it just has to be done
July 15, 2012
Mr. Ex tells me he only does text. I’m laughing, saying, Men are interestinn. He’s sayinn, Why is this?
Well text, it makes me sick. Got my reasons. Gonna keep em all to myself. Doesn’t matter what I think. Matters what I learn. So I’m listeninn. And he tells me he likes efficiency. And text is straight to the point. And that women are known to… drift. He didn’t say it like that. More like this.
He can’t tell what their point is right away. They bury the lead. And there he is, stuck, waiting for the information he needs to determine if he cares about what’s being said. And then it hits me…
I (women) (fabulously massive generalization) dig communication as an experience. It’s a dynamic. An energy between two people that occurs. It’s not storytelling. It’s not news reporting. It’s not speaker and audience. It’s not something being told but something being shared, which means… mutuality. Participation. So that where we go, we go together and where we end up we may not know until we arrive.
Then it hits me. Ohmagosh. And I see it when I write. A lead? A point? To get to? A predetermined destination? I might not have one when I start.
I’m less interested in the ends and more in the means. When I speak or write about anything (that matters to me), all I know is I have to go. Something must be said. But what it is, I’m not sure and I’m able to own this. I don’t want to be so in control of my mind that I lead it around on a leash. I’d rather my mind run free, and I feel it most beautifully when I don’t know what the point is until the point finds me.
Because to know is to be dead, in a very real sense. To have a point as the reason for communicating sounds… kinda vain. I am kinda vain so I can say this. But there’s something a bit banal to all of it. What would you learn if you already know? Wait. I get it. You’re not trying to learn. You’re trying to school.
I’ve listened to people who make me feel like they’ve told this same exact story this same exact way so many times that they’re not sharing it with me. They are repeating it to themselves. They are so entrenched in their narrow confines that they only exist for themselves. I’m playinn Taps right here.
I mean, why would I be so presumptuous as to tell you what I already know? Why would I waste our time by repeating myself? Which is not to say it does not happen. I took parts of my conversation with Mr. Ex and placed them here in order to go deeper into something that caught me hard.
For me, communication is a process of shared discovery. It’s one of the most beautiful experiences in life. Reaching a height you never knew before. Seeing a point of view with another person that did not exist until that moment between you. What could be more beautiful than to come upon than the unknown and share it with someone else?
It makes my heart beat a little faster, and sometimes I think this is why I write. I’m sitting there thinking I have a point but it’s not what I thought it was when I set out on my quest. And that keeps me addicted like nothing else ever could. I trust men are capable of this as well, but some play it close to the vest and they don’t like anyone playing with the buttons. Which is kinda sweet and sad at the same time.
Now here’s the part that makes me smile real big. Cause I’m saying this to Mr. Ex and then I realize, This is exactly what I’m talking about. I didn’t even know the reason I communicate was for the act of mutual discovery until he came into my space and made me see me.
So that answers part one of Day Ten: What do you like most about the writing process? And now on to part two, which is the counterpoint. What do you like least?
It’s this moment right here, right now. When I cannot articulate what I need to express. When I get so caught in this knot I can feel my muscles retract. It is this need in conflict with a resistance that comes from…
Okay. So, dig. I’m doing my Twelve Steps. I’m on Step Three. I’m so into it. I swear I’ma be some kinda Bible thumper without a book in my hand.
Yesterday, I’m overcome by this feeling of… it’s not quite ennui. It’s like agitated ennui as in, not chic enough to be a fleur du mal in the Garden of Eve. It’s just this feeling. And I’m thinking of the information Miss Shadows shared with me and I’m wondering where this energy is coming from, is it in or outside me. Is this something I haven’t released, or am I picking up someone else’s vibe. Cause I do that. A lot. Psychic Friends Network could also have a dark side. And now I get it. I’m a fuckinn barometer. I’m reading energies and I gotta learn how to live like this without dying from it.
Right, so my point is, I’m in my bedroom confused. I don’t know what to do with what I feel so I say, Just go outside. And then I’m saying, No. And then I’m saying, Why.
Cause that would help.
And just like that it’s done. At the first sound of resistance I surrender my will. I am outside in a flash and guess what? It doesn’t make me feel better. But damn if I don’t feel worse. So I’m getting it. The worst part of the writing process is not writing. It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be done.