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Promise of a new day…

April 21, 2013

…not to mention some amazingly twisted fiction posts in the near future.

In the spirit of rekindling a writing project with an old friend, I reviewed some old, old emails from wanderings abroad.
I came across this:

Squid Carts amuse me. They’re these little bicycle guys with a contraption rigged up so that there are bunches of little sun-dried squid hanging from them (i.e., squid jerky flapping in the breeze). I don’t know why, but they make me giggle! I like the squid jerky, though I haven’t actually eaten any since college. I simply really adore the look of the squid cart.

This brought me joy. Ah, the long lost squid carts of Thailand.

I’m reminded of something an ex said of me the other day while introducing me to a friend of his: Twig is one of the most awesome people I know. I wish I had his exact words. They were priceless: Ours was not the most amicable of breakups. It has taken a long time for us to be civil (okay, it’s taken a long time for me to be civil to him), and I received a few emails from him long after the breakup that made me incredibly uncomfortable, frankly. So tell me, oh ex o’ mine: if I’m so awesome, why did you kiss me goodbye in South Korea and then so unexpectedly walk out of the life we had planned together? 

Oh, right… because you were a cheating bastard. I found that part out years later.

But this is not why I’m writing.

I actually don’t hate him. I’m a better person for my connection with him. I only wish I hadn’t gone through the heartbreak of unexpected loss, and I wish I hadn’t wasted my time with him. In the end, though, it wasn’t wasted since I gained so much from our breakup.

Wait. Now I’ve forgotten… why AM I writing here tonight?

Oh. Right.

I’m so pleased to embark on some sort of new writing project with tac that maybe will stir things up for me. I’m at an impasse with Bloodflowers and I need a break before I rewrite the whole thing and kill all the characters (this happens, inevitably, with at least one rewrite of everything I create). tac and I haven’t written together in about 10 years, and we’re both feeling a little unsure of ourselves, I think. Frankly, I don’t think we ever actually got around to really writing together. Mostly we painstakingly critiqued each other’s work. All of the writing I had done back then is gone. It was mostly awful anyway, if my memory serves me correctly, so it’s really for the best that I can’t look back at it. I wonder what happened to it. Did I fry that computer without backing up my work? Did I just delete everything in the chaos of a really awful relationship back then? I think I fried it. Trying to fix that piece-of-shit computer was the one enjoyable activityI had inside my home at that time. I probably have the work on a floppy disk… Now, if I can find a computer with a floppy drive, I’ll just have to see if the disk is lurking in storage somewhere with my missing George Foreman grill and favorite winter coat I seem to have mislaid in the move from one city to another. Shit. That writing is gone. Face it: It’s gone.

But what if I can’t write with tac now? What if I have nothing left? What if I turn into a blubbering moron? Ultimately, the urge to write with him is stronger than my fear of failing at it. My fear of losing him again is stronger than that failure, too. I’ll find something to say. Right after I get some sleep…

… I’ve been saying this for, what, 15 years now? The truth is that I never find the right words with him. It’s damnably frustrating. As a awkward teenager, I talked to him about dictionaries in my parents’ kitchen. He closely watched me as I spoke, and I stared at the ground, tripped on my words, and fumbled compulsively with my glasses. At least that’s how I remember it. Still an awkward teen, I watched him chain smoke like no one I had ever seen before while he putzed on the computer doing god knows what and watched English Premier league games. He didn’t say much then. Then again, neither did I, at least not much of substance. I babbled a lot (and still do). When I went to college, I watched him continue to poke around on the computer when I came home to visit my family and friends (I never looked at what he was doing, I guess, because I was staring at the ground. I don’t know). He talked to me about artists and poets. Likely we talked about H.P. Lovecraft a lot; now that I think about it, I can’t remember. My boyfriend-of-the-college-era was furious with me when I said that tac was one of the smartest people I had ever known. He thought I was attacking his intelligence. My best friend and I turned this into a running joke shortly after whenever we would get pissed at my boyfriend for whatever shitty thing he had done most recently. I’ll have to ask him if he remembers how it went; I’m a little hazy with the memory. Finally, a few years ago, I thought I was going to puke on myself when we finally managed to meet up in person again for lunch after so many years. How the hell can one person make me so damn nervous even after so much time has passed? And how can my memories of someone so important to me be so hazy?

These are stupid questions. I have at least the answer to the second one: if I had spent more time paying attention and less time being so damn unsure of myself, I’d be able to fill in the gaps. Instead, my memories primarily consist of the giant knot I would develop in my stomach and of how I seemed to fuck up everything I wanted to say every time he was around.

Dear 2013 me:
Don’t fuck it up again, Twig. Just write. I don’t care how damn talented you think he is. Just write.
Twig circa 2000
P.S.~ Please edit this fiercely after you’ve gotten some sleep. You might still be able to get about 4 hours in if you go to bed right the hell now.


From → rants

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