Saturday, August 06, 2005
I'm Coming Clean
And now I've got that damn "I'm coming up" song stuck in my head.
It took a week, but it's finally official. I'm inspired. They've beat it into our skulls this whole week that the truth is what comes across the best, and that we really need to get in touch with what we believe in our souls in order to produce amazing writing. Now, to my own credit, and I do believe credit is due, I've been able to entertain a small number of people with my writing, and I hope to continue to do so. However! Humor only goes so far. The best books/essays/etc. have substance to them, whereas, so far, my humor with substance can be found only in Madam Malarky, a woman I abandoned over a year ago. This is why I've decided that it's time to come clean. I need to expose the world to some universal truths. I need to really understand my own soul before I can get everyone else to buy my words. I like to think that I've kept the things that drill my guts. I like to think the world hasn't heard all of that yet. I know there have been nights with the boys or at Sarah's in which I had too many beers and spilled a real feeling or two, but in those contexts it just creates uncertainty and an awkward looming fart above all our heads. In writing, people can read by themselves the real issues that I've got that are performing Chinese Water Torture on my brain. Changing the context corrects the faults.
I figure... I'm just starting out. I need to start small. Before I can delve into the trenches of the Lagerbusch story (which I wouldn't even tackle with my shrink when I had one), so in this preliminary entry, I'm going to make the small confessions that are holding up the dam. The ones that I gotta jump over to get to the good dirt. These are all the stupid little things that really bother me but that I try to ignore. I figure, trying to ignore them is the worst part. If I come clean, and fess up to them, I don't have to ignore them anymore. (This sounds like a simple concept, but it's harder than one might think.) So that's half the battle. I think when I remove the stones, the dam will let loose, and some really great aquatic thoughts will spring forth. It's just that, I finally understand that the real brutal truth is what's best, and that you have to address that before you can really do yourself justice.
So...
Here goes nothin.
1. I'm obsessed with things that are (or are not) beneath my fingernails. When my hands aren't occupied with something else, I'm scraping the imaginary dirt out from beneath my nails. I know there's no dirt there. I'm scraping at molecules. I know they're molecules. I know when I do it. I know it's pointless, and I know that people with OCD do things like that. I also know that I do not have OCD. I know this because people do weird things, and that doesn't make them obsessive compulsive. I've been trying to stop for some time now, but it's not really working. I get hope from the fact that I've had a few of these quirks in the past. For one, I used to put one strand of hair in my mouth and twirl it around my tongue until it got knotted into a ball. I did this for no reason. Once I made the conscious effort to stop, it was only a matter of time before I could. It gives me hope for the nail molecules.
2. I am far too afraid of dying young. I don't need a shrink to tell me why. And really, there are a couple good reasons why I would feel this way. There are also a couple good reasons why I should put the fears to rest. There are also a couple good reasons why this is very hard to do. Obviously, my father died relatively young. I haven't heard from Deb in a long time, and I am very afraid on the inside that she is dead too. She is also quite young. My mother has a life-threatening illness, and she herself is very young. The fear of death at a young age goes beyond this, however. For one thing, my mother watches crime shows nonstop. Every day, in the comfort of my own living room, I hear of at least three twenty-something women who are raped and murdered somewhere in the country. After that I hear my mother and grandmother reiterate for the millionth time that I should always lock my car, never park next to vans, don't get gas after dark, don't talk to men, don't eat candy from strangers, don't eat candy from anyone, don't cross the street without an on-star navigational device, and don't eat the skin of the eggplant. All of these lead to instant rape and death. Actually, slow painful rape and slower more painful death. I'm also afraid to die young because, hello! It happens. It's sad, it's awful, but it happens. It's sad and awful that someone would die and his landlord robs the family, but it happens. And if that, can happen, what else can happen? Lots of things. I really could be raped and murdered. The worst part is that I've seen the toll that repeated tragedies have taken on my family, namely my mother and grandmother. The only thing I can think of that would break them completely would be if Paige or I died. That is my number one fear. I don't even care that I'd be dead as much as I would care what would happen to the most amazing and inspirational family I've ever seen. (For those of you that are dense, that means my family.) My mother and Grandmother don't deserve a bee sting, let alone one more tragedy. They've seen enough. It's time to stop.
