Tuesday, July 27, 2004

On writing Life, Waking dreams, melting popsicles...

Often I find myself thinking that I will remember "this" so when it is time to sit down to write "this" will all come back to me. But, more often than not, "this" is evasive at the time of writing. Like a dream upon waking. One that was so vivid in color, feel, incident, that memory surely *must* have inscribed it into the curvy grey matter for all time. Alas, when it comes time to relay the dream so surely captured, it is gone, fluttered away, spent, dissipated on a vaporous miasma of consciousness stretched only wide enough to know it is, indeed, morning, and not much else that came before.

I think to myself, quietly, (so as not to disturb those around me, or to waken them to the notion that I am, in fact, addicted to my muse, my art, my writing, at such depth that I can barely live a moment or three without wanting to jot it down, sketch it out) that I *should* write things down in a teeny notebook. And wear a sign that says: "I am blogging this". Even as I write that, my software has not a clue as to what that word "blog" means, and I know that, as surely as a waking baby during lovemaking, that I ...Will. Have. To. Explain. That. Term. To. Almost. Everyone. And then, of course, assuage their fears that I am not planning on attracting psychopath (though I suspect some may eventually read these words....Um) and that I am not (ahem) being specific about "sensitive" matters involving first names, yadda, yadda, yadda..

I like to believe that I will remember that which was so funny when I was doubled over in the parking lot beseeching my Companion to NOT invoke the Goddess of Tinkle. I am sorely mistaken. What to do? Gingko? Mindfulness meditation? Recording device?

Sometimes, Other Life intervenes. As the popsicle of That Which Is Bloggable is being held by me, dripping, something Else happens. A spill. A phone call. A doorbell. A chore. A stoplight. And, by the time I get back to "it" I have sticky hands and a mess to clean and the sharp details are all derailed and a-muck. I enjoy picking up the pieces and putting them together sometimes. Things can morph, with time, into more interesting fractals of what actually transpired. Creative License and all that.

I suppose I should just make it a practice of writing things down, little phrases to tease my memory back to erection when it is flaccid. But, the devil is in the details. And I like to chase that devil around the block a few times, making him pant for breath as I rip apart the seams of conversations, witty timing, clever metaphors and gooey insinuations. I want them at my fingertips. I want to feel the twill of an instant beneath my fingers. I want to be able to hold onto that moment and be able to recreate a quilt of furiously typed words here as soon as I am able.

My name is Julia. And I am a blogoholic.


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