if you do or if you don’t
July 23, 2012
This is me sitting on my bed, A/C off, digging the heat. Leaning back against the pillows stacked against a simple black wood headboard. Trying not to get my curls caught in the dreamcatcher that hangs over my head. Trying not to look in the mirror that catches my face. Trying to be where I am. Am where I be. On my bed writing, my destiny. Blue t-shirt, jean skirt, knees up, blanket resting across my waist, laptop snug and secured in its proper place. Next to me, the Cat is passed out on her side, legs splayed, hind feet flexing, lolling a bit like she’s dreaming of something more interesting than my literary pretensions.
This is me writing. Starting again. Throwing out the first two drafts without reading them. Thousands of words dashed into the wasteless abyss. I mean, I kept the documents but I’m not trying to look at them. I have to get clear, to begin again. To be raw like sushi cause Neneh Cherry said. Keep hearing her in my ear, setting me straight. I give you love, baby, not romance.
But damn if love be kickinn mahh ass.
I mean, in the nicest way. Or maybe I mean relatively speaking. Cause this is me writing bout Mr. Brown from the middle and not the beginning. Can’t begin where it starts because it may never end. Gotta begin where I realized, this book must be written. So I know where I am and where we begin and I pull the frame back because I gotta go slower and slower til it’s like I’m not even moving.
And that’s when it hits me. Like a glove. Like a glove to the face only the glove is chain mail or some such. I’m not writing a blog, I’m writing a book and in the moment I let go everything comes to the surface. It’s like I am there again, every last memory surfacing every last nerve vibrating every last vein pulsating. I’m feeling everything I felt then knowing everything I know now and somehow with the benefit of hindsight I am only more confused by it all.
Everything is coming up and it was two years ago and that means nothing at all because time isn’t real and time heals nothing, but something heals and I’m not sure what that is because scars remain even when they fade away. None of this is real and it never was and yet it’s all here, like I read it in some book.
And all the awkwardness and all the fear and all the pain in my heart and all the pain in his. And everything between us, everything we did not and still do not know and all the things we thought that may just be so. And I’m writing and my stomach is starting to clench because I’m trying to show, not to tell. It’s hot like maybe I should put on the A/C but I can’t get up. I’m stuck in this memory and I can’t get out.
But I can’t get started. It’s too much and I’ve barely written anything and now I must stop. And I dig why it is that I’m sabotaging myself. Because how do you heal when it hurts if you do or if you don’t?