Eleanor Rigby

I have a confession to make. For the last two months I have done no creative writing whatsoever aside from this blog, even before I'd made it. It's not that I haven't wanted to, or tried: I have; it's just that I've had the most severe writer's block of my life over these last two months, to the point that a blank page has become truly terrifying to me. On Friday I was on the verge of writing; I was inches away from jotting down the skeleton of a sonnet when I was cruelly interrupted in the form of Mr. Schubert behind my shoulder. I indulged myself in a hidden tear only after answering his question. I didn't tell anyone until yesterday, and I felt guilty when I did for upsetting them.

The worst thing about it is how it's made me feel. Writing is my life; it's who I am, even if I rarely save anything I write. It's not the finished pieces that I live for, really; it's the process of writing them. A friend of mine suggested to me once that writing is for me what sex is for most people, and it's true; while I drop the occasional dirty joke and have a knack for spotting phallic imagery, I've never had a dream that went farther than a peck on the lips, and even those have occurred infrequently enough to count on one hand. I think of The Wasp Factory (a book that can only be described as "really, really messed up, and strangely good") and realize that I feel as though I've been castrated. I've been pretty unbalanced lately, I think. I don't know why I don't tell people when I'm upset. It's not readily apparant; most of the time I don't think anyone knows or notices, even when I'm truly in a terrible state. I think it's because I don't really like recieving sympathy or pity. If someone says something loving, I want it to be genuine and spur-of-the-moment, not calculated to cheer me up. And I don't know how to respond to flattery or praise. It's probably also partly because I don't know how to comfort people myself and have come to associate need with social awkwardness... does that make any sense? I guess it's pretty harsh of me to expect people to know what I'm feeling or say the right thing if I don't clue them in... I suppose I ought to talk more about my emotions. When they're serious, though, and negative, they're much harder to give away so freely. Love is easy for me to give, because I don't ever really want much back; I just hate to give parts of myself away that will make people upset.

And I have been in a terrible state, overall. I've had moments of hysterical hapiness, yes, but they've been surrounded by terrible darkness, a brash sunburn before a cold saltwater bath. Even my blog posts haven't been very well written; I've misspelled things several times, and my IM conversations have been grammatical nightmares. I'm ashamed, honestly, of who I've been. Aside from my brief fit of snappiness with Harry (for which I'm truly sorry), I've behaved all right socially, I think, although some of my old awkwardness has returned to me; but in private I haven't read anything new, haven't written anything, haven't let out my emotions. It feels terrible. My writing used to have a magic to it, a sense of ethereal distance, as though each story existed only in some nether realm. My blog has been worldly and cold.

On one of my very happy nights last week, a new but dear friend told me that she admired my ability to cry. I realized afterwards that at the root of my problem was the fact that I've felt as though I was on the brink of tears for months. I don't really know why I've been feeling this way, or why I haven't been able to truly cry about myself for years; I cry when I fight with my parents, and when I read something that means a lot to me or is truly beautiful in my eyes. I cried on the subway halfway through 73 by e.e. cummings, I cried when I got to Shakespeare's Sonnet 34 (an old favorite of mine), I cried when I heard Today on the radio, and I cried for the baby when my aunt announced her intentions to divorce a second time. I never once cried for myself, aside from the tear in Mr. Schubert's class and another one last night, nor do I desire to.

And for some reason when I read In His Own Write from cover to cover for the second time this morning, I felt better. I shed a tear, but I was smiling. Something about the second-to-last story struck me in a new way. It's all nonsense, and none of it literally means anything, but I've always treasured it as a door into Lennon's mind; and I realized that, after all, in one's own mind isn't a bad place to be. I can't really explain what I felt just then. I don't want to desecrate it by writing it down or analyzing it. It was lovely, though.

I sat at the table with wet hair and drank some coffee with my mom and Renata. And then my dad walked in and said, "V, I like that shirt. Where'd you get it?" I told him that I'd bought it with Alex and Harry last week, and he said "Well, it looks nice on you." A commonplace nicety, but sweet nonetheless. Then he sat down, took off his coat, and began opening the mail. I sipped at my coffee and dripped for a few minutes before he said "V, did you write something called 'The Pointless Patchwork Story of a Very Lonely Child'?" I froze. "Yeah..." "Well, it's won some award or other. A 'Golden Key.'"

I can't brag, because the piece honestly wasn't very good, but the award still made my day. I know Matt will win something, and we'll go together and have a good time laughing at all the literary snobs.

Later on, I found out that my ticket to see the Allman Brothers had been given to my uncle without my knowledge. Needless to say, I was a little annoyed. My mom decided to go online and try to find me a ticket. They were out. What she found instead, however, was the Allman Brothers playing with Government Mule on the first monday of spring break. Two tickets.

Mom and I are going together.

On a seperate note, if any of the people who were at Blue Nine Burger on Friday are reading this, can I ask you to forgive me? I got snappish and made the whole conversation into an argument, and I'm sorry. No hard feelings? Because I really love you guys. All of you, even the ones I don't know so well. And I'd hate for some stupid conversation to build walls between us.

And with tickets to see God--not once but twice--in April, life doesn't seem all too bad right now. Pete is also here--none of you know him, but he's pretty awesome. A neuroscientist and an amazing blues guitarist who's inches away from marrying my mom's cousin.

Check out my picture, everyone. PhotoBucket.com kicks ass. Please don't try to console me. I love you. I'm out.