The Daily Durvy

In the last 4 years at UC Davis, I have probably written close to 200 essays, not to mention a few short stories, countless journal entries/article response papers, and one really awful attempt at a poem that no one, not even the professor who assigned the poem assignment, cared to read. I would put this page count at an easy eight or nine hundred pages, and I am not a long-winded writer. If the assignment asks for five pages, I usually have to cheat to make my four pages stretch into a fifth, and if the assignment asks for more than five pages, I always end up with a “B” because I am constitutionally incapable of spewing my bullshit for more than 2000 or so words. I always write five pages. Or less, if I can get away with it.

My classes are chock full of tree-hugging, Anna Karenina-reading, bullshit-spewing English-double-major students that sneeze at my five pages of crap and call my bluff with their own eight-to-ten page masterpieces that the professor only half reads. If each of those students has written 200 or so essays in their college careers, we are talking about a FUCK TON OF PAGES. Pages upon pages of analysis, prose, God-awful poetry and sometimes, if you’re really lucky and in the right class, rants about the degeneration of American politics. I once wrote a rant about the degeneration of American politics. It was about my general dislike of Dick Cheney and Sarah Palin and pretty much every other American vice president in history.

That paper was four pages, thank you very much.

If we took all of these pages and lined them up, read them all, and then let our brains leak out of our ears, we would realize very quickly that there is not one original thought among them. There is nothing more than hundreds of thousands of pages of bull shit wrapped up in ribbon and shiny language. Some people are really good at it, and their ideas almost seem original, thoughtful and intelligent. And then you realize that they are just trying to get an “A” on this paper and have done nothing but parrot back what their professor lectured on. Because these professors, overworked and underpaid, only half read these papers and they like to see their own ideas rehashed on paper. It makes them feel good. Wouldn’t it make you feel good to see your words, printed on a page as evidence of human evolution? You would be the reason this paper was written, and that is fucking awesome.

So my question is this: is there such a thing as originality? Can we avoid cliches in our writing? Can a blog about my life really invent language or words or concepts that have not already been relayed for centuries? Can a picture actually be edgy and revolutionary? Does art ever capture a new emotion, or even an old emotion in a totally different way? Does Flannery O’ Conner’s narrative about obsession with a wooden leg translate into something new and original? Or is the most we can hope for that O’ Conner has given us a non-cliche, above the daily grind of tired phrases such as “eyes so green they sparkled like emeralds?” Does one war photo hit us harder than another?

Does my account of my life reshape the way the world sees twenty-something college students? Or am I just another voice int the crowd, throwing my three-to-five page long bullshit essays into the din in the hopes that it gets read and understood and turned into a cliche?

I should be so lucky. I would be honored to write in cliches, and I would be tickled pink to create new ones. I hope that my rather unoriginal (yet rather interesting) voice is heard, if not as a roar than as a whisper.

Sometimes, usually when I start to think about my impending graduation from college or my preferred life path that leads me to teaching a screaming room of 6th graders how to read critically, I want to be a professional blogger/writer/published author/badass.

I mostly aspire to the badass part of that profession.

The problem is that I don’t think I have the chops to make it in such a competitve industry, and the first thing a life coach will tell you is that you have to believe in yourself. So really, I have fucked myself before I have even started.

It’s not that I am trying to sabotage myself per se, it’s more that I just have a negative self image of myself. And by negative I mean like horrible, bad, Hitler-negative. I mean, it a combination of not knowing what I want out of life and not seeing a therapist. I also stopped taking my meds, a decision that has been both fantastic and wonderful and horrible and insane. I’m not sure if I’m feeling better, but I don’t feel numb anymore either. I hated not feeling – I couldn’t feel when people physically touched me, and I couldn’t feel when I was sad or happy or alone. This is better in some ways, but unbearable in others.

I want to write here, in this imagined space – I love writing and I love people reading my thoughts, but I feel so horribly inadequate at the same time. I feel like my thoughts aren’t worth the time of day for the people who know me best – so why would anyone (strangers no less) want to read about them? Why do my thoughts and observations deserve an audience?

So for now, I’m not going to answer that question. I’m not going to feel bad if I don’t want to write here one day, because this is for me and no one else at this point. If that is different in the future, than my desire to write here will also change. Right now I’m going to let this be a space where I work through what I am thinking about – even if what I’m thinking about isn’t funny or witty or lovely or politically correct. I don’t have to write poetry and high prose to be a writer. And even though my self-image is shit, that doesn’t mean my writing is. My writing is what it is, independent of what other people (including myself) think about it. Regardless of my audience size or quality I am going to write. I am going to write about what I’m thinking about, without the strain of trying to impress or measure up.

