Writing has become quicksand filled at the bottom of the well. You take Alice potion to get to the size to go down to the water in a bucket, and there’s no water, it’s quicksand at the bottom. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be in quicksand and holding someone’s hand desperately pulling me out; like the Twilight Zone little girl stuck int he 4th dimension with her dog, her dad half in the wall reaching out for her, frantically pulling her back in to her bedroom.
I have wanted to go to the 4th dimension, to escape all the dirty corners of living, the things you like to pretend are not real inside you. It’s ok to imagine killing someone, that’s a clean piece of evil I’m familiar with and can enjoy, but there are dirtier secrets that pretend they aren’t there.
If you want clean water and clean air, writing is still some kind of curse, you throw a pebble in a pond and see the ripples of water. Each ripple is 4-10 pages of meandering writing, that starts out excited and full of clean water inspiration and goes to drinking out of a dirty glass that went through my dishwasher and still has pieces of dirt stuck to it.
My therapy homework is to find and read The Third Policeman. There is a different third policeman policing my writing; he is disgusted with it. When I was a kid I dreamed I was walking down a road and getting spanked by a policeman standing waiting for me. He’s back and he’s spanking every meandering piece of prose that gets saved, the names for the files are: ProcessElection.docx, NewIdeas.docx, SmallPottatoes.docx, I have spent my life figuring out what books.docx, HilaryLemons.docx…
The Hilary lemons, the lemons is connected to cutting lemons the wrong way, somehow it was connected to something in my mind about Hilary, I don’t even want to read it. The lemons were what was important, not to do with the election or Hilary, buthey were about me and this maze of writing stop starting, how I must be the same me in some way with the me of my fifteen year old self, who got yelled at by my chef expert brother for cutting lemons wrong. He was right, I had shamed these poor lemons, messed them up, disrespected and disgraced them. There is something about lemons, and if you cut them wrong, it better not be for anyone else, just your own glass of water which if it would talk would yell at you too. Lemon cutting shaming. Cutting fruit wrong permeates my personality. My daughter is not please at my butchering her granny smith apple. My mind refuses to fall in and get the facts properly placed and numbered.
Trying to get a container thing you use to put electric things in the light socket, I go to that row in Home Depot, where inconsiderate customers have put all the different iterations of this box like thing in the wrong boxes, where the person helping you is jumping from box to box, pulling these boxes out, some have wings on the side to screw in, some are hexagonal. On a different day, I might have done something with this panoply of boxes for light to go to the switch you flick, enjoyed their strange shapes and sides, aluminum box trolls. I am too confused, my mind goes into words about 2 by 4s and tops without the holes, there are tops with circles that mean you punch through them. My daughter noticed this difference. Making decisions when FaceTime doesn’t work and you can’t take ten photos of these things to make sure you got the right ones. How important is it? The first time round my mind turns into quicksand. The stress of connecting words to sentences to actually getting the right ones. I thought it was 3 each of 2 and 3 inch ones. But it was 3 each of one and two light switch things. Lucky I caught that one.
I told my daughter I am learning the English language of real people all over again. It’s not my language at all. Off to the paint department, an island of my language, colored swatches and fantasy walls, where you can find the paint color errors and spend 50 cents to get some pink color you won’t use at home, but maybe I could paint my studio closet door with this. It’s a small container of random paint; of course it’s going to be useful.