July 27,2008

Sunday, July 27, 2008
existential constipation

What I need is a good story. Maybe I need a fairytale about a 5 year old violin prodigy, an Olympic hopeful striving to be number one, or better yet, a young, attractive prince in a castle far, far away. Far away from Portland. In a castle very unlike mine. Yes, I've been bitten by the writer's block bug yet again, and even though I'm taking all the right medicine, sometimes you have to let the virus run its course.

Emotions. All it comes back to emotions and my inability to write from the perspective of anyone but myself. Or maybe I am simultaneously not giving myself enough credit, nor am I pushing myself to experiment with writing fiction.. Or nonfiction disguised as fiction or nonfiction written from the perspective someone who might share some of my traits and perspective- But, not based on me, per se. Basically, I need to get over myself.

Last week I was eating lunch with a friend and talking about this feeling of overexposure that comes with putting out a zine:

"I feel like I'm getting caught with my pants down a little and I'm not all that eager to repeat the feeling so soon by writing my feelings down and putting it out." I said, admittedly feeling a little depressed about the probability that I won't have anything new to showcase at the upcoming zine symposium, except Tempo G 2, which debuted in May.

"Well.. why do you feel that way? Like you have your pants are down?" Marc asked. He probably knows more than anyone how I feel, but I assume he was trying to help me process my feelings.

"Um… Probably because I essentially took my pants off. Which is exactly what I tend to do."


Ah, I love being an exhibitionist. I love taking off my pants. I sit in front of the computer and metaphorically masturbate with a keyboard in the spirit of "getting it all out." The good, the bad, the ugly, the boring and the somewhat eventful- it spills. I like it, its cathartic at times- but, it's not always appropriate for you to see all my junk, nor is it any of your business. I tend to question my emotions. I over think them until I they can be processed down to their most basic molecular structure. I like this internal therapist, repeatedly checking in and asking "why do you feel this way?" until the complicated is sorted into the simple, the digestible and what might have been thrown up in a violent spew, is pleasantly pooped out in good time.

But lately I'm not digesting or spewing, I'm more like a ruminating cow.

There is stuff that sits, comes up and back down again. My life is really awesome, but there are feelings brewing that I am having a hard time sorting. I have a lot of unique relationships with people right now that invoke unique feelings and are causing me to challenge my maturity level and my capacity for forgiveness and letting go of situations I have no control over. I also have this strong intuition that is steering me into transplendid emotions that feel "right," but all rationale would dictate are "wrong." This is "the dirt." The "big stuff." This is the stuff that would be most cathartic to spew, but hard to break down. It sits, comes back up and back down again and maybe I just need to let it sit for now and cross my fingers that it doesn't cause an ulcer.

My heart and brain are not in accord. I find myself checking in and asking "what am I doing?" and not really knowing the answer. The result is that I do nothing and hope that in time the answers will become evident. I think this might be some form of existential crisis? Oh, but "crisis" is too harsh of a word… let's return to the poop metaphor and call it "existential constipation." I like that better.

So, I can't write. It would be a mess. It would be equal parts Romeo and Juliet, Driven to Distraction, Pippy Longstocking and Almost Famous (maybe if I thought about it, I could think of better books to describe how I'm feeling- but these will do for now). It would have you thinking I was a schizophrenic freak who doesn't understand herself. And that's not me, not most of the time.

I need a story. One that is not mine. One that is not me with my pants down, constipated and wearing dirty underwear for the entire world to see. One where there's a happy ending and an end to the agonizing backdrop of a heart that refuses to mend itself, one where the heroine's underwear is clean and solid, healthy poops are excreted into a grand, golden, royal throne. Maybe she has a little dog and ruby slippers, long golden locks locked in a tower, maybe she has an evil stepmother and a poison apple. Maybe she forgives like Jesus, abstains like Mother Theresa and has the will power of Gandhi.

Maybe she unlocks the secret to writers block and get's "it." And realizes that this is perhaps, if history repeats, most likey all part of something bigger than herself.