8:40am Writing Practice 52° Boise
On Monday I wrote about Dad feeling like a failure at the end of his life and then I took it to a different format and edited it to be something I could publish on FB as a note. And so I did publish it and it gave me such a feeling of possibility and accomplishment! I have a new memoir How-to book from the library and it's proven to be so inspiring and helpful, I ordered my own copy. It arrives tomorrow and I can't wait to begin marking it up and doing some of the exercises. There are chapters and instructions about smells, food, sounds --- all the details of life that occur as we go along but that seldom get added to a written project. Like the sound of the motorcycle that just dashed by outside, how the YouTube video I'm watching with the ocean scenes and relaxing music has to be a little louder today because it's chilly in the house this morning and I have the little heater on. Are these details that will add value to this entry later on? The author also suggests practicing writing about the weather and I'm happy to say that I've been doing that for years. So many of my journal pages begin with a weather report, it was my warm up to the page, my way in to the day's writing to talk about the weather at that moment. For instance, today is bright, clear and sunny if a little chilly. There doesn't appear to be any breeze at all, which means it could get warm later on.
Sometimes I sit here and imagine that my house is in a small mountain town somewhere. The view out my front window from this chair lends itself to that idea and I like it; something about the idea of living in a small mountain town soothes me. Maybe because my mother grew up in one and I spent time in my very young life in a few. Kinzu, now not even a trace left behind of its existence. Camp 5, where Granny and Gramp lived when I was almost too little to remember. In reality, I don't remember, I have snippets, flashes that are more imaginings from the stories told to me of my doings at the time. Such as when I found Granny's scissors and cut up all her fabric. That was at Camp 5. There is no one left to ask, no one who would remember a little blond girl doing such a thing or when or where she did it but I do have that tiny snippet of memory and so I shall add it here. And now that I've written it down, it becomes reality, a permanent part of my history even though there's no way to confirm it. Also, there's no one left who would care to know such details. How all the roads in Camp 5 were dirt roads, all the houses were shacks or cabins and the trees towered over all of it, a constant presence, the sound of the wind through the trees when all was quiet at night or early morning, the scent of pine that I now love and crave, and the coverings of pine needles and drips of pitch on everything. That's all that's left at Camp 5 now, the trees. No sign of human life remains. I'm not sure anyone is alive who even knows where it was. I wouldn't know where to begin to look for it. Except in my memory.
So many details of my life I want to write down, write about. Some of the memories hurt or are bittersweet. Some are embarrassing. Some are totally mortifying and I can't imagine writing them down because I can hardly stand to remember them. The amazing thing is, I have such a great memory! I feel like my head is stuffed full of thousands of home movies and they cue up and play at random moments, creating their own montage. What a delightful feature, I never really appreciated my memory before. Now that's all I want to do, play with my memory as if it's a new device I just acquired and am learning how to use.
I didn't write yesterday or the day before. It's been a while since I took two days off in a row. I'm fidgeting here, I may be ready to wrap it up. Too much to do, as usual. It was payday yesterday and so I now have money to go buy some plants for the beds in the front yard. I need to wash my car and blow the crap out of the back yard. And then there's the work at the studio, the writing of books. How can I be expected to write and keep up with the details of life at the same time? I've pondered selling my house and moving someplace with little or no yard work. I don't enjoy yard work although I do enjoy a pretty yard. But it all seems so pointless now. I go in and out of that attitude of pointlessness but less so lately. I'm feeling better then I was for those few months between Stephen's birthday and my own. That was some pretty bleak times, I'm very grateful to be back, or at least heading back from that.
I don't write about him much but just so you know, Stephen is seldom far from my thoughts. I don't obsess about him like I did but I still miss him all the time. At times, it still slaps me up side the head that he's dead. How could that be?! A mother can't just set aside all the hopes and dreams and memories she has of her child and go on. Life is a ridiculous exercise in futility these days --- who the fuck gives a shit about anything at all? My child is dead! Everything else is white noise. But I am trying and I do feel better. I intend to continue to feel better so that I can get these stories written. I must write these stories! I have everyone's stories and I can't leave this world with the weight of all these stories on my back.
No comments:
Post a Comment