3. I judge. I judge Middle Eastern people. I try not to. When I see them out, I look away. I don't make eye contact. I used to dread waiting on them when I worked in public venues. Logic would tell me not to, but it was no use. I'm working on it. I'm going to make an honest effort to stop. I don't know how that's going to work out.
4. If you were to cut open any part of my body, you would find nothing but bladder. I have no stomach, no liver, no spleen. I have no bones and no muscles. My body is controlled by one giant bladder that does everything. I can drink water, juice, coffee, alcohol, you name it. Doesn't matter. My body can handle it. It can store it probably for days. This may seem like a really cool quality to have, but lemmie tell ya. It's not. There are repurcussions. And here comes the confession: I pee for a very long time. I can store so much liquid in my body, that when I pee, it takes forever. I'm smiling right now at my computer, because I realize how funny this is, but it really, in all brutal honesty, freaks me out. I feel like I've been created with a freakish body, and that's a scary thought for any woman. Which leads me to another good confession I didn't think of until now.
5. This one's really hard, because women hate you for this.
I love my body. I know there are better bodies out there. However, I love The Thunderbolt at Kennywood. Are there better roller coasters out there? Sure! But The Thunderbolt is a great one, and not only that, but I have a deep emotional investment in it. I certainly hope I have a deep emotional investment in my own body. After all, I couldn't have survived without it for 23 years. I love it. It's white, sure, but it's welcoming. It's got soft spots. It is soft spots. The soft spots aren't rubbery, they're soft. My body has a really cool shape. It's not like everyone's, so it's hard to find clothes for, but it's pleasant to look at and it has personality. I've got junk in the trunk. It's neat junk. It's interesting junk. It's 8-tracks and handblown glass. It's stuff I could do without, but I love just the same. My hair is part of my body. It's long. My mother says it's too long. I disagree. the last inch or so of my hair has probably been around for a good 3 years. It was at the very top of my head then, just coming out of my scalp. But it was with me when Dodie and I stood in the living room of 3810 Lewis apt #3, watching the World Trade Center deteriorate in stages, and we wondered what was going on. The ends of my hair were the roots of my hair at my father's memorial service and at his apartment when we realized what was missing from the walls. I can't get rid of it yet. Maybe someday.
5.1 I'm giving this a decimal because it's related to #5. I love my body... naked. It's even worse than loving one's body. I love my body naked. It's got cottage cheesy spots, but they're well hidden. It's the weird thigh parts that nobody really looks at. The best part is, nobody really looks at them because they're too busy looking at my waist, which kicks ass. It's all about how the body's put together. I got what I want.
6. I'm scared as all hell. The only things I enjoy in life are things that don't make money. I know my friends and relatives think I've given up on music. It's a shame. I haven't given up on music. I see music as one of the most sublime pleasures a person can experience. Creating music is even better than listening to it. I will never turn my back on my oboe or my overall musicianship. I'm just in a panic, that's all. The oboe is by far the most beautiful instrument there is. I still feel that way. I realized it even more this week, when in all these writing classes, I found myself referencing Holly, Dr. Inkster, various composers, various stories involving my career as a musician, and my overall feeling towards the importance of music in the world. There is truly nothing finer than music, and I still believe that. I'm giving it a break because it's come to a dead end for me. What's an oboist to do? I don't want to teach, and performance only pays when you're in a major symphony. You can only be in a major symphony if you've slept with someone or can pay someone off. I can't do that. I don't want to do that. I'm doing writing because I love writing as well, and am hoping I can find a way to earn a living with it. I will never betray music. It's my first love. I'll always find ways to integrate it into my life. I will hopefully find a way to make it my life's work. However, in the meantime, I need to figure out a backup plan, and even other ways to support myself. That's what this is all about. In fact, I'm going to a rehearsal with the Edgewood Symphony on August 16. I'm still playing, and it bugs me when people look sad when they ask me about my music. They seem betrayed, as though I abandoned an art of theirs. Really, I didn't abandon anything. And even if I did, I abandoned my own art, and not the art of anyone around me. It took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that I need to be my own self now, but it's really true. It's a struggle.
