeling uneven, and I read Waiterrant ... I leave a fifty on a $100 dinner bill. The service was excellent. But, that has nothing to do with it sometimes.
He raises his eyebrow when he sees, but shrugs. "Where have you been, anyway? I've been trying to reach you for weeks."
Sometimes it's hard to get the emotion back into the well.
"Pale runs the ghost swollen on the shore every night in every pore. The scales that do slither, deliver me from."
-The Mars Volta
February 03, 2006
Just This, In Light
I am awake sometimes.
I don't actually choose what moment passed I will write about now. Usually the moment chooses me. I don't restrict them with chronology or importance. They are all important. They follow no creed or threat of credibility.
It's my campfire.
These are moments passed, now recalled, now reopened with clarity of perception that only distance and rest can bring. There is something delicate and meaningful in the things we choose to keep. The things that have chosen to stay. Remember it. Re-find it. It's why you kept it.
The truth is in the feelings.
I don't chase the things that have left. The things I've expelled. I am awake sometimes.
I'm not a historian. I'm a writer. The Words are all that matter, not the ending. Surrender. Absorb.
In most memories you can put a spotlight on one moment, and let that one moment say all that needs to be said.
With no obligation of completion. Just this, in light.
Just this.
For me.
I came to that fork in the road. And the life I did not chose keeps going and going. Living and living. With or without me. I am awake sometimes.
I don't love the story. I don't cradle the plot. I sleep only with The Words.
I have never loved anything the way I love The Words.
This is my love affair. This is the love of my life.
I don't actually choose what moment passed I will write about now. Usually the moment chooses me. I don't restrict them with chronology or importance. They are all important. They follow no creed or threat of credibility.
It's my campfire.
These are moments passed, now recalled, now reopened with clarity of perception that only distance and rest can bring. There is something delicate and meaningful in the things we choose to keep. The things that have chosen to stay. Remember it. Re-find it. It's why you kept it.
The truth is in the feelings.
I don't chase the things that have left. The things I've expelled. I am awake sometimes.
I'm not a historian. I'm a writer. The Words are all that matter, not the ending. Surrender. Absorb.
In most memories you can put a spotlight on one moment, and let that one moment say all that needs to be said.
With no obligation of completion. Just this, in light.
Just this.
For me.
I came to that fork in the road. And the life I did not chose keeps going and going. Living and living. With or without me. I am awake sometimes.
I don't love the story. I don't cradle the plot. I sleep only with The Words.
I have never loved anything the way I love The Words.
This is my love affair. This is the love of my life.
February 02, 2006
The Meaning of Movements
"It's the only thing that I have.
If you'd believe it's in my soul
I'd say all the Words that I know."
-SUM 41
He gives me that look, its half "butterfly net" and half awe. I've gotten it before, usually during an exit. He puts his coat on my kitchen counter, but he doesn't put the novel down. He is still holding it, cradling it. I see this. I sink into this.
"How long did it take you to write this?"
I close the door behind him and avoid the question. This is the final draft, 20 years after I started it.
I can't tell him that.
I am trying not to stare, but the way he's holding my manuscript is more important then anything he can say about it.
He rubs the cover with his hand in a way that says, this is important. I feel that rub in my stomach. He holds it as if it can break. As if it is fragile and priceless.
When I turned 7, all I wanted was a dinner party. A formal dinner party. And my mother let me have one. I invited maybe half a dozen little girls I knew. We made very special formal invitations. Everyone I invited came. Their parents dropped them off one by one at my house, all of them dressed in formal gowns and maryjanes, and their mother's pearls or dinner gloves. We sat in the dining room, where my mother served us. We used the good china, and crystal, and table linens. Everyone was a little lady, everyone was care filled and attentive to everything. Everyone really tried to hold their little pinkies out as they sipped hot chocolate from the good china tea cups. Everyone of us feeling special, because we were treating everything like it was special.
And that's what I wanted. I wanted it to be special. I wanted every one to feel special. I wanted every thing to be special. And it was.
Reverence.
He hands the manuscript to me as if he's handing me a living breathing thing. I can see the reverence.
Like a good china cup when you're 7 years old.
Like something you aren't really supposed to be handling, but here it is in your hands. And you don't want to blow it.
He watches as I take the book, and ever so carefully he lets go.
It was one of the best compliments anyone's ever given me.
If you'd believe it's in my soul
I'd say all the Words that I know."
-SUM 41
He gives me that look, its half "butterfly net" and half awe. I've gotten it before, usually during an exit. He puts his coat on my kitchen counter, but he doesn't put the novel down. He is still holding it, cradling it. I see this. I sink into this.
"How long did it take you to write this?"
I close the door behind him and avoid the question. This is the final draft, 20 years after I started it.
I can't tell him that.
I am trying not to stare, but the way he's holding my manuscript is more important then anything he can say about it.
He rubs the cover with his hand in a way that says, this is important. I feel that rub in my stomach. He holds it as if it can break. As if it is fragile and priceless.
When I turned 7, all I wanted was a dinner party. A formal dinner party. And my mother let me have one. I invited maybe half a dozen little girls I knew. We made very special formal invitations. Everyone I invited came. Their parents dropped them off one by one at my house, all of them dressed in formal gowns and maryjanes, and their mother's pearls or dinner gloves. We sat in the dining room, where my mother served us. We used the good china, and crystal, and table linens. Everyone was a little lady, everyone was care filled and attentive to everything. Everyone really tried to hold their little pinkies out as they sipped hot chocolate from the good china tea cups. Everyone of us feeling special, because we were treating everything like it was special.
And that's what I wanted. I wanted it to be special. I wanted every one to feel special. I wanted every thing to be special. And it was.
Reverence.
He hands the manuscript to me as if he's handing me a living breathing thing. I can see the reverence.
Like a good china cup when you're 7 years old.
Like something you aren't really supposed to be handling, but here it is in your hands. And you don't want to blow it.
He watches as I take the book, and ever so carefully he lets go.
It was one of the best compliments anyone's ever given me.
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