my computer is with those wily geniuses at the mac store.
yes, i know it's brand new computer. yes, i realize not much time has passed for it have already gone kaput. yes, i recognize that the whole thing is a comment on me (in some--if not many ways).
yes, i know i should not be allowed to drink coffee near the device. i know now, okay!
this is all to say, i am computer-less.
and really, really exhausted so maybe for the best that i take a bit of a break.
see you in a few.
thought you might like to see (what's above my desk):
i had two goals this week.
1. to exercise
2. to sit down and write
i did neither.
i did however, attempt to create a better work space--one conducive to writing. this involved switching desks, trading my stool for a left-behind-chair, turning my bookcase to create a faux-wall and thus sectioned-off-office (yes, my manhattan dwelling room is that big).
the picture is of what's above this new desk, in this new "writing" office: a reminder of past and present and the tether along which both run and change and meet.
so that's something. this next week: the actual writing.
at some point, a few weeks ago...
in a moment of sentience, i logged onto amazon.com and ordered the books i've been wanting and needing (books i've been thinking about for months). there is a book on the mechanics of writing, jonathan safran foer's first work--a collection of works inspired by joseph cornell (which i had misread as joseph campbell and thus expected something all together {and yet, not}). there is brian andreas' story people and at the last moment, i included in my bundle, leaping: revelations & epiphanies (having only just discovered this brian doyle character).
two days ago mr. doyle's work arrived in the mail, an answer to a prayer i hardly knew i had.
one of the first pieces is an essay on writing--on why he writes, on why anyone writes, really.
i often tell people i'm a writer. and feel fraudulent as i do so. what do you write, they ask? and i hardly know how to answer that. but this term "writer" it covers all manners of sins, no? and perhaps one day, i will be and i will claim the title with some authority, having actually written something that wings beyond this little corner of the internet. and because i intend to one day actually be such--a writer--i found the essay particularly important and meaningful. so indulge me, will you? allow me to share bits and pieces of it here?
(bits and pieces of ) WHY I WRITE | BRIAN DOYLE
I look over the essays I have published over the course of twenty years of diligent scribbling and am astonished at their riotous incoherence...If there is a theme in all this it completely eludes the author, who feels that he has wandered into a pathless forest and is thrashing his way home armed with only a pen.
Which is sort of the point. Thrashing toward the light with a sharp pen is what writers do.
Why? [why write]
Because, as the fine essayist E. M. Forster said, "How can I know what I think until I see what I say?"
Because there have been times in my life when the only way I could handle rage and horror and fear was to write it down and thus fend it off, fight it, force it to retreat, understand it, hurt it.
Because writing is a form of contemplation and a form of prayer.
Because writing occasionally leads to rapture.
Because writing is a way to connect electrically and directly with other people, which we crave, while generally preserving privacy, which we also crave. ("Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself," wrote Walt Whitman.)
Because writing is a form of performance that does not demand physical grace or youth, and writers, despite their craving for privacy, like to be the center of attention, usually intermittently, rather than continually like film stars and Bill Clinton.
Because writers are, deep in their souls, didacts who itch to deliver the Unvarnished Truth and cannot help but unburden themselves of that which burns in their hearts. Writers are preachers.
...It's what I do, and what I love to do, and no one else can do it quite like I do.
Better, perhaps--but not with my particular flavor and music, and somehow, in a way I do not wholly understand, that is important, and in a very real sense miraculous, and necessary.
image
via.
in quotes
May I never be complete.
May I never be content.
May I never be perfect.
Chuck Palahniuk
fear and new york {and Portugal. The Man}
i followed a twitter feed yesterday. (when did twitter get to be the most helpful and exciting social media app?) and found myself rsvp-ing to see Portugal. The Man at the lomography store on west eighth street here in new york. i sent the email off with no real hope of anything.
and then today, just hours before the event, while at work, i got an email confirming my ticket and my +1. so in a mad rush i went about finding said +1. this is what i learned/realized: many of my friends (and people i'd most like to go with) do not live in new york. many, many more of my friends are successful and have jobs that don't allow for such off-the-cuff planning.
so i started to waver: should i go. should i not go. i'm meant to see the band in boston on saturday. i got two tickets (one for me, one for my brother) as a birthday gift to myself, from him (smooth, no?). only i didn't run the date by him first so...i'm headed to boston. to see Portugal. The Man by myself (really, really smooth).
anywhoo, to go or not to go.
i was tired today. i'm always tired nowadays. and i've been feeling low and blue. i wanted nothing more than to come home take a nap, run some errands, do the laundry (and let's be honest...hide from the world).
and i was afraid. afraid to go by myself.
but if i'm living in new york, if i'm going to live here, in new york, hell...isn't this precisely why people love the city--where exposure to these sorts of things is prevalent and everyone is alway rubbing elbows with someone exciting and story-worthy.
three months ago i would've gone. no questions asked. three months ago i felt bold and confident, three months ago i didn't care if it meant standing by myself in a corner for two hours sipping white wine while waiting for the event to begin.
but today i felt fearful. and lacking. and because i was so afraid, because fear was dictating, i knew i had to go.
so i did. and i did stand for two hours. by myself. in my stodgy, black work-clothes and my tried and true blue rain slicker. (let's just say i was not in my hipster-best).
but i was so proud of myself for going. for reclaiming some of that girl i tapped into mere months ago.
and it was so great. the music was so great. they are so great. they were the last band i saw at lolla this summer. and as their set progressed, all of us there in grant park watched as a massive rain storm rolled in. and just as they began the last song, the sky opened, and lord did we dance and slide and get a little muddy that day. so it seemed fitting that sky deluged new york today.
Portugal. The Man is my rain dance music. my be-brave, get-wet, dance music. and don't think i don't have a thing for every single one of the guys in the band.
on a separate note: there was this brief moment, when, before they had opened the upstairs to the public, i somehow wandered up there (no security) and found myself face-to-face with the band's drummer and a gaggle of others only to turn right around on my heel and high-tail it back downstairs. no one stopped me. no one said you can't come up here. i should've sauntered right in and started talking to everyone as though of course i'm meant to be here. but, that's a level of bold i'm still working on.
hey boys, saturday night. in boston. be there, be square.