Street tar and summer'll do a job on your soul

I was going through old emails and folders today. I've never really kept a journal. But I did write emails. Oh, did I ever. And if you think my public blog posts are intimate, well. You can only imagine my emails, right?

So I'm thinking of undertaking some copying and pasting and filling in the gap years. Which means I'm naturally tending to an electronic journal. At least for that project. When, and with what time, is, as always, the question.

I came across some old poetry I'd written and then emailed to myself. Remember how I told you I was never the kid with my moleskin. Never with a pen. Not even a pencil with an extra big eraser. I've always tended to the keyboard. But, easy as it is to loose notebooks and pens and planners, it's as equally easy to loose (or loose track of) files.

The title of this song was taken from a Spoon song, Black Like Me. Which is the title of a book I came into possession of by way of my father but never actually read. And I keep meaning to.

I've been listening to this song and this line just speaks to me. And they've been repaving the street in front of my families house. And I was thinking, driving down it the other night, about the layers of street, of tar that is buried under this new layer. I know they sometimes strip the street before repave it or whatever. And I was thinking about the cars that drive on that road which just made my feet itch to be bare and be the first person to run that road barefoot. And I was brought back to a similar scene from my youth when that same street was being repaved. And, being kids, we walked in the still wet tar. And oh, was it hard to get that tar off.

But somehow, I don't remember the black stains. I remember yellow and black. Laughing. Honeysuckle. And I want to say a straw.

I was thinking all these things and naturally I thought, "I need to write that down". And then today, going through my old forgotten email folders, like a weed pushing up through the cracks in concrete, this poem found its way back to me. I had completely forgotten about it. I have no recollection of having written it. I don't remember how I felt when I wrote it. What I was trying to feel. It was 7/10/06. Lisa's birthday. Three months before I left to Quebec for my mission. I want to say it's incomplete. Though since I can't remember, I can't really say. I do know there is no period at the end. That's a pretty good indication I emailed it to myself in a sense of urgency. I do not forget periods lightly. Ha ha.

I must have beckoned it once, years ago. And then, I beckoned it a few days ago and it found its way, faithfully, back to me. I can't take that kind of coincidence lightly and I hope you understand why.

I'm posting it here. Unfinished. Untitled. (Because while I may steal their lyrics for my blog titles, I will never steal Spoon's lyrics for poem titles.) Like the stripped down layer of the road before the tar is laid, it's where the memories are, even if buried. And I'll let it see the light before I forget about it again:

Urban feet get stuck in mud too, you know.

Hot concrete on calloused feet,
Deevolutionized by the sun from road
to the soft tar laid one early morning
Years ago.

And isn’t that just how it is?
Time, I mean.

Because I remember the laying of that tar.
Hot season, burning blackness, had to stick our fingers in it,
Feet and toes.

Baby, all I wanted was to one day walk a million
different such streets in rushed stilettos.

I somehow imagined that the air I breathed higher would be deeper,
My pulmonary cells wished for that, involuntary.  Make this blood bluer,
They said.  Bluer.  More blue.

Such imagination.

I spent the early seasons waiting for fall,
fall wanting to return to spring,
Unable, nuclei, to imagine

In with the outro and out with the old!

So I've been thinking back the past few days on my discretion policy. The one I came up with, loosely, back when this thing was first going up.

I had the greatest intentions, really.

But you see, while there is a certain intimacy to be felt in the recounting of travels-what this blog originally set out to do-the bulk of the words are adjectives. Descriptions. Of Sounds. Smells. Puzzle pieces out of place. Me realizing that I am that missing piece. Soundtracks.

And while I have argued that these are the things that ground my memories of the EverythingElse-the thoughts, the feelings, the sharp inhalation of breath, the deep sighs and alltherestforwhichtherearenowords-and therefore worth the sharing, I think I have broken my own policy hear and trespassed into the world of Too Much Information. I have ventured far beyond descriptive adjectives of exterior and the safe distance they put between me, my thoughts, and the rest of the world.

In short: it's time for a revision of the discretion policy or at least reinforcement of it.

