Monday, December 23, 2002

How long has it been since I’ve written? No, not written a quick journal entry, or something like that, but really written? My mind is in that mode tonight, where the poetic section of my brain has simply taken over, and it wants to say so many words, but I just cant get them out like I used to. It wants to tell stories, to be set free somehow. How long has it been since I’ve felt I had a story to tell? And now there are everywhere, leaping out from the walls, begging to be told. They are dancing around in my brain, and yet the words just don’t want to come. Its such an odd feeling, the feeling of tales trapped within your head, asking to be told. It’s the Writer’s Headache, I suppose.

The problem is, by the time I go to write the words, they are gone. I can’t speak them and record them, because they do not wish to be spoken. It’s a delicate problem.

I finally managed to get some out tonight, and it feels as if some of the pressure inside my head is off, I suppose letting some of the words out lessened the overcrowding that was going on in there. I couldn’t look at the screen as I typed, because looking at the words seemed to take something away. It still does.

I have been reading so many great stories lately, by so many different authors, with so many different styles, and it has made me fall in love with language, with stories to be told, all over again. I love how they can simply take your emotions hostage, until you are just along for the ride, in a sort of drunken rollercoaster. Drunken rollercoaster. Tom Robbins, one of my favorite authors, would say something like that. I keep finding his sort of phrases wanting to pop out. Maybe these are not my own words dancing inside my head, but all of the great books I’ve ever read have danced and spun around so quickly that they’ve all gotten tangled together, in a massive heap of words and ideas, all jumbled together, and now they’re trying to sneak out of my head through my words. Very tricky they are.

Did you see that? That whole thing about the words dancing and entangling? That was Tom. Although not quite. It was words wanting to be spoken as Tom would, but coming out with my own sort of flavor. I don’t know what to call it.

This is an odd entry, I know. I’m tempted not to post it, but I’m far too self-censoring, so I shall post it anyway. I think that’s what started my desire to write tonight, in fact. I had this desire to start a whole other journal for all of the thoughts I had that I wanted to write, but that I didn’t want to put here. And at the same time, I wanted to put them here, and in fact, to put so much of myself out here that I felt stripped, as if all of my thoughts were visible to the world. I would like that, but I’m not there. I envy so much the journalers who can put it all out there, who can give so much of themselves. I know I’ve said that before, but I never come any closer to being it, do I? I ramble on once in a great while, and then go right back to my ways of complaining about the weather and telling silly anecdotes. I can’t quite explain it.

Perhaps what I need to do is start getting very drunk, and then writing. I feel drunk right now, but its that silly intoxication that comes from a mixture of thoughts and emotions and the phenomenom that is both the lack of sleep and too much sleep all at once.

I wrote tonight. I wrote about my eyes and my skin, and grandparents I have never met, and a country I have never seen, but somehow know. Writing makes me feel alive.

I am going to sleep now. Or at least to bed, where I will turn the words about in my head some more until they spin into dreams.

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