Behind Closed Eyes

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{The following are two journal entries.  I don't think of them as 'memoir,' but they are authentic.  After the first entry I began a memoir and stopped short.  Some hours later I wrote the second journal entry.  Writing has been and is a life-changing experience.}
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09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday 
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)

I was thinking today; about writing.  What do I write about next?  I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings.  It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances.  I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't.  Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.

But still what do I write about next?  I don't need to write anything sensational.  What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web?  A web.  So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.

My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about.  Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book.  Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.
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09.27.09
Sunday

I awoke at 12:30 pm.  I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so.  I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say.  That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me.  I cannot write for an audience.

But all I can think to write about involves too much drama.  I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens.  Good stuff happens too.  It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry?  Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate.  It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone.  Am I?  Is that someone others?  Or is that someone me?  Would people think I make it up?  I don't make things up.  I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently. 

Why do those questions even matter?  They don't, except that is how I feel.  That does matter; how I feel.

Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night.  I think my dreams affect me at times.  Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.

It's o.k. to grieve Carol.  It's o.k. to grieve.
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Click here for Journey through Memoir (an index)
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