This blog has been the catalyst of a many great things. Like most great things, in typical opposition, there are disadvantages. The great things are too numerous to mention right now but I'll highlight the habit of writing in general, since most of the great things-as I see them-are derivations on that theme. This habit of writing has however, in some senses either handicapped me, aggravated a pre-existing handicapped condition, or made me aware of the existence of said handicap (the latter also having the potential for greatness if I use that knowledge to my advantage). Now I bet you're wondering what that handicap is, now.

Well, even if you're not, too bad. I'm telling you anyway.

The current diagnosis:
The patient suffers from an increased inability to process, organize, and express observations and feeling without the use of the written (or typed) word.

Symptoms are: Stuttering. Dyslexic speech. Avoidance of eye contact. Excessive use of hand gestures (without any formal training in sign language). Speaking in monotones due to the lack of visual punctuation marks while speaking (especially emoticons). Repeated conversations. Notebooks filled with urgent and really serious cheesy crap that should probably be burned.

(As a side note, today I was chatting with a friend who reiterated "how smart" I was, speaking of the overactive powers of my brain. Now, it seems like I've been getting that a lot lately. And can I just say that I'm kind of sick of it! Please don't take this the wrong way, I really am not that cocky. And I know it sounds that way. It's just that hearing this kind of thing adds and incredible amount of pressure you know: trying how to figure out how to not be intimidating when I don't believe that I am in the first place. Not to mention the fact that, no offense, in my mind really smart people are capable of more than what I am currently in the middle of. And shouldn't really smart people be able to learn more languages? Write chronologically and to the point? Form complete sentences without leaving out 5 or 6 words? Figure out how to get along with people? How to make their own decisions? How to process information without first counseling with at least 4 people and making them all hear the same sad circular stories and being paralyzed without their advice and yet refusing to take it most of the time anyway? I think people confuse smart with selfish some of the time. I also think I have really smart, really awesome, and really patient friends to whom I'm super grateful. But let me add here that the only reason I so much as remotely believe (which also leaves plenty of room for a huge and I mean mega amount of disbelief) that I am anything above average is the above list. Because I think that sometimes, really smart people end up being too smart to function. And as you can see, I have some work to do in the functionality department. So please, let's let that be the end of that. Everyone seems to mention this in worried overtones. And, well. Worry is like the germs on the mostly unwashed hands of my preschoolers. And by that I mean, catching.)


This blog has become the depository of thoughts. It embodies my efforts to organize them. And the line between therapeutic writing, entertaining writing, ambiguous writing (my infamous MonstrousLiar posts), and writing about the.things.that.really.matter has gotten rather blurred, I must say.

So, thanks to some inspiring words yesterday in Institute, I'm going to take the Great out of this blog and apply it to two other places. Namely, two other journals. Whether these journals will be electronic or not remains to be seen. They may be making the occasional cameo as MonstrousLiar posts (to further endorse Google; tease you; and validate myself that people actually do care about the idiosyncrasies which are so particular to me). But they may not, either. The point is, this here is the great divorce. From now on efforts to organize thoughts particular to my situation will be kept in one journal. Thoughts, feelings, lessons learned and all the rest will be kept in another. You know, the important stuff.

And the EverythingElse. Well, that is what can go on here.

And now I can justify journal shopping. Joy of JOYS!

But better yet, I could use some good advice.

*This blog was started Saturday, September 11th. Incidentally, I ended up being social and leaving it unfinished until now. I can't recall what I ended up doing with my time. All I can remember about that day-apart from the obvious patriotic particularities-is that this is the day I didn't finish my blog. Probably shouldn't let that happen again. As I'm obviously traumatized.

I've been going through some sick blog withdrawls. Writing withdrawls, really. Committing certain aspects of my life to writing have helped me make them real. I look back at the last month and already I'm forgetting what happened, how I felt, and most importantly, what I've been thinking about. It seems like most of what goes on in my life-where the action is-is in my head. Now I know that sounds kind of mental but it's really not, I swear. But I ground and classify the days events by the thoughts I associated with them. So forgetting my thoughts feels like a loss of those days.

