|
2001-09-02 / 12:53 p.m. ~A Window Opening, Then Closing Again - A Semi-Brief Analysis of My Diary and Others...~ I just got up, it's almost 1:00 and I could sleep no more, my hips in pain from the bedsprings. It only happens after I've been asleep too long, spent too much time on one hip or the other, and when I'm about to get my period - joint pain. But I'm not about to get my period, but I did start bleeding, and that is weird, makes me think I do have cancer after all. See that? That paragraph right there? That's really personal, isn't it? It's 100% true. I do fear cancer, almost my whole family died from it, I feel it's my destiny, my genetic destiny. And I am bleeding, and that is disturbing. Did I hold it back? Was I even considering the topic when I wrote that paragraph? No. I was setting the stage. I was saying, to my imaginary audience, hey, here is where I am, right now, that title refers to what I want to write about, and I will get to it, in a sec. I read another diary yesterday. Cat71 is her username. I recommend it, her diary. It was very entertaining, and yes, I now feel as though I know this person. I know she loves tuna, and her cats, and her car, and ponies. She seems fun, has a lot of friends, has two men she seems rather torn between. But as I read and read (I'm not weird, it's like a little book if you go back to the beginning and read forward - I do it a lot - these are "public" diaries, you know, and I really enjoy getting inside of people...memoirs, autobiographies, biographies, journals, diaries, etc.), what I realized was that Cat was not being 100%. She would never write about menstruating, nor juicy sex, nor even her real feelings, and Cat, if you ever come here and read this, I mean no harm, no offense, I really dig you, but you are holding back in diaryland. Cat met Gene right here, on diaryland, and she read him, and he read her, and somewhere along the way they realized they were right in the same town, met in person, began to date, and, well, the rest is cloudy. Something about them breaking up, making up, breaking up again, and probably now they're back together. Something about Cat living with JP and them not working out, then going strong with Gene, then possibly JP coming back into the picture, Gene leaving, and it's not just cloudy, it's a fog bank. Why? Maybe because Gene is reading Cat. Maybe because Gene says more about Cat than Cat says about Gene. Maybe having a diary turned into something else? And it made me think. Hah!, as always. So what doesn't make me think?? Rhetorical question there. I wanted more. I wanted details. When Cat would write that a lot was going on, or a sentence saying, "JP and I are breaking up", I thought, well, this is your diary, maybe you should write about it here, but she didn't. I sink in too deep, I know. And I wonder about my own diary, what do I write? I write about how much I hate my job, how Linda is evil, how my periods hurt, how much I love my cats, how I watch TV, read books, love movies, wish I'd cook again, how sometimes I hate myself. And that's it, that is my life. I think if there were a JP, or a Gene, I'd write about him, but I'd never let him read it. That's the rub, isn't it? Loss of anonymity. So, I've written a couple email letters to a fellow d'lander, and I won't link to him here out of a certain respect for what we've written outside of here, but we were discussing what we write and what we don't write, and I said that for me it's not everything, it's just a window opening for a bit, then closing again. While that window is open anyone can see inside, but it won't stay open. It's a brief expository moment, left to sit here and fester, until the next time. Everyone has his/her own style, of this I am totally aware, and I fault no one for writing style, for content, for willingness to expose, but it leaves me wanting more when someone hints...then chooses to omit. So I read, I absorb, I sink too deeply, I question my own diary, I place my audience outside this sphere, I never forget that I came here for me, that no one knows me here, that only one was told specifically and even she does not really know me. I even write to diarists. I see that "Contact", "Email", "Write to Me" link, and I do. I contact, I email, I write, and most times there is no response. It's like breaking the "fourth wall" on television. Maybe that link should never have been placed on the page, maybe it's my approach, maybe people feel really weird knowing I've read every page they've posted here....maybe I don't blame them. But...I want to let Hoebag9 know that I feel horrible about what she's been going through! I want to tell her how I feel for her, the compassion that sweeps over me when I read her diary, as if I know her, and I can just say, "Come here!", and give her a giant hug, tell her to cry, let