I spend all of my time and energy trying to get people to like me, and I try to meet to a standard set so high that I crash and burn every time I reach for that perfection that I demand of myself. Maybe, just fucking maybe, I don’t need to set the bar so high for this one little area. I don’t need to impress anyone because no one is listening right now anyway. I can still try (and fail) to be perfect in other areas of my life, but I don’t need to be perfect here. At least for now, I can free myself from the constraints of perfection in my written life and let myself cry metaphorically, and save my anguish for my failed attempts at physical and spiritual perfection in my “real” life.

I can let my apartment stay messy, I can hate my hair for not staying perfectly poufed and teased, I can loathe my waist for not being 28 inches around and I can black out my mirrors in mourning when I don’t learn a new skill on they first try, but I’m going to let my writing suck. I’m going to be okay with the fact that I don’t write on my blog every day, like I wanted. Just this once, I’m not going to beat myself up for my utter lack of perfection in this one area. Just this once.

When I was in High School I had a LiveJournal. Not only did I have an LJ, I updated it sadly regularly. And I had a small following of close friends. I didn’t tell my parents about it. (I also had a MySpace that my parents also didn’t know about. Though my MySpace was not as cool, and much more annoying.)

While at LiveJournal, I was prone to long, drawn-out entries that used sappy metaphors and euphemisms. I went for the tears, guys. TEARS.

My writing wasn’t bad. Reading back, most of the writing was very good and very cryptic. These days, I try to put a funnier spin on my life, because honestly, I don’t have enough pain to be crypic at this point. And when I did, I was in a downward spiral watching NCIS and crying on my bed. My blog was the last thing on my mind.

(Which makes me think all the “pain” I had in High School was more like a papercut. I mean, papercuts hurt LIKE A BITCH, but who are we kidding? They never killed anyone.)

(Except that once.)

Here are some hilights from my LJ days:

You never think about the slow build up of ill will, or that time you didn’t stay for dinner though you should have. You never think about the moment the last real conversation you ever had ended. You never think about the instant you locked eyes and you knew that this was the way it had to be. You never think about the instant you got your last phone call. You only ever think about the moment that you realized you didn’t love the person in front of you anymore. So you think that your life changed in an instant. You think that it all happened in a split second, when in reality it’s been forever and a day in the making.

You never realize that the instant when your best friend becomes the hole in your heart instead of the filling is really made up of eternity. You only remember that moment. And you cry because you’re life just changed in an instant. And you cry because your life can be changed in an instant.

I’m lost and I don’t know how to get home.

And not physcially this time. I’m almost always lost when driving, walking, and wandering.

But I always get home. I’m not so sure about this. And it scares me. More than being angry or hurt or sad. I’m scared.

I’m not afraid of much, but this tops the list. I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

I can’t read maps, and I can’t really tell time. I know I should learn to…

I just want to be home already.

Priceless. Price. Less.

I don’t mean to mock my younger self, but I am totally mocking my younger self. I was justified in my pain at the time, but let’s be honest. HAPPY IS BETTER. And WAY less cryptic.

I think I stop blogging because I get out of a groove, then end up not wanting to go back because I’m embarrassed that it took me so long to get back. It’s a horrible cycle.

I’m still not 100% sure that I’m back in the game, so to speak. I’ve got an awful lot to say, but I think I’ll take it slow for now. A quick update now, another one tomorrow, and one the next day. Let’s see if I can get my trust back enough to post big, soul-searching post.

Or maybe just a recipe.

Slow, friends. Real slow.

Oneword.com

They give you a word and sixty seconds, then they post the results. My word was Daisy. Here’s what I got:

a flower. em’s favorite. colorful and beautiful, easy to love, easy to describe. perfect for most occasions. it looks like summer, and smiles like an old friend. childlike and and not fit for adults, who don’t know how to have fun anymore.

I honestly didn’t think about what I was writing, which is not something I’m usually very good at. I tend to over think every aspect of my life, and creativity is no exception. Even starting this blog was hard enough. I always think what I’m writing (or drawing, or baking or sewing) isn’t good enough to be shared, let alone in existence. Posts are deleted, drawings are crumpled and baking is deserted with enough time for me to run to Safeway, pick up a cake, and take it out of the box, so I can pretend that I made it.