Anyway, I have a to do list the length of all my needing-to-be-sharpened pencils when they are lined up in a row. The thing is, I really really don't like feel like getting on it. I suppose it doesn't help that the first thing on said list is: find planner (so I can write my list down, obviously). By the way, I did clean what there was to clean in my room. Then I went for a run and tore it apart looking for my ipod running band. So the room has been re-cluttered and the band is still lost, thereby undoing the only productive thing I've done all day. Unless you count going running again, which I probably should. I should maybe mention here that I think my knee is better. Victory! Now I can start building up that mileage again. Joy of joys.

So here I sit, in a half empty room, smelly from my run but perfectly un-sweaty thanks to my new nike running gear. Might I add here that if nike wanted to pay me to advertise there stuff, I would gladly buy it and wear it all the time. Might I also add that my running capris look amazing. Which is great motivation to keep up running because if I don't well then, they won't look amazing anymore. Sounds like a fail proof plan to me.

So yes, back to me sitting. I got back to my apartment and was running over all the things I need to do. I was in serious turmoil because there's this part of me that feels the need to fill the whole day with busyness, productivity, efficiency and general lack of laziness. Then there's the other part of me that feels like I deserve a little lazy, don't I? Even if that lazy still feels ever so slightly like work. Like reading a book in Spanish. Watching a movie in French. Painting. Or better yet, getting caught up on my blog. The two sides of me, as always, put up a good fight. Then a voice of reason called a time out. Usually this voice is my mother's or my father's, whether in my head or on the phone. Today it happened to be my voice. I recalled this post: http://fromthebelltower.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.htm in which I talked about the things that make me happy pretty much no matter what. And I realized that a to-do list complete with check marks next to every item does help me sleep at night, but it doesn't really bring me joy. If anything, it just makes me feel overwhelmed with the need to fill whatever time I have left and to do it effectively. Sometimes, I take my play way too seriously.

Maybe later on today I will be productive. Maybe later on today I will be social. I don't know and I'm not going to plan it out or write it down. It's time to take part of the "il bel far neinte. I feel like writing on this blog. I feel the need for some "intellectual and emotional indulgence" which doesn't require me to take several hours out of someone else's busy day to get it. I've been hearing a lot of really good advice lately. And I think it's time that I give myself time to commit it to paper or at least think about it. If I am going to insist on using a planner and having a to-do list, I should probably pencil in an hour everyday for unadulterated and guiltless thinking or blog writing. I may have been overly pampered in Colorado this summer as far as "me time" is concerned. Maybe an hour is a bit excessive. But then again, je suis excessive, moi.

So on with the advice. Or the conversations that led to my thinking. And don't expect closure. My thinking rarely wraps up nicely.

So a while back I finished Eat, Pray, Love. And maybe it was because at the time of my reading, I was rather embracing my more volatile side instead of denying its existence and so I felt like I really related this time around to the author. And I mean freakishly related to her. And whereas before I would find myself kind of annoyed that people said she reminded them of me, this time around I was utterly flattered. Obviously, Liz Gilbert's selling point is the sense of kinship-her book inspired, though probably not intentionally, vicarious living. The hate in my love/hate relationship with her comes from the fact that I want to live vicariously through my own life. I don't want to sit on the sidelines and read about someone else doing it, inspiring as that may be. So not only is she out there living her life and not someone else's, she's written and published a hugely successful book about it. Totally hate-worthy, right?

But even though the fact that I see so much of myself in her makes me feel like maybe I'm not that original after all and she's like the grown up, classier version of the me I will never grown up to be, I am grateful for the kinship factor. Because it makes me feel, cheesy as it may sound, less alone. I was reading on her website and came across this. It really describes a thought process I've had, especially last summer. And a big part of me still wants to subscribe to it. The difference being maybe that I don't know how serious I am about a "life of writing". I think I would be content to write something-one thing-that I feel really good about and that people hear about enough that a few people read and maybe it means something to them. Like "Quest for a Maid". Either way, her line of reasoning is scarily similar to mine, even if she is way more committed than me:

I believe that – if you are serious about a life of writing, or indeed about any creative form of expression – that you should take on this work like a holy calling. I became a writer the way other people become monks or nuns. I made a vow to writing, very young. I became Bride-of-Writing. I was writing’s most devotional handmaiden. I built my entire life around writing. I didn’t know how else to do this. I didn’t know anyone who had ever become a writer. I had no, as they say, connections. I had no clues. I just began.

