Yes, I know this fear and this distraction that doesn't merely hover by my fingers like a fly but covers over my consciousness like mosquito netting. Yes, I breathe air. But that's all. (And the monk, holding the student's head under water, asked, "Now how boring is breathing?")
What do I want to write about?
I think my fear of writing is the same as my fear of meditation. What will come out will be mundane, boring, church on Sunday, laundry and dishes and bills to pay, television sitcoms, small talk, clients. I'm not afraid of writing something ugly. I'm not afraid of that which is brutal and piercing and horrible to look at. Otherwise, how could I have written that line about small children being raped by their baby-sitters while eating cereal?
No! What terrifies me is tedium! And that is what terrifies me about meditation. Being bored. Having no interesting thoughts -- only chores. Chores! Anything proscribed. Anything forced.
Am I my own jailer? That sounds so passé, but I believe it's true. I hold the keys, and being the perfectionist that I am, there's no way I'm letting myself out! I'm a rabbit in a goddamned cage. It's not all Ruby's fault -- or anyone else's. I'm the one with the goddamned keys. Although, I must say that one day I will write my great American novel: Escape from the Bunny Hole.
Okay, so I sat down to do some creative writing and I get this -- excessive journal writing! Self-indulgent. Well, that's GOOD. No one is going to see this!
I'd like to cut a square hole right through the center of the livingroom floor and every day menstruate this pent-up psychotic energy into it. Why square? Hmmm... that's one for my therapist.
(Except that I stopped seeing my therapist for LACK-O-MONEY!)
Assignment: Journal - What are you angry about?
Here goes. I'm angry that my father hit me and yelled at me growing up. I'm angry that he lectures all the time without listening and that he never asks questions or treats us like human beings. I'm angry that people judge me for how I look rather than who I am. I'm angry that this world makes me feel so bad about my body. [Huge chunks edited out here. If you want to know what it says, you'll have to wait until I die.] I'm angry that my family thinks I'm selfish. I'm angry that Willie Brown won't do anything to fix the Muni system. I'm angry to feel powerless and voiceless in this world. I'm angry that Jesse Helms exists. I'm angry at how weak I feel and ineffective and pathetic. I'm angry that someone has put me in this world without telling me WHY! I'm angry at whatever this BLOCK is that keeps me from doing what I need to do to succeed! I'm ANGRY at this IMMOVEABLE FORCE that is IN MY WAY! I'm angry about the way it sits on my shoulders and pushes me down! I'm angry at how it keeps me from doing my work. Makes me hide in the house. Makes me afraid to write. Calls me stupid. Tells me I don't deserve to have anything. Laughs at me. Makes me eat chocolate and cheese even when I don't want to. Keeps me from eating fruits and vegetables. Makes me hide from people's calls. Makes me afraid they will yell at me. I'm angry that I have to take Prozac and Wellbutrin and pay for psychotherapy. I'm angry at the people reading this journal right now and criticizing the words I'm writing and how I'm writing them. I'm angry to feel this angry and to feel so powerless to stop it! To feel like I can't do anything with all this anger!
These are the things I want to write
I'm not even trying
I'm preoccupied with my vagina right now
How ugly it is
How ragged, wrapped, and raw
Like an onion or a bloody finger
I thought of painting a picture of a huge ugly hairy red cunt with an airplane inside -- well what I mean is that the inside of the cunt is the inside of the airplane -- okay -- I'm going to do it right now while listening to Led Zeppelin. I wish I could be really pretty and sweet and feminist and womyn-loving-womyn but fuck I'm just not right now! I did that! I did it and got blown. I mean fucked. I found out that womyn are really woMEN with a "y" thrown in to throw you off guard. They have teeth in more places than their mouths. They have claws and cages that hang behind their backs. They bend over you and coo like you were a baby. They swaddle and wrap and ride you.
So what if I can't ever come up with anything ever again? Writing is so damned hard for me. It's drudgery and torture! So why do I feel so compelled to do it and yet so paralyzed at the same time? All I do all day is read books and play on the computer. I can't move!!! This sucks!!! This reality is worse than I ever thought it would be. I'm going to be out of work soon and I haven't done ANYTHING about getting job in Japan! I quit my Japanese class for shear lack of the energy to get my fucking ass out the goddamned door! I have to think of something interesting to write pretty damned fast or it's all just going to go the hell away, isn't it?
You know what? I need to go away. I need to get away from San Francisco and all my crazy self-absorption. I have spent the last hour reading over all my old journal entries, and you know what? They all sound the same! Every one of them says the same whiny drivelly thing. Every day my head feels about to spin Linda Blair style and all I do is lie around and mope about it. Enough! I WILL go to Japan. I MUST go and be somewhere where I can write in a vacuum. Where I can write without all the pressures of the "Cool Kids" here in San Francisco! I need my own space again and privacy and loneliness. I have written some pretty good things when I was lonely. I can't write much when there's someone breathing down my neck every minute demanding attention. I MUST GO!!!
It's raining again. Saturday afternoon. The light is graying, old TV commercials linger, kitchen faucet drips, slow hum. Get off your ass and do something about all this!