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Monday, January 03, 2005


Really deep thoughts.

It's late. I miss the ocean. I read Brave on the Rocks and it left me - jealous? I am still trying to figure out the point of all this. Why am I writing this? There's a quote in this book I'm reading, The Right to Write by Julia Cameron, about how it's hard enough to write, let alone write and try to be impressive at the same time. Am I trying to impress you? Am I trying to impress myself? Why do I need an audience? Why isn't it enough to scribble quietly in my journal? Shouldn't a published writer have something to say, something more than "I went to a ballgame" or "I eat white beans"? Why would you possibly be interested in these details? Why would I possibly share them?

I want to live by the sea. I have wanted this for a long time. I also want to live in San Francisco, and take a road trip down the coast of California, and spend months in Hawaii like Lauren and Gregg, and see Alaska, and backpack around Europe, and get to know my grandparents, who are all dead. I want to know what my parents were like as children. I want to know what it's like to have a childhood without homework and manners, to be a fucked up teenager who roams and tests and tries. I want to be someone who makes a lot of mistakes and learns from them, someone wise, someone interesting, something important - someone who helps other people, someone who is patient, someone who is vast. I want to remember what it feels like to play soccer on a Saturday afternoon, age 10. Pigtails and sticky lemonade. I want to know what it feels like to be punk, to be glamorous, to be musical, to be... I want to know what it feels like to have a house of your own to move around in, a yard for your dog, a porch for writing and wine-sipping and moon-gazing. A grill for your husband, who is in a band. A life of art and service and rest and good company. I don't know how to get there.

Am I performing for you even now? Is that what this is? Or am I communing? More of my friends and family members know about this now; I feel like I'm coming out. Am I so lonely that I need you to talk to? Why is it so much easier to say things here that are real and true than to say these things in conversation? Which version of me is more real, the version here or the version in person?

Now I am sounding self-conscious - to quote Tori Amos, I'm sounding like a "girl who thinks really deep thoughts." Why am I always simultaneously judgmental of and inspired by female song-writers and journalers? Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, Ani DiFranco, Alanis Morrisette, Sabrina Ward Harrison, Sark - I admire these women artists because they count, because they are honest, because they express something that I relate to somewhere inside in a way I can't control...and yet I try to distance myself from them, because they can be precious/hackneyed/embarassingly simple.....just like me.

(I was a chatty toddler. Favorite activities: playing with stuffed animals, talking to mom. At one point my mom established 30 minutes of quiet time each day. I'd ask, "Can I talk yet?" "Not yet, honey." These days I mostly want to be left alone. But then you get me started with this blog, and I can't shut up....)

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