Tuesday, December 06, 2011
Sunday, December 04, 2011
twenty-six letters, in no particular order
Just then, I opened a new post and completely expected to see something written already.
That's because all day I've been writing, just not in a readable way. Each experience I lived today somehow knew it was important and so it started doing this strange thing to me. Each experience pricked a tiny hole in wherever it is within me that gets that full feeling of satisfaction with life. And instead of being filled by the wonderful experiences of this day, I was emptied.
I was nestled in a seat at church, warming my heart by the heat of sweet declarations of faith by my peers and friends. Their personal testimonies witnessed of the masterpiece that is painted by every stroke of brilliant experience, designed by God, hung in the halls of our memories--indeed painted on the very walls immovably. My heart was open, yet unfilled.
An hour later I was in the Relief Society meeting, surrounded by angels with no two hairdos alike, no two outfits uniform; my heart opened wider, gladder to the spirit shared, but was not filled.
I stirred the coconut milk in with the squash and curry and chicken and onions, and my nose poured the soup's savory aroma into my lungs, yet my soul was not filled.
And when satisfied mouths partook I was happy; then a little prick, another leak began. I wondered. If the gospel would not fill my soul, if making and sharing food could not satisfy--indeed if these most favorite acts now sabotaged what usually they made whole--what could patch my draining soul?
When the boy (whose attention crushes my heart making my cheeks bruise rosy) talked to me and even complimented me and made me laugh and this did not reverse the emptying process I knew at last nothing would work and it must just be one of those days.
I don't mean to say that these good experiences didn't make me feel good, but I just didn't get why nothing was sticking. Plenty of feeling, just no filling.
The moments of my day had this plan: rid her of satisfaction and she will feel a need to be filled, she will write. Each letter will prick the tip of a finger, the leaking feelings bleeding through a corresponding shape, and when each letter has been typed tidily in place, she will discover that her soul is actually filled and overflowing, that words had just had no ability to define those excess feelings that can only be felt. She will write, and she will be filled. Then her filledness will be fully represented. in writing.
Well.
Writing thinks it does that. It thinks that since it holds all the letters, then it owns all the words. If it owns all the words, it can produce any and all meaning. All satisfaction will be filled if I write the feelings out, write 'em down. It thinks that since I can't think without words, I need writing to be ultimately fulfilled.
Well, more or less, the words are right. I need them to communicate feeling. A feeling comes, I sense a movement within me, I classify it best I can, I tag it to track its migratory patterns. That's what we do, we assume every feeling has a place, so we find or make a place for it.
Right now I'm writing because...
[minutes of wondering wandered through my brain just now]
I have no reason.
Right now I am content, but at a loss. A loss for what? Words? Never. There are always words, even if none of them describe the things I feel and think. A loss that feels like the overused "missing jigsaw piece" analogy. It's not a corner piece; my frame is complete. But there's one inside piece that I'm looking for, because this one section is almost complete, and I feel like I'll know it the second I see it.
All this fancy talk is bothering me. It's because it'll have an audience of who knows who. I could have written in my journal, privately, but when I write that way it's so blasé, it's as if I write the same page over and over again. I chose to write for an audience other than myself so that I would try harder.
It worked...but it's boring. It's all pretty and floofy, which isn't even a word, and my pretty words weren't even true. So here's the truth.
Right now I'm writing for attention. Right now my mind feels like it's trickling down my spine and down, through to the center of the earth because I took sleep-aid pills to induce an imitation slumber sensation.
Right now, if you were looking through your screen to me you would see this:
That's because all day I've been writing, just not in a readable way. Each experience I lived today somehow knew it was important and so it started doing this strange thing to me. Each experience pricked a tiny hole in wherever it is within me that gets that full feeling of satisfaction with life. And instead of being filled by the wonderful experiences of this day, I was emptied.
I was nestled in a seat at church, warming my heart by the heat of sweet declarations of faith by my peers and friends. Their personal testimonies witnessed of the masterpiece that is painted by every stroke of brilliant experience, designed by God, hung in the halls of our memories--indeed painted on the very walls immovably. My heart was open, yet unfilled.
An hour later I was in the Relief Society meeting, surrounded by angels with no two hairdos alike, no two outfits uniform; my heart opened wider, gladder to the spirit shared, but was not filled.
I stirred the coconut milk in with the squash and curry and chicken and onions, and my nose poured the soup's savory aroma into my lungs, yet my soul was not filled.
And when satisfied mouths partook I was happy; then a little prick, another leak began. I wondered. If the gospel would not fill my soul, if making and sharing food could not satisfy--indeed if these most favorite acts now sabotaged what usually they made whole--what could patch my draining soul?