I took a few writing classes when I was at NYU, but, aside from an excellent workshop taught by Helen Schulman, I found that I didn’t really want to be practicing this work in a classroom. I wasn’t convinced that a workshop full of 13 other young writers trying to find their voices was the best place for me to find my voice. So I wrote on my own, as well. I showed my work to friends and family whose opinions I trusted. I was always writing, always showing. After I graduated from NYU, I decided not to pursue an MFA in creative writing. Instead, I created my own post-graduate writing program, which entailed several years spent traveling around the country and world, taking jobs at bars and restaurants and ranches, listening to how people spoke, collecting experiences and writing constantly. My life probably looked disordered to observers (not that anyone was observing it that closely) but my travels were a very deliberate effort to learn as much as I could about life, expressly so that I could write about it.

So there you have it-in someone else's words-a justification of my desire to travel. The question has now become: when I go away for months on end every summer and come back with only a few pages of writing to show for it, can writing really justify these travels? And when my French is already fluent, can I justify traveling for the sake of unnecessary improvement? Especially when these travels interrupt any semblance of a social life I might have...?

My current epiphany has been to go abroad only a few weeks on a "holocaust tour" of sorts. Because the holocaust has always fascinated me and because I think it would yield a different kind of touristic experience, all while not imposing on my social life.

A recent conversation with a friend brought home to me the fact that my indecision is due to the fact that I've got nothing to dream for, nothing to build up to. Another friend (coworker) alluded to the fact that this lack of a dream is because we are living it and our lives are so fulfilling in the present that it becomes difficult to anticipate and plan (for) a future in which we aren't satisfied.
And I am fulfilled. I really am. And yet.

Restless.

Which begs the question: do I simply lack a dream or do I instead need the opposite?: to take a step (a big one) outside of myself and really just get over myself and my myriad of interests and personal development and delicious management of my needs and my time and give up of all of egocentric efforts for the sake of helping other people. If only for the sake of becoming less of a control freak/hermit.

Which leads me to the end of my logic.

Some words by the great Henry B. Eyring:

"The thirst for education that comes with the change the gospel brings can be a blessing or a curse, depending on our motives. If we continue to seek learning to serve God and His children better, it is a blessing of great worth. If we begin to seek learning to exalt ourselves alone, it leads to selfishness and pride, which will take us away from eternal life."

I have a lot of motives to question. But I'm fairly certain that if it's a dream I'm lacking, it's because I am no longer satisfied with a dream that is merely self-serving and validating. Which is an aspect of my life that anything that were to take me away from school-the one place where I do feel like I do in fact give and contribute in some small scale-would inevitably magnify.

In the meantime, I have to get to it eliminating those pockets of time that don't serve anyone else and not really myself either. Talking on the phone might be one such habit. Facebook most definitely. Though I won't go all hard core and quit, I think it's time I enforce rules.

Again, Elder Eyring is applicable: "We too often fail to take advantage of the moments we spend waiting. Think of the last time you sat in a barber shop or a beauty salon or the waiting room of a doctor’s office. It is so easy to spend time thumbing through any magazine that is stacked on a table there. In fact, if you think about it, you will remember how you wondered where they get those out-of-date magazines. There is much valuable reading you could do if you took a book with you to fill those islands of time.

It takes neither modern technology nor much money to seize the opportunity to learn in the moments we now waste. You could just have a book and paper and pencil with you. That will be enough. But you need determination to capture the leisure moments you now waste."

********************************

I had more good advice and thoughts to share on my digestion of said advice. But it got lost in the time between hearing it and writing this. So it's random and doesn't correlate, but I think I'll end with this, from my dear Paulo Coelho's Manual of the Warrior of Light:

A warrior of light carefully studies the position that he intends to conquer. However difficult the objective, there is always a way of overcoming obstacles. He seeks out alternative paths, he sharpens his sword, he tries to fill his heart with the necessary perseverance to face the challenge. But as he advances, the warrior realises that there are difficulties he had not reckoned with. If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything.