:onland://online/journal/october

19 - october - 2001 - friday

[ Love, by c.m. roberts] :
"The garbage man, you know, already knows this,
about her, about that girl in that apartment: she is
fucked. And it is a man who loves who pierces her
heart with his dick. This is how we all are fucked:
dicks piercing hearts. But with these words, it ends.
And she can forget about it, and be angry with her body."

[ writing ]

I found a lost friend. There was a moment when I thought I had found that writing partner I needed. I imagined that he would go with me, wherever I wanted, and seriously, without chit-chat, without catching up, he would be the one to say, "two hours. go." Before I could smile, say okay, "what do you think you'll write about?", he'd be on the second page, ignoring me, as if I were the very un-interesting heterosexual girl he would never be interested in. And I would smile and say, "yes; that's right. We are supposed to be writing!" I would write something strong, that says, "so there!" and kick someone in the ass with words nobody else could possibly string together with so much honesty, nakedness, and hurtfulness. That's me. Christen. Writer. Kick you in your ass. But we never got to that point. Too busy.

There was something in me that felt bitchy and annoyed and I didn't reign it in. Mistakes. But I'm sure his heart and mind would never pin it on one moment or two or three. He has a good soul. We just focussed on ourselves, and that is good; it's what is needed to succeed. To be writers. To work on something you love, you need to be selfish. A bitch. A raunchy dish washer, who, though he may be filthy and disgusting, scrubs at every dish with self-involved narcissism.

Do you remember: I once wrote that as a writer, I need something to happen to me. Those of you who know my life (notice I said my life, and not me?) think: but you have so much! No. That is something I don't want to write about, perhaps for the simple reason that that is what people think I should. It's too easy. There's more inside that I haven't yet figured out and once I see that something in there, I will learn how to write about it in a way that pleases me.

[ Jason ] has inspired me. It's time to write. It's time to go to coffee shops on my own with my notebook and tell myself, "two hours" and before I can hear it, be writing, flipping the page, telling my pages about Nancy, some girl who can't find her pantyhose--it is very important.

But now I have to work. So later. Later I will write.

beam me up, scotty