I sat on that step, book in hand, cat in lap, and thought of words to write about that moment.I longed to have someone say "yes, I've been there. I understand that feeling" I long to not feel alone in my experience of the world. I long to serve a purpose, have a meaning, effect someone's life, connect with them.And I am a communicator. Writing makes sense. More sense than all those years spent as an actress....but something stops me.
Although, here I sit now. I have managed to come in the door and sit down at my computer.
I would've enjoyed staying on the step outside, feeling the perfection of my longing as opposed to the imperfection of my writing.
It was an experience of the moment. Even now I am aware of how little I have communicated about it...The way the sunlight drifted through the palm over my head, the flea that resided on Pandora's forehead, the yucky cigar smoke (reminding me momentarily of my father) coming from the guy who goes between the house next door and the artists studio behind my building. The street was only a few yards away, and others were about, yet I felt totally alone. I'm sure it's a warm day out. Headed for hot. I am wearing a sweatshirt.
I am an alien, trying desperately to have a human experience. But I keep stopping and saying "is this it? Am I doing it right?"
And somewhere inside me I have a sneaking suspicion that there are others out there like me...but I'm afraid I wouldn't like them if I met them.Those who try to tell me they're like me meet with my derision: "don't pretend to have the vaguest idea of who I am - how could you?'
How could they? I don't know...How can someone else know who I am when they don't live in my body? and yet this is exactly what I am longing for...someone to identify me for my self.
for if I knew myself, I would know what I wanted. I would know what I had to say. And I could sit down and put it into words instead of sitting on my step, crying at the angle of the almost noon sun and the purity of the black fur in my lap.
My critical voices want to intrude here.
"Is this suppose to be writing? Well girl, there's no continuity, no form, it's rambling and unfocused and even you may not be able to read it because your typing is so bad."
I am resisting the urge to follow this voice's orders and stop this foolishness,.
It is not up to me to know, always, whether something is good writing, or to be shared. I can clean it up later if I need to... I want to be a writer. So I am writing.
I think the problem comes in when I feel I want to be A Great Writer.
I want people to read my work and cry and laugh and be changed after they're done. I want to be God. Yes that's it. I have often said I want to be worshipped. I thought I was joking. But perhaps not.
And yet even the responsibility of management at work is more than I care to have a good amount of the time. Does God have responsibilities?
I am reminded of a line in Illusions by Richard Bach; "The best way to avoid responsibility is to say I have responsibilities"
That's been a koan for me....what are the real meanings in that sentence?
I am somehow not responsible?"
control. Not control.What does any of this have to do with writing?
If I go back to my step I will long to be here "working" longing to be there on the step.
Longing is knowing who we are according to Cooper Edens. Nice thought. Haven't quite got there myself.
Now I'm starting to feel a part of me wishing my boyfriend would call. "I'm working". See? I can! I do! Someone caught me at it... they distracted me, but I had been doing it. Really.
I long to do this until I sit down here, and then the whole world becomes a fascinating temptation. I can't sit here and write about it out there. I'm missing it all if I do this. I should be out there living it, not reporting on it.
But unless I win the lotto sometime soon, no one is going to support me for just doing whatever all the time...
Hey wait.
there's that new age saying :"do what you love the money will follow".
Well?
Of course this means I need to know what I love.
How does one get paid for sitting on a step in the sun, petting her cat and longing to be a writer?
July 9 1996
