blocked in
November 6, 2008
i want to write. je veux ecrire…soit en francais soit en englais. je veux que les mots tombent de mes levres…mais ils ne m’arrivent guere…je veux ecrire quand meme. i just want to write. i am filled with words, ideas, stories — i know they are there, but where and how to start?
i want to talk about possibility, about (re)connection, about trusting patience. i want to talk about metaphors and motorcycles and the equal space i give to riding and sex in my life. i want to talk about politics and my deepening reserve of tentative hope. i want to talk about healing. about joy. about her.
i really want to talk about her. this boy who rocked my soul, cracked open my heart…and from whom, at that time, in my resurgent grief, i stumbled messily away, et que maintenant elle est de nouveau la, en face de moi.
i want to write about how i humbly employed the words “i’m sorry” twice today – in two very different conversations – with two very different people. i want to consider the power of these two words to build connection, hope and respect…and yet, if used while skirting sincerity, they are words that can do more harm than good.
i want to talk about signs, semiotics and the synchronicity that ties them all together.
i want to talk more about memory and meaning and the invisible spider webs of dreams.
i want to talk about revolution. i want to talk about change.
above all. i want to talk about wanting, about asking for what i want and getting what i want. and how i am learning that these two may look nothing at all alike.
un espoir epistolaire
October 10, 2008
dear reader:
do you write letters to folks that you never intend to send?
i have an entire file on my computer with letters i have written to people, mostly ex-es and some friends, that tell the story of my anger, my hurt, my confusion and my tears. i have written them to let go – of feelings and questions — that would otherwise taunt my sleep. a friend suggested i write another one last night – one i composed this morning as i lay groggily awake in bed…and i’ve been thinking. if i never intend to send it and the only recipient intended is me, could i expand it’s power by speaking of it here, as a letter within a letter?
where is the power of words that are spun for someone else but are never shared? can language heal through this deeply private communication – one that spills from hand to page and then gets secreted far far away?
letter writing is a powerful tool that authors have used for centuries to speak across the margins of experience and tradition. writing a letter opens the door for reflection in ways i can’t live without. like film, it is about the audience. it is about your reader. knowing someone is reading. believing there are eyes to receive the words you spin.
and i want so much for someone to read the words being formed in my heart. for someone to simply pay attention. to receive what it is i have to say. i am tired of screaming through sound-proof glass…and i am choosing now to see the world outside me…to be my own reader.
i finished the letter today that i wrote to him. and already, my words have changed. my perception is shifting and i am watching the words leap off the page and tumble together like magic iron filings, searching for a place to rest. what i have to say now is something new. as my anger and frustration pull apart, i am finding humility and sobriety slipping in. with this letter, i am letting go. breathing out. i am finding me.
xo. syd.
