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Wednesday, January 16, 2002
Photographng... Eatng... Wearng... Red, as often as possible. It's beautiful, courageous and strong -- like me, as I need to remember. Ahhhng... Sngng... Along with "Only a Memory" n a cafe. It's the first time I've heard a Smithereens' song snce my fallng out with Pat DiNizio 3 years ago last September. I know how to hold a fuckng grudge. Satisfyng... Dancng... Missng... Feelng... Watchng... Tellng... Thnkng... Irritatng... Hearng... Regrettng... Wonderng... Realizng... Talkng...
It's time. A lot has been leadng up to this. Turnng 30. September 11 and the thought, "Please don't let me die a secretary, worried about makng copies for that 9:00 meetng." When I look back over my life, all the best thngs have come to me as a result of my writng. When I've given it the very least effort, the results have been spectacular. It's what I was born to do, literally -- I was born on the Day of Language (accordng to the Secret Language of Birthdays). I've been meditatng, n the ntellectual sense (which is spiritual for me), on why I've been so taken with Legolas/Orlando Bloom and Blanepear*. It's that they are bright and sensitive and talented. It's a remnder that I want to be dong what I love to do, what I'm good at, what makes me feel happy, satiated, connected. I was never a confident nterviewer, never sure I was askng the right questions. But the trick is makng it a conversation. People love to talk about themselves, you just have to get them started. Look at me. I keep imagnng myself nterviewng Orlando Bloom, and it gong as badly as Bridgit Jones, droolng all over Coln Firth. (Which begs the question, snce Coln Firth was cast n the role of Mark -- who will play Coln Firth n the film of the second book?) Nevertheless, I miss nterviewng a great deal. I envision myself now, sittng n a cafe with my subject n the wanng afternoon. I'm terribly shy nitially, thus it's great to challenge myself to overcome that discomfit. It's also great meetng new people and one of the best thngs about journalistic writng, though that's not the only area I'm nterested n. My high school journalism teacher, who lived on a planet all his own, had a mug that read, "Of all the thngs I've lost, I miss my mnd the most." That's how I feel. One of the most delightful thngs about talkng with Blanepear is that I'm usng my mnd, pullng dusty words from the farthest corners of my vocabulary and, heaven help me -- I'm thnkng. It's time to go off auto pilot and become more engaged n my self, my life, my work. Early n the day Blanepear came up to see the photo I took of him last Friday night. The coworker who he left with that night had told Bp, as I'd shown him both photos on Monday. When they saw my camera come out, the two of them turned away and peeled off n opposite directions like some Blue Angels formation. I had to boot up my laptop, so the first thng he saw was my desktop. No, it is not still Legolas! It's of me n bed with the Part Time Luva. Mnds out of the gutter and back up onto the curb -- he's fully dressed and I had on everythng but my shirt. Of course, it's from the chest up, so all you see on me is the tniest bit of bra strap. I love it because I look so peaceful, so relaxed, so happy. My eyes are closed and I am laughng. Blanepear saw this and said, "That's not me!" I felt like sayng, "Well, it should be, but I'm mndful of beng appropriate. I'm afraid I'm too attentive to him, but at the same time, I am tryng to see people n person more often across the board at work. Naturally, that's especially true for the 3 people I like the best and most want to get to know on a personal level. I cannot believe I've been there nearly 7 months without so much as gong to lunch with anyone. Also, I don't know what he knows of computers, so I can't assume he realized that was actually my desktop. He liked the photo. It's not the picture I ntended to take, but I like it too. It's dark, almost as if he's n shadow. No skn shows from behnd, as his hair goes to the top of his pea coat -- makng him a solid, dark figure. Blanepear and I had another one of those great conversations about writng. I said that, for too long, I listened to naysayers who call writng a starvng profession. "Like I'm gettng rich as a secretary," I said. "If you don't write, a part of you is starvng," he said. (Not an exact quote.) He went on to talk about the need to write. It remnded me of this term n Spanish that, to me, hasn't a true translation n English. Ganas, it means "desire," but, and perhaps it's just me, but it seems to mean more than that. I thnk of it as a need, a drive. This is the hunger of which he spoke so eloquently today and to which my retellng would do little justice. At any rate, I agreed with him wholeheartedly that when you have this compulsion to write, you are hungry and miserable if you don't do it often enough. He said you need to do it merely to survive. Call me a narcissist, but he remnds me of myself. Superficially, we appear to be nothng alike, but it is thrillng to me to be able to talk about these thngs with someone who shares an ntrnsic understandng. As John told me once, many years ago, I don't have to explan the little, buildng block concepts n order for him to understand. As a result, we get further -- faster. Moreover, I remember beng that age and, actually, it does feel like just yesterday. He's a daily remnder that I don't have time to waste, that I cannot let another 5 or 10 years pass without workng toward my goals. I told him today that I don't want him to be at this job n 5 years. It's probably selfish and self-centered, but I don't want to see him waste any time, either.
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