When the boy (whose attention crushes my heart making my cheeks bruise rosy) talked to me and even complimented me and made me laugh and this did not reverse the emptying process I knew at last nothing would work and it must just be one of those days.
I don't mean to say that these good experiences didn't make me feel good, but I just didn't get why nothing was sticking. Plenty of feeling, just no filling.
The moments of my day had this plan: rid her of satisfaction and she will feel a need to be filled, she will write. Each letter will prick the tip of a finger, the leaking feelings bleeding through a corresponding shape, and when each letter has been typed tidily in place, she will discover that her soul is actually filled and overflowing, that words had just had no ability to define those excess feelings that can only be felt. She will write, and she will be filled. Then her filledness will be fully represented. in writing.
Well.
Writing thinks it does that. It thinks that since it holds all the letters, then it owns all the words. If it owns all the words, it can produce any and all meaning. All satisfaction will be filled if I write the feelings out, write 'em down. It thinks that since I can't think without words, I need writing to be ultimately fulfilled.
Well, more or less, the words are right. I need them to communicate feeling. A feeling comes, I sense a movement within me, I classify it best I can, I tag it to track its migratory patterns. That's what we do, we assume every feeling has a place, so we find or make a place for it.
Right now I'm writing because...
[minutes of wondering wandered through my brain just now]
I have no reason.
Right now I am content, but at a loss. A loss for what? Words? Never. There are always words, even if none of them describe the things I feel and think. A loss that feels like the overused "missing jigsaw piece" analogy. It's not a corner piece; my frame is complete. But there's one inside piece that I'm looking for, because this one section is almost complete, and I feel like I'll know it the second I see it.
All this fancy talk is bothering me. It's because it'll have an audience of who knows who. I could have written in my journal, privately, but when I write that way it's so blasé, it's as if I write the same page over and over again. I chose to write for an audience other than myself so that I would try harder.
It worked...but it's boring. It's all pretty and floofy, which isn't even a word, and my pretty words weren't even true. So here's the truth.
Right now I'm writing for attention. Right now my mind feels like it's trickling down my spine and down, through to the center of the earth because I took sleep-aid pills to induce an imitation slumber sensation.
Right now, if you were looking through your screen to me you would see this:
Which you probably weren't expecting. I mean, how could you have? It's not pretty. But, truth be told, I'm too vain to post a picture I don't think resembles prettiness in some measure. Right now my face is stiff with mud that hides my skin as it pretends to cleanse it. My words mask my feelings as they pretend to portray them. That's happening in my "right now," even though you're reading this during your "right now."
Right now I'm thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus. She didn't ask for it, she wasn't walkin around thinking "I sure hope I'm the Mary, chosen and bound to get a lot of attention." I never would have been a good choice to fill the role of Mary, or Eve, etc; I'm too vain. Not humble enough. I try to be, honest I do; but, not so that I'll be chosen for it, because that's instantly contrary to the laws of humility. I would really like to be honestly humble, by very nature. But it takes a lot of effort on my part to be humble. So I keep trying.
Right now I'm thinking about that boy. Yes, I have a crush, as they say, on this boy. But he has a crush on himself, so he doesn't need mine. But still it's just fun to have a little crush. The reason (well actually there are many deserving reasons a crush would form) I've been attracted to him is because the first time I ever talked to him, I told him that I love to write and he responded exactly how I expected he wouldn't: he jubilantly expressed slight envy that I pursue writing, that I study it in school, because he too loves to write (and he does it well), but he is studying more practically lucrative things. So ever since I met him that pleasant night beside a dim fire, I knew I liked him. He unknowingly inspires me to create, to write, because I am privileged to pursue what I love. But that is all he will do for me, because I do not seek his attention. When I get it, I am pleased. But he gets enough attention from enough girls to fill an entire stadium, wherein they would gladly assemble to cheer for only him. He would act embarrassed, but that would be his mask to cover his smug elation. I do not imply that he is at all unpleasant, I'm just saying I will not participate in throwing myself at him. If he asked me out, I would absolutely say yes. He's the white knight; he makes the first move.
Right now I have to pee. Right now my nose is itching from the mud mask. Right now all the letters aren't touching each other on the keyboard, but 'w' typed after 'o', and 'o' typed right after 'n', creates the present. Those letters chain up these words, and these words make up my feelings, and my feelings fill my happy soul despite its holes and ignorance. Right now I think I've written all I came to write.
oops, I almost forgot the letter z.
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