I really must be the worst writer in the history of all writers. Why, you ask? One very simple reason: I DON’T WRITE. For some reason, at times best suited for wild outpourings of creativity, I can’t bring myself to write about it. It’s like I feel it will be spoiled if I start writing about it. At those times, priceless moments I should take down on paper, I only want to take it in, let it seep into my system, enjoy everything about it without having to verbalize or record it. Maybe I shouldn’t even call myself a writer. I get great ideas all the time for things I should write, or maybe I should say that “someone” should write, but I rarely, if ever, sit down and do it. This is my big confession. What could be worse than a writer who confesses that she doesn’t write? Yes, I realize I’m writing right now, but it’s out of sheer cathartic impulse, driven by the guilt of my creative failures. I have seen so many amazing things, been told countless stories that will never be repeated, filed away idea after idea, all lost to the black hole in my mind labeled “Well of Creativity.” Oh, trust me, things go in. But they never come out.
Take my current situation, for instance. I am in my third week of five living in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I have had a great time of it here, with more experiences worthy of recounting than I can count, especially since I didn’t write them down. Any normal person of my creative credentials would at the very least write in a journal, or make a blog, SOMETHING. But I just sit there (or stand, or walk by) speechless, sometimes thinking “there’s no way I’ll forget about this” or “wow, I should really write a story about this.” Ah, something else to throw in the well. The purpose of this writing exercise is to somehow warm up into recording at least some of my experiences in Bs.As. before they all disappear, sucked mercilessly into the inner reaches of my mind (where nothing reaches, least of all my creative impulse). I’m very good at critiquing other people’s writing, books and such (if I do say so myself) and have gotten compliments on my reviews, literary essays, etc. And boy, do I appreciate good writing. I even think I’m a fairly good “writer” myself—when I write, that is.
Yet I keep procrastinating, even now, in a effort to delay the icy plunge into the cold pool of words, images and memories I must somehow keep myself afloat in, force myself to stay in, until the point of comfort (which is also the point of numbness, no? Ah, an accidental Pink Floyd reference. Which reminds me of something really funny. The son of the family in whose apartment I am renting a room, 18 years old and lover of American rock-and-roll, circa 1970/80ish, has been walking around all day singing my favorite Pink Floyd song, “Wish You Were Here,” but in that way you do it when you have headphones on or the music is really loud, and you don’t know the words, so you just say every fifth one you know and mumble or make the sounds of the rest—but he does it all by himself, in complete silence, as if he were actually singing it! I love it, he’s a very plucky fellow. Right in front of us, too. You should really have been there. But not at the other times, when every time he gets home he turns on Aerosmith full blast for at least an hour. Every time. Seriously. I tried to talk to him about music today, with Pink Floyd as a starting point. But apparently the music that is wildly popular here is the old school music in the U.S. For 18-year old boys anyway. He asked if I went to concerts, to which I proudly replied in complete coolness confidence, “Oh, I’ve been to lots of concerts, I used to go all the time.” He asked me to name some, so I did… got nothing. He asks if I’ve been to see Guns ‘n’ Roses. No, I say. Bon Jovi? Um, I have a record… The Rolling Stones. Give me a break, kid, those tickets are pricey. How come? Because they are rock ‘n’ roll legends, silly. Legends as in they have been around FOR A REALLY LONG TIME. Rage Against the Machine? Ah, that I can relate to. But sadly, I have the unused ticket in a drawer, because some jerk who was supposed to drive us, didn’t. Kid walks away. I walk to my bedroom, no longer confident in my coolness, defeated by a list of random bands from 20+ years ago.
Where was I? Oh, right…). So I figured I just need a warm-up, a running start, and the torrents of words will come pouring, spitting out of my fingertips in torrents, slipping and sliding all over the keyboard (but not actually getting wet, since it’s a borrowed laptop) and splashing joyfully over the blindingly white surface of my Microsoft Word document. By the way, don’t you find the Word interface creatively deadening? I hadn’t noticed it much before (since I don’t write), but it doesn’t quite cut it like the handwritten journaling in a leather-bound book, pen scratching out lines in a maddening scrawl to keep up with my thoughts. Which is why I am using the computer. My pen usually can’t keep up with my thoughts, and since the point of doing this is that I’m losing them, why would… oh, nevermind. I do so love to procrastinate. Ask anyone.
One thing I do like is taking photographs of fun things I see, so I’ll start with that. Written photographs, meeting the minimal requirement of at least recording certain events or occurrences that stand out.
Photograph 1: DOGS IN THE PARK
I am starting to think there are more dogs here than people. Or at least a nearly equal amount. They are everywhere. One of the more popular professions for 20-somethings appears to be dog-walking, which to me, looks terrifying. One solitary person holding tightly to the leashes of at least eight dogs, most of them medium size to extremely large. They are pretty docile, following their walker in a pack, waiting patiently at the stoplights. I don’t understanding this strange phenomenon of canine behavior. I do find amusing that in every group I’ve seen, the smaller dogs stay in the middle of the pack. My guess is that they feel protected when the big dogs are on the outer edge. Sometimes you can’t even see the little dogs, which is probably how they like it. I really started noticing the dog phenomenon on my walk to class one day (I walk almost everywhere here, distances I’d scoff at sitting in my San Antonio apartment). My usual route takes me past a little wooded park, of which there are many in Buenos Aires. The second time I walked by, I stopped in my tracks and stared. There, in a circular area marked off by a railing around its circumference, kind of like the ring in a circus, were dozens of dogs. At least thirty, probably more. It was like a big dog party, like a giant play date for every dog within a five-mile radius (although now I know there are more than likely 200 dogs in a five-mile radius here). The majority were tethered in some way to the railing, walking around, socializing, resting, licking themselves, chatting about the weather, doing their business, you know, dog stuff. I’ve never seen anything like it. I was in a rush, so I quickly kept walking, craning my neck to keep looking at the dogs. A few days later I went that route again with my camera, and there were dogs there again, but not as many. I took a picture anyway. I’ve walked by at other times, and there is no one there. Maybe there is a dog-walkers association and they have a set meeting-time in the morning, at that particular park. Quite a sight, I have to say. I am not quite sure whether I should add the actual photograph. Probably not. That will be an excuse not to verbalize. Must not enable myself.
Alas, weariness overtakes me, due to the overwhelming strain of actually writing words. My words. Tangibly. Enjoy, at least with the knowledge of the rarity of the occasion. Adieu!
No comments:
Post a Comment