Homecoming 5.9.2008

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Homecoming What is it about Tucson that makes me so compelled to post to this thing? Either way, here I am in AZ- swimming in nostalgia and dust, waiting for the surly wench to open, and navigating that “everything changes by staying the same” kind of mindset that makes me simultaneously wince and smile. As many of you know, I’ve had a shitty two weeks. Furthermore, I’m an extremist by nature, (This has been scientifically proven by many many personality tests.) so when I have a shitty two weeks, I don’t just miss the train and get behind at work. Oh no. I go out with a bang. For me, a shitty two weeks means that my entire world view gets smashed and splintered through a heartwrenching betrayal that I survive by focusing my attention on my imploding professional life. A shitty two weeks means that the showerhead in my hotel falls out of the wall and smashes me in the skull while I’m trying to scrub the hangover off my poor marinated self before getting on another plane. A shitty two weeks means that I’ve cried a lot a lot a lot, and that the F train was doing that thing where getting anywhere on the weekend means I have to transfer three times, which means that I’ve had moments of teary misery at Hoyt-Schemmerhorn, which is my nemesis station, where nothing good ever happens. Shitty Shitty Shitty. So, like a Phoenix, I have come to Tucson to rebuild and recover and re-emerge. Some people think that Tucson has some kind of weird spiritual energy that heals the soul. I think it’s just hot as hell and so stunningly gorgeous that it changes you forever. But either way, there’s something here that happens, at least to me, and it seems like when all my roads get blocked, I end up here on a bicycle for a minute. And then it all opens right back up again. I have faith that this is what’s about to happen. I think. So, I’ve got 48 hours here to pick up my pieces and figure out their next configuration. I’m holding a caucus with my people tomorrow night, which is always a good grounding force, and then I’ve got some time to stare at the mountains and think and grow and build and heal and recover and try to stop asking “Why?” about the shitty weeks, and thinking “Now.” about the next few weeks. And then I go to LA, so I better make sure that my soul is all healed and sealed before I go, because that place tends to send me flying too… I moved away from here a year ago. I think I’ve changed the most by staying the same. I can’t wait to figure out what that means, exactly.

Does the Dell Warranty Cover Damage Incurred while Smashing a Bottle of Champagne on my Laptop? 1.19.2007

Last night, I went to hear a writer read, and then, when the reading was done, she spoke and answered questions. This is sometimes the worst part of these kinds of things, but I enjoyed it this time, because the way she answered questions reminded me of the way my family might, if you squooshed the whole lot of us into one person. She was genuine and funny and passionate and compassionate, and she had no control whatsoever over her hair. She was disappointingly moderate and momentarily radical, and she kept taking her glasses off and then putting them back on. So, of course, I love her.

She urged everyone, as poets always do, to write every day.

“Are you doing that?” my friend asked.

No, I’m not.

And it’s such a given that I should, you know? So obvious. Just a day away can create these trenches in the way I remember, or don’t remember, how the letters are supposed to string together. The turning of feelings over into words. Hoping that I can catch whatever is lost in translation and stick it back on somewhere. With glue. Or prepositions. Or whatever’s available, really. But when I run off into the world of talking more and writing less, the talking part gets all jumbled up, and the writing part, well…the writing part gets lonely.

I once had a writing instructor (What was his name? I always think of him as “Mr. Kneecaps,” but I know that can’t be right.) who was not, per se, an extraordinary writer, but had some good ideas that have stayed with me. One thing that Mr. Kneecaps seemed particularly sure about, likely based on the feedback he’d gotten on his own rough ride in the heartless world of publishing, was “Do not EVER write about writers and writing.”

True that. The process analysis is so self-indulgent. Yet somehow when it comes from me, I think, “Well, this may be the exception.” And besides, this is a blog, and isn’t the whole point self-indulgence? (You all, loyal readers, by the way, are a great source of external validation for said self-indulgence. If a blog falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, it’s pretty much the end of the world. Thus, if I ever win an academy award, or whatever the blog equivalent may be – a Bloggy, or a Golden Blog, or whatever- I will be sure to thank the subscribed lot of you by name.)

My writing part is lonely. My writing part is a little pissed off and feeling kind of bruised and rejected. I pulled my writing part out of the back of some dusty storage unit in my brain, and said, “Come on, let’s give it another go, shall we?” And then I kind of left her hanging, a bit. My writing part is holding her little head up and saying, “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” when the truth is that my writing part is sliding underneath the bed and can’t seem to dig her nails in the hardwood floor to even slow the stopping down. My writing part was recently kicked in the gut by my sleeping part, and although sleeping part is important too, we all know that I can live without her for a bit, and am in fact, somewhat more fun when I do.

So, sayonara, sleeping part! You can take your weird dreams about the box of orange kittens and my teeth falling out and crawl on over to the backseat! Writing part, we’re ready for takeoff, so put on your goggles! (and then take them off, and then put them back on, and then take them off again…)

I have never embarked upon deliberate insomnia, but I am really looking forward to this. I mean, this way, at least it’s my choice. Hurray for false sense of control!

Hence, I would like to welcome you all to the official reprioritization of the writing part. It’s intended to be very ceremonial. Those of you who were at that certain party a few years ago know that I may end up smashing a bottle of champagne against my computer to welcome her back to the top of the list. Except that I don’t really do things like that anymore. (Although I do have a lot of champagne left over from New Years. So maybe I might.)

I will see you at 3 am. Set the alarm clock now.