Memories....
So, I was writing an email to a friend just a little while ago. I'd been wondering if I would actually really have anything to write about tonight...I've got fragments of ideas for stuff to write--a declaration of my political beliefs (which will be a rather cynical document, when I get around to writing it), there's two or three stories I've said in earlier posts needed to be told elsewhere...stuff like that. But I didn't really have anything that felt 'ready' to write tonight.
And then the email happened. I got started talking about a situation that arose in my family about six years ago--we used to be quite a close-knit group, but since then, I've pretty much lost all contact with my sister, and rarely hear from one of my brothers. I'm not so far gone as to say that I never want to hear from them again...but I'm definitely ambivalent on the point at this moment. I won't go into the details of the situation, because this really isn't the place...it's one thing to air out your dirty laundry, it's another thing to run it up the flagpole for the whole world to see, y'know?
Anyhow, as I was relating some aspects of this whole situation to my friend, via email, I was absolutely amazed at the amount of rage that I felt suddenly welling up. This is stuff that happened years ago, stuff I thought I'd put behind me...and suddenly, here I was, putting a literal twist to the phrase, 'typing furiously'.
It kind of disturbed me. And, I think, even more disturbing to me is the fact that I was pleased, in some corner of my soul, that I still had that much passion over it. I don't like being angry. I don't even like being around angry people...I can, literally, feel myself becoming physically ill if I'm around angry people for very long. So why is it that I get this rush of satisfaction from finding myself angry enough to start spouting expletives to one of my friends? (at least it wasn't AT one of my friends).
I'm not sure. But I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that I so often keep an even keel, and tend to just let things slide off me. You sometimes wonder, when you meet someone who's too 'laissez-faire' about life, if they don't actually TRULYfeel anything...they just get a limited sampling of what's going on, but refuse to let themselves really feel it. And the fact that, even years later, I can still be this intense about something means that I haven't numbed myself beyond hope. I'm thankful for that.
I'm also thankful, though, that I haven't gone into this much depth with anyone about it for so long. Because, intense as these feelings were tonight, I don't even want to think about the kind of raw edge that would have been on them when they were freshly forged.
Maybe, time and distance being what they are, I'll eventually get to the point where I can be objective enough to write about the whole situation. Maybe I'll say 'screw objectivity' and write it as a memoir (a real memoir, not one of these this-is-loosely-based-on-experiences-AROUND-my-life books that Oprah's been choosing lately). I like that idea...it'd be cathartic...I can vent all the rage, and still scream at the top of my lungs all the things I wanted to...I don't have to worry about whether or not it becomes a sermon. Granted, if it does turn into a sermon, it's going to be a very colorful one.
Great...just what I need...another writing project. At lest this one would be non-fiction. And I could stop telling people I was living in a soap opera...although 'living in a non-fiction book' just lacks a little something, y'know?
So, I was writing an email to a friend just a little while ago. I'd been wondering if I would actually really have anything to write about tonight...I've got fragments of ideas for stuff to write--a declaration of my political beliefs (which will be a rather cynical document, when I get around to writing it), there's two or three stories I've said in earlier posts needed to be told elsewhere...stuff like that. But I didn't really have anything that felt 'ready' to write tonight.
And then the email happened. I got started talking about a situation that arose in my family about six years ago--we used to be quite a close-knit group, but since then, I've pretty much lost all contact with my sister, and rarely hear from one of my brothers. I'm not so far gone as to say that I never want to hear from them again...but I'm definitely ambivalent on the point at this moment. I won't go into the details of the situation, because this really isn't the place...it's one thing to air out your dirty laundry, it's another thing to run it up the flagpole for the whole world to see, y'know?
Anyhow, as I was relating some aspects of this whole situation to my friend, via email, I was absolutely amazed at the amount of rage that I felt suddenly welling up. This is stuff that happened years ago, stuff I thought I'd put behind me...and suddenly, here I was, putting a literal twist to the phrase, 'typing furiously'.
It kind of disturbed me. And, I think, even more disturbing to me is the fact that I was pleased, in some corner of my soul, that I still had that much passion over it. I don't like being angry. I don't even like being around angry people...I can, literally, feel myself becoming physically ill if I'm around angry people for very long. So why is it that I get this rush of satisfaction from finding myself angry enough to start spouting expletives to one of my friends? (at least it wasn't AT one of my friends).
I'm not sure. But I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that I so often keep an even keel, and tend to just let things slide off me. You sometimes wonder, when you meet someone who's too 'laissez-faire' about life, if they don't actually TRULYfeel anything...they just get a limited sampling of what's going on, but refuse to let themselves really feel it. And the fact that, even years later, I can still be this intense about something means that I haven't numbed myself beyond hope. I'm thankful for that.
I'm also thankful, though, that I haven't gone into this much depth with anyone about it for so long. Because, intense as these feelings were tonight, I don't even want to think about the kind of raw edge that would have been on them when they were freshly forged.
Maybe, time and distance being what they are, I'll eventually get to the point where I can be objective enough to write about the whole situation. Maybe I'll say 'screw objectivity' and write it as a memoir (a real memoir, not one of these this-is-loosely-based-on-experiences-AROUND-my-life books that Oprah's been choosing lately). I like that idea...it'd be cathartic...I can vent all the rage, and still scream at the top of my lungs all the things I wanted to...I don't have to worry about whether or not it becomes a sermon. Granted, if it does turn into a sermon, it's going to be a very colorful one.
Great...just what I need...another writing project. At lest this one would be non-fiction. And I could stop telling people I was living in a soap opera...although 'living in a non-fiction book' just lacks a little something, y'know?
posted by Curtis at 12:00 AM
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The older we get, the more we need the people we knew when we were young.
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