Tomb and womb summarizes all writing

Tonight for the first time I read my writing to an audience. I picked one of my short-shorts partially because it was one of my favorites recommended by a professor and partially because I am a firm believer that the best things come in small packages. So tonight I read and the feeling was one both familiar and ethereal. I was reminded of the old high I could only find at the end of a finish line. It’s an odd thing to go searching for a feeling and to only find it in an unlikely place; in the front of a crowd reading something you’ve read aloud to yourself almost a hundred times. I love that feeling and experiencing it tonight was just another reminder of why I’m treading this path, becoming a writer.

That’s another thing I’ve been thinking about lately, the innumerable accidents that brought me to this point in which my fate is sealed by ink and paper. Had life happened differently would I still have been slated with the fate of a writer? Do we all simply become writers through a web of accidents and miscalculations? Or am I foolish for even deeming my own fate? I have no idea. All I really know is that when I write I feel alive and as though life has some deeper meaning that has yet to reveal itself.

I spent six years of my life running. I ran for the feeling, for an escape, and even at one point for greatness. Now I’ve stopped running. Now I write. I write for pleasure, for release, for comfort, and for a hopeful reassurance that somewhere hidden behind these words there lies something greater than myself. I write because I have a story and because once, a long time ago, someone told me I could create magic with words. I didn’t believe them then, but I do believe them now. All it took was for this seafaring woman to open up her eyes and look around at the murky waters that occupy the space in her head.


A Collected Past

March 21st, 2007

My letter

I didn’t know if I’d miss you. I don’t say that with a lack of sensitivity, I just didn’t know if I’d allowed you to really seep into my skin and stick with me. It seems that somehow you managed to find a home somewhere in the tissue surrounding my heart. If there is even tissue there, I should know, but I don’t. Although it frightens me, I find that feeling this way for someone else is exhilarating. I miss you. I miss the comfort that I get from knowing that I can see you at any moment and that if I really wanted, you’d come put your arms around me. I know I haven’t completely let you in and that sometimes I remain mysterious. I don’t know if you like that or if it bothers you. If it does then I’m sorry. I don’t like being so guarded, but my heart is a fortress and I tend to protect myself from whatever external forces I find to be even remotely threatening. You already knew that though. I’d like to think that we’re going to be together for a long time, maybe even an eternity in my romanticized imagination, and listen to folk music, dance around, play in the sunshine, and have intellectual conversations about faith and destruction. I like what we’ve got going on and I think it’s something special, something that will leave a lasting impression on me. I hope the city treats you kindly. I want you to see a lot of beautiful things and take them in, appreciate everything that whirls around you at full speed. Look towards the sky at the buildings that tower overhead like giants. Walk the street like you belong there and meet people who you will remember for their stories and bizarre character. Revel in your experience and sometime when I cross your mind, call me, even if it is just to say hi. Those calls are always nice and full of warm fuzzy feelings. I hope you think about me because I think about you, sometimes more than I think I should. I don’t know why I’m writing all of this to you, but I suppose it is because writing it down is a whole lot easier than saying it aloud.

April 10th, 2007

Why don’t we go blow ourselves into a million little pieces? The earths broken ground could be covered in flecks of flesh, bone, and blood with our thoughts of peace and turmoil scattered somewhere throughout the wreckage. Our volatile behavior, the masses that abide by the rotating machine that screams in our bleeding ears to proceed along our path of destruction. The murky waters that were once pristine are now bubbling over the surface in a composition of oil, greed, and the misfortune of those who paid the ultimate price. We hear the warnings that plead for us to recognize the inevitable doom we have aligned for ourselves, but blindly we ignore them. Each domino leans ever so slightly until the bomb is dropped and the ripple effect glides along the line until all is lost. There is no God or Allah that can save us. We turn to such mechanisms for comfort, but when the bodies that lie among the ashes cry out for redemption they shall find themselves alone amongst the blood, sweat, and tears. From here we welcome ourselves to Armageddon, one of our own creation. A battle between ourselves and the idols we had prayed would save us. A million little pieces. One by one, each sprinkled across the ruble that had once been a promising civilization, the breeding ground for hope, happiness, and great fortune. As our hope morphed into AIDS, WMDS, and SARS, where were our saviors? As our happiness gave us starvation, slavery, and civil war, where were our protectors? As our great fortune turned into dust, where was our Lord God Almighty?

April 12th, 2007

I await the time that I discover that solace, that inner peace that actually makes me believe we’ll all be alright and provides a much needed comfort. I’d like to believe that our destruction can be undone. Sometimes pressing rewind is all we really need to do and it sounds so simple, but the world doesn’t function when we work in reverse.