Remember livejournal? Everyone’s favorite outlet passive aggressive bitching and online drama, back before “the social network”?
My own livejournal (kt_baby.livejournal.com) was abandoned not long after I broke up with my high-school/college sweetheart, and we had started using our blogs as means for superficial communication. But prior to that, it was my own public record of impromptu updates for my life, what was happening in my head, and how I was feeling emotionally. I read it now, and other people’s LJ’s, and it has the same nostalgic feel as a mix-tape, some intimacy on the periphery of popular culture, once shared between friends.
I look at my entries, and compared to this blog, there is an honesty or fluidity that I have not felt comfortable conveying on wordpress. Here, everything is so composed.
I wonder, does it have to do with my age, or where I am emotionally, now at 26, versus when I started blogging on livejournal as an 18 year old. Here, I feel as though what I say matters, so my entries need to be more thought out, better composed, and not impulsive statements or reflections. Truthfully, I think the need to write something worthwhile, something well thought-out, then edited and revised, has kept me from feeling comfortable using this blog as a forum for my thoughts.
And that is a sentiment that blocks my process in general. Why writing? Why is this the skill that I have dreamed about, cultivated and pursued my whole life?
A couple years ago, a trumpet-playing friend of mine and I were sitting at the cafe I worked at, chatting during my break. He asked me- Why? Why did we chose to be artists? Why couldn’t we have been doctors or lawyers or something else that actually paid the bills?
It’s hard for me to seperate my identity as an individual from my passion for writing. It is an extension of me. Even if I were to never get published, I could never stop writing. I can’t simply live my life without the grace of this world consuming me whole. Writing is one of the only ways I can explore the vastness of life while also keeping me feet firmly planted in place.
And this is why I originally started this blog- because I wanted a place for reflection, to share what I have witnessed without worrying about whether it is worthy of publishing. Somewhere, I lost my shamelessness and started concerning myself with the composition of it all.
I realize in the car, when Kyle asks me why I don’t sing, I have been doing this for a long time. For my whole life I have given value to being self contained, well composed, not making mistakes, or hurting anyone else’s feelings, or giving myself a reason to stand out, not be liked, subject to scrutiny.
And that is not a way to write, and certainly not a way to live.
So here I am, without apology.
I have been busy, writing, and doing my best to not feel guilty of finally living the life that makes me happy. I told Kyle a couple weeks ago, that I could live like this every day for the rest of my life– writing in the morning, cooking at night, and I would die happy.
I went to Symphony Hall on friday night to see the Video Game Orchestra, and pleasantly found one of the first places I have ever been where the line for the men’s room was longer than that of the ladies’.
I overheard my grandmother talk to Kyle about life, and happiness, and how at 92 she has lived a good life, a happy life. She said, “Well, except for losing Jack. But there was nothing I could have done about that. And that’s the thing. There are things in life you can’t do anything about. But it breaks your heart just the same.”
In the car today, I saw an old man, jogging along the freeway. His tube socks rolled high on his aged calves, he could not run, but moved at walking pace as if he were jogging. I saw him, and I thought of life, this life, and how we are all trying to escape destiny, how we try to deny ourself the vulnerability and ephemeral nature of living, and fight for some sense of security- whether that means getting what you want, or having a happy relationship, or enough money in the bank, it doesn’t matter. When you die, you go alone. It doesn’t matter. But it breaks my heart all the same.
All I am saying is, I’m doing my best to do what’s right, and I’m writing. I’ve never wanted to step on anyone else’s toes, and I’m not about to start, but I am not going to let that stop me from doing what needs to get done.