7. When I was writing the above paragraph, something sparked # 7, but now I don't remember what it is. I think it has something to do with being afraid of my career. All my life I've tried so hard to be a career woman, because I think it's such an admirable position, and I believe firmly in that position. I want to have it all, and I believe I can have it all. I can have a successful career and a successful family. I'm scared to death that I'm taking the wrong steps. It's a constant fear for both aspects of life. For the career, I'm constantly afraid I picked the wrong school, the wrong professors, the wrong courses, the wrong major. For the successful family, the fears should be obvious. I'm afraid my relationship will end, leaving me stranded when I'm too old to pick up the broken pieces. Even worse, I'm afraid I'm infertile. I've never tried to have kids, so what happens if I can't? There's no way to know whether or not I can at this stage in the game. This all ties into fear #2. I combine these two fears into one: That I secretly have ovarian cancer or uterine cancer... cervical cancer, breast cancer, the possibilities are endless. So many ways to die young. So many ways to become infertile. I'm so very afraid.
8. I get jealous. In all honesty, it really is rare. Jealousy is weird. I almost never get jealous, but boy, when I do, it's like a charley horse in the middle of a good night's sleep. I'm jealous of the other writers here. I like to think I know where I stand. I know whom I'm up against in the competitive world. I know I had the oboe market nailed. (In Erie, anyway... Pittsburgh is much harder.) In writing? I've got a lot to learn. I'm writing this whole blog entry because I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the amazing stories the other writers have. Mostly they're all true. Rachel's mother and twin sister died at birth. Imagine that scenario. It's heart-wrenching (sorry to use a cliche.) But she's so funny, and she's so honest. And she writes about it as though it's nothing. I strive to be that way. Fortunately, I think that because I'm 23, I have time to develop that. And when I do, I can be that great. Almost everyone here is in their 30's. I'm nowhere near the best writer here. In fact, I'd say I'm in the bottom 25%. However, I got here. I made it into this program. The people here are very good to me. They listen to my work, and are very encouraging. I'm jealous of them. Many have had work published. They all have words of advice, but nobody talks down to me. I bet when they were 23, they were much like me. I have to give myself credit, and I have to give myself a chance. Writing is a somewhat new realm for me. It won't be easy to be great, but it wasn't easy to be good at music either.
I have more confessions, but there are some I'm not willing to tackle yet. I think that comes with time. For now, I feel a lot better. I feel that if nothing else, I've identified the correct direction, even if I haven't taken that first step. I debated putting this entry in the Creative Writing blog, but it's a fine line. I decided it's a thought more than a story or description. It belongs here. the repurcussions of it belong in the Creative Writing portion. Time to change everything.
It took a week, but it's finally official. I'm inspired. They've beat it into our skulls this whole week that the truth is what comes across the best, and that we really need to get in touch with what we believe in our souls in order to produce amazing writing. Now, to my own credit, and I do believe credit is due, I've been able to entertain a small number of people with my writing, and I hope to continue to do so. However! Humor only goes so far. The best books/essays/etc. have substance to them, whereas, so far, my humor with substance can be found only in Madam Malarky, a woman I abandoned over a year ago. This is why I've decided that it's time to come clean. I need to expose the world to some universal truths. I need to really understand my own soul before I can get everyone else to buy my words. I like to think that I've kept the things that drill my guts. I like to think the world hasn't heard all of that yet. I know there have been nights with the boys or at Sarah's in which I had too many beers and spilled a real feeling or two, but in those contexts it just creates uncertainty and an awkward looming fart above all our heads. In writing, people can read by themselves the real issues that I've got that are performing Chinese Water Torture on my brain. Changing the context corrects the faults.
I figure... I'm just starting out. I need to start small. Before I can delve into the trenches of the Lagerbusch story (which I wouldn't even tackle with my shrink when I had one), so in this preliminary entry, I'm going to make the small confessions that are holding up the dam. The ones that I gotta jump over to get to the good dirt. These are all the stupid little things that really bother me but that I try to ignore. I figure, trying to ignore them is the worst part. If I come clean, and fess up to them, I don't have to ignore them anymore. (This sounds like a simple concept, but it's harder than one might think.) So that's half the battle. I think when I remove the stones, the dam will let loose, and some really great aquatic thoughts will spring forth. It's just that, I finally understand that the real brutal truth is what's best, and that you have to address that before you can really do yourself justice.
So...
Here goes nothin.
1. I'm obsessed with things that are (or are not) beneath my fingernails. When my hands aren't occupied with something else, I'm scraping the imaginary dirt out from beneath my nails. I know there's no dirt there. I'm scraping at molecules. I know they're molecules. I know when I do it. I know it's pointless, and I know that people with OCD do things like that. I also know that I do not have OCD. I know this because people do weird things, and that doesn't make them obsessive compulsive. I've been trying to stop for some time now, but it's not really working. I get hope from the fact that I've had a few of these quirks in the past. For one, I used to put one strand of hair in my mouth and twirl it around my tongue until it got knotted into a ball. I did this for no reason. Once I made the conscious effort to stop, it was only a matter of time before I could. It gives me hope for the nail molecules.
