day seventeen-i’m picking this time

Today’s assignment was supposed to be my favorite blogs.  I have favorite writers who have blogged but much like myself get bored with the drudgery.  I feel like through this blog randos know me better than folks I see every day.  Folks I see e’r day could care less about my favorite foods.  My thoughts on anything.  I’ll save it for the painful process of dating in my thirties.

What the heck is intimacy anymore, anyway?  Blogging becoming like junior high diary entries talking of dreamy eyed boys and vanilla scented alcohol spray permeating the locker room only now its stories of trailrunning and the human condition, sometimes vanilla scented.  I miss other modes of writing.  I miss the visceral quality of notes fluttering from the locker and tiny cheap padlocked diaries purchased from Scholastic newsprint smelling of elementary school and excitement.

I’m starting to see this exercise as something that is stifling what I want to write about which is usually the same stuff—how my body feels and looks, how people are in the world, how paradoxical it feels to be both alike and different from all the bodies and people around me.  And then what I remember about other bloggers like I remember about myself is we are writers.  We are trying to connect to each other.  I’ve felt more close to William Faulkner than my own father at times.  Toni Morrison gently helps me understand race relations.  A good book always trumps a good lover.

It’s so strange the process of writing as well.  I remember my poofy black haired New Yorker first fiction class teacher.  I imagine she might say that my blog is weak.  Not vivid.  Sometime vapid.  At times purposely vague.  Sometimes people relate the simplicity but I love to create art with words and miss my original blog, painful and poetic as it was.

That same mod teacher encouraged us to write, edit, and rewrite to find details and moments that captured what we were trying to say.  Oh yes, she would say in regards to my tales of meth and woe, keep the gun on the floor of the car because it makes the whole thing feel more real, raw.  She dictated we ought avoid words like “you” and she always seemed to pick and pluck to find talent I didn’t think I had. Feeling incredibly mediocre is freeing and maddening at the same time.

If I were to tell you my favorite blogs, they would emails from my deceased friend Jodi.  They would myspace rants by my friend Handsome Jack.  They would be love notes from my seven year stalker, Jay.  They would be letters I received in jail from my friend, Robert.  All the snippets, pieces, chunks, and found pieces of writing that are gone now, as I will be eventually.  And all of that is okay.

“So this human thing… we burp, we fart, we call others out for the exact things we do, we push against what we love, and run from what we fear… oh, you might also mention…we are brave to even wake up in the morning in this often scary 3-D movie, we pray for strangers, we persevere against tremendous odds, we endlessly create and manifest and improve, we care for our young and our old, we adore one another, we forgive and move on, we commit, we ascend, we love ~ I am grateful to be a part of this species with y’all!”

 -Gil Hedley

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