I want to start writing again
I want to start writing again. I exiled my pen a while back when every word seemed dipped in arsenic, saccharine, or tar. (I am notorious for being tough on myself. Hey, at least I have notoriety for something.)
I think the main issue was I was heartbroken and worn and everything I wrote seemed designed by my unconscious to chain me to that sad rock of a heart like Prometheus was to his.
Yeah, fuck that.
I am in a rebuilding phase. In old school terms, I’m rehabbing a decrepit structure. In new school terms, I’m rewriting my code. It started with the rehab of my leg, broken in a Vespa accident. It continues with the rehab of my soul, something I have neglected for a bit too long.
There is a house up the street that has been stripped to the frame. The roof is intact (as intact as a roof on a house like that can be) but the rest of the house is bones. I love that house. It is my metaphor.
One of my goals is to rebuild my body into something different than the body I have used for decades. The accident last July has made that possible in that I lost so much muscle tone from laying about in a cast that I have the option to restructure my leg muscles. In a sense, I am hacking my old body and crafting something new.
These changes are very slight and I might be the only person to notice them, but I am seeing differences. I’ll never be muscle-bound. I would hate that, especially after years of learning to accept my lithe cheetah body. What I will be is what I make of myself, literally, corporeally.
From all the running I am doing, I now have a butt. I discovered this yesterday. That might seem a small thing to a stranger (and it is a small butt) but it’s a butt I never had before. When one reaches a certain age, the last thing one expects is to have the option, capacity, and will to reshape the body. Therefore, seeing changes like the ones I have been attempting is kind of cool. My thighs are growing ever so slightly. Again, kind of cool. I never experienced proper thighs of my own before.
It’s 5:00 and I haven’t been able to sleep well from last night to this early morning and I feel self-consciously like a 16-yr-old going through puberty and blogging about it. I bloomed late. To battle the self-judgment, I will leave me a memory.
I had dinner with a pal last night at a new restaurant in the Garden District. Seed opened very recently and serves delicious fare, veggie and raw, and we had a great time. I walked her back to her house in the LGD after a long and lovely meal and we experienced the night blooming jasmine in all of its charm. A few times I buried my face in a bush to take in as much of the scent as I could.
That’s how I live my life. Find what I love. Dive in. Share it. I’ll start writing again. I have a play that needs to get down on paper. I have a novel to write. However, I’ll stay away from poetry. I know too many great poets. They have it covered.