2. I am far too afraid of dying young. I don't need a shrink to tell me why. And really, there are a couple good reasons why I would feel this way. There are also a couple good reasons why I should put the fears to rest. There are also a couple good reasons why this is very hard to do. Obviously, my father died relatively young. I haven't heard from Deb in a long time, and I am very afraid on the inside that she is dead too. She is also quite young. My mother has a life-threatening illness, and she herself is very young. The fear of death at a young age goes beyond this, however. For one thing, my mother watches crime shows nonstop. Every day, in the comfort of my own living room, I hear of at least three twenty-something women who are raped and murdered somewhere in the country. After that I hear my mother and grandmother reiterate for the millionth time that I should always lock my car, never park next to vans, don't get gas after dark, don't talk to men, don't eat candy from strangers, don't eat candy from anyone, don't cross the street without an on-star navigational device, and don't eat the skin of the eggplant. All of these lead to instant rape and death. Actually, slow painful rape and slower more painful death. I'm also afraid to die young because, hello! It happens. It's sad, it's awful, but it happens. It's sad and awful that someone would die and his landlord robs the family, but it happens. And if that, can happen, what else can happen? Lots of things. I really could be raped and murdered. The worst part is that I've seen the toll that repeated tragedies have taken on my family, namely my mother and grandmother. The only thing I can think of that would break them completely would be if Paige or I died. That is my number one fear. I don't even care that I'd be dead as much as I would care what would happen to the most amazing and inspirational family I've ever seen. (For those of you that are dense, that means my family.) My mother and Grandmother don't deserve a bee sting, let alone one more tragedy. They've seen enough. It's time to stop.
3. I judge. I judge Middle Eastern people. I try not to. When I see them out, I look away. I don't make eye contact. I used to dread waiting on them when I worked in public venues. Logic would tell me not to, but it was no use. I'm working on it. I'm going to make an honest effort to stop. I don't know how that's going to work out.
4. If you were to cut open any part of my body, you would find nothing but bladder. I have no stomach, no liver, no spleen. I have no bones and no muscles. My body is controlled by one giant bladder that does everything. I can drink water, juice, coffee, alcohol, you name it. Doesn't matter. My body can handle it. It can store it probably for days. This may seem like a really cool quality to have, but lemmie tell ya. It's not. There are repurcussions. And here comes the confession: I pee for a very long time. I can store so much liquid in my body, that when I pee, it takes forever. I'm smiling right now at my computer, because I realize how funny this is, but it really, in all brutal honesty, freaks me out. I feel like I've been created with a freakish body, and that's a scary thought for any woman. Which leads me to another good confession I didn't think of until now.
5. This one's really hard, because women hate you for this.
I love my body. I know there are better bodies out there. However, I love The Thunderbolt at Kennywood. Are there better roller coasters out there? Sure! But The Thunderbolt is a great one, and not only that, but I have a deep emotional investment in it. I certainly hope I have a deep emotional investment in my own body. After all, I couldn't have survived without it for 23 years. I love it. It's white, sure, but it's welcoming. It's got soft spots. It is soft spots. The soft spots aren't rubbery, they're soft. My body has a really cool shape. It's not like everyone's, so it's hard to find clothes for, but it's pleasant to look at and it has personality. I've got junk in the trunk. It's neat junk. It's interesting junk. It's 8-tracks and handblown glass. It's stuff I could do without, but I love just the same. My hair is part of my body. It's long. My mother says it's too long. I disagree. the last inch or so of my hair has probably been around for a good 3 years. It was at the very top of my head then, just coming out of my scalp. But it was with me when Dodie and I stood in the living room of 3810 Lewis apt #3, watching the World Trade Center deteriorate in stages, and we wondered what was going on. The ends of my hair were the roots of my hair at my father's memorial service and at his apartment when we realized what was missing from the walls. I can't get rid of it yet. Maybe someday.