it out. But we are strangers, aren't we? And Bathsheba. I got so wrapped up in her life, in her diary, on another Saturday, not long ago, so wrapped up I was convinced I only pale in comparison, I cannot write, she is the Goddess of writing, of knowledge, I felt I knew her...enough to write to her. See, that's a mistake. And when she didn't update for days, I worried, and she returned, and she hinted, as Cat hints, at something horrible, but she refused to divulge information and I feel shut out. One could say I am living my life online, and do you see how I NEVER forget a slight? This has been a major problem in my relationships, I hold onto the knife after it stabs me, hang it on the wall so it cannot possibly be forgotten. I am not living here, I am absorbed by all of this. I must write, I created my own diaryring, for people who said yes to what Rilke advised the young poet, we MUST write, I feel, I write, I write in my head when I wake up, when emotion fills me, when I was trying to drift off early this morning in bed. So I read others. Is there a point? Yes, indeed. I am noticing that people will only write so much, they have their own windows which open, but there are gauzy curtains obscuring some of those windows, they may be opened, but some only halfway, and some have heavy draperies hanging over them, the light never even shows through. Mine is opened wide, in wild abandon, it's flung open, and I lean out and drink in the fresh air, and I call out to anyone out there within view, and I say, Well, hello there, come here for a sec. And I tell you everything, this person, I say here it all is, listen to me just for a moment, if you're not busy....and it's all there, every card lying face up on the table, and you're shocked, you're amused, you're horrified, or you're bored to tears, but it's a pure experience and catches you off guard and you can't turn away. But just then....I say goodbye and I close the window, and I have curtains which are blue, midnight blue, and they have stars and crescent moons on them, and I pull them shut over the window, I'm gone, and you're still standing there. Maybe when I read others' diaries I do want to know what they had to eat that day, and what music they are listening to, and who they wish would call, and maybe that's all I want to know, but when someone pours out everything in between, that strikes me, that's good reading, that's therapy, that's excellent writing, and that's a diary, to me. Oh, because this is my diary, I want to write a bit about yesterday, but I don't want to make it a separate entry, so this will be a huge bonus (tee hee!) to anyone still scrolling and reading, scrolling and reading, which I know leaves out most people - yay! So, for me: I don't think it's a good idea to sit in a cubicle all day every day, only up and down to copy, FAX, file, etc., pounding on indoor/outdoor carpet over concrete in Birkenstocks only to go dancing for hours (!!!) afterward. One night. At 40, at a sedentary 40. Or maybe I have osteoarthritis? My knees hurt. Yeah. And I have a slight case of "water on the knee", again. It's a buildup of fluid around my kneecap, means I can't bend the one knee all the way, and it started before I went dancing, again, in Birks. Why can't I have a cool pair of Skechers like the club kids? So yesterday was me reading Cat's diary, and a few others, and lying on the sofa exhausted when through. To watch "Jean de Florette" and "Manon of the Spring", back to back, on Sundance. Admittedly, I got up during the latter to make a killer sandwich of Cajun roast beef, onions, tomatoes and garlic cheddar on whole wheat (heated under the broiler), and since my French is not fluent and I couldn't see the subtitles, well, I didn't give it my full atttention, but I'd seen them both before. Very sad movies. The synopsis said, "heartbreaking". Yeah, that's it. Emmanuelle Beart is very lovely, but all she does is stare, beautifully, but that's it, and I woke up thinking this reminds me of the very lovely Vincent Perez and the way his whole face lights up and I want to marry him and love him forever, when he smiles. The rest of the time he is a champion scowler. I don't think Beart smiles in the whole Manon movie. But if she did....oh la la la la la!!! (Hey, the French really do say that, and it's not "ooooo" la la, like "ew", it's "oh", like oh.) 'Scuse me, I'm a Francophile. Right, so I lie there, take turns being a resting place for Gladys, then Norma, then Gladys again, and fall asleep to wake up to "Open Your Eyes", of which I believe there is a remake soon to be released, but I've missed too much and it's 4:30 a.m., so I check email and go to bed, and cannot sleep thinking about all I want to write. See? Cost of the War in Iraq
(JavaScript Error)
Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
  |