5.1 I'm giving this a decimal because it's related to #5. I love my body... naked. It's even worse than loving one's body. I love my body naked. It's got cottage cheesy spots, but they're well hidden. It's the weird thigh parts that nobody really looks at. The best part is, nobody really looks at them because they're too busy looking at my waist, which kicks ass. It's all about how the body's put together. I got what I want.
6. I'm scared as all hell. The only things I enjoy in life are things that don't make money. I know my friends and relatives think I've given up on music. It's a shame. I haven't given up on music. I see music as one of the most sublime pleasures a person can experience. Creating music is even better than listening to it. I will never turn my back on my oboe or my overall musicianship. I'm just in a panic, that's all. The oboe is by far the most beautiful instrument there is. I still feel that way. I realized it even more this week, when in all these writing classes, I found myself referencing Holly, Dr. Inkster, various composers, various stories involving my career as a musician, and my overall feeling towards the importance of music in the world. There is truly nothing finer than music, and I still believe that. I'm giving it a break because it's come to a dead end for me. What's an oboist to do? I don't want to teach, and performance only pays when you're in a major symphony. You can only be in a major symphony if you've slept with someone or can pay someone off. I can't do that. I don't want to do that. I'm doing writing because I love writing as well, and am hoping I can find a way to earn a living with it. I will never betray music. It's my first love. I'll always find ways to integrate it into my life. I will hopefully find a way to make it my life's work. However, in the meantime, I need to figure out a backup plan, and even other ways to support myself. That's what this is all about. In fact, I'm going to a rehearsal with the Edgewood Symphony on August 16. I'm still playing, and it bugs me when people look sad when they ask me about my music. They seem betrayed, as though I abandoned an art of theirs. Really, I didn't abandon anything. And even if I did, I abandoned my own art, and not the art of anyone around me. It took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that I need to be my own self now, but it's really true. It's a struggle.
7. When I was writing the above paragraph, something sparked # 7, but now I don't remember what it is. I think it has something to do with being afraid of my career. All my life I've tried so hard to be a career woman, because I think it's such an admirable position, and I believe firmly in that position. I want to have it all, and I believe I can have it all. I can have a successful career and a successful family. I'm scared to death that I'm taking the wrong steps. It's a constant fear for both aspects of life. For the career, I'm constantly afraid I picked the wrong school, the wrong professors, the wrong courses, the wrong major. For the successful family, the fears should be obvious. I'm afraid my relationship will end, leaving me stranded when I'm too old to pick up the broken pieces. Even worse, I'm afraid I'm infertile. I've never tried to have kids, so what happens if I can't? There's no way to know whether or not I can at this stage in the game. This all ties into fear #2. I combine these two fears into one: That I secretly have ovarian cancer or uterine cancer... cervical cancer, breast cancer, the possibilities are endless. So many ways to die young. So many ways to become infertile. I'm so very afraid.
8. I get jealous. In all honesty, it really is rare. Jealousy is weird. I almost never get jealous, but boy, when I do, it's like a charley horse in the middle of a good night's sleep. I'm jealous of the other writers here. I like to think I know where I stand. I know whom I'm up against in the competitive world. I know I had the oboe market nailed. (In Erie, anyway... Pittsburgh is much harder.) In writing? I've got a lot to learn. I'm writing this whole blog entry because I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the amazing stories the other writers have. Mostly they're all true. Rachel's mother and twin sister died at birth. Imagine that scenario. It's heart-wrenching (sorry to use a cliche.) But she's so funny, and she's so honest. And she writes about it as though it's nothing. I strive to be that way. Fortunately, I think that because I'm 23, I have time to develop that. And when I do, I can be that great. Almost everyone here is in their 30's. I'm nowhere near the best writer here. In fact, I'd say I'm in the bottom 25%. However, I got here. I made it into this program. The people here are very good to me. They listen to my work, and are very encouraging. I'm jealous of them. Many have had work published. They all have words of advice, but nobody talks down to me. I bet when they were 23, they were much like me. I have to give myself credit, and I have to give myself a chance. Writing is a somewhat new realm for me. It won't be easy to be great, but it wasn't easy to be good at music either.
I have more confessions, but there are some I'm not willing to tackle yet. I think that comes with time. For now, I feel a lot better. I feel that if nothing else, I've identified the correct direction, even if I haven't taken that first step. I debated putting this entry in the Creative Writing blog, but it's a fine line. I decided it's a thought more than a story or description. It belongs here. the repurcussions of it belong in the Creative Writing portion. Time to change everything.
