Run-On Consciousness in Air 5.13.11

Something about it being a, ‘personal day’ makes me want to do random obscene acts.  Not something so obscene as streaking through the gates of the airport, but maybe just openly staring at someone or hanging my leg over the back of the seats at the gate lackadaisically.  Who am I kidding?  A personal day in itself seems obscene to me because I am so ever reserved on the outside.  As much as I would like to shout out, “I’m going to Vegas!” as I board the plane, I board silently and hastily wrestle with my bag once seated to find my journal.

I feel spontaneous as if I had hopped out of bed this morning and decided on a whim to fly to Vegas.  In reality, this trip is for one of my best friend’s bachelorette parties.  Despite being completely broke and playing hookie on several work-related events this weekend,  it’s happening now, it’s totally worth it and everyone I know is telling me I need a break.  I might as well own this experience so I text the boyfriend to see if he wants to meet me in Vegas to get married this weekend.  That’s about as crazy as I’ve gotten so far.

Being on the plane forces me to write in pen.  I hate writing in pen.  I’ve been told by god knows who that good writers use pen and paper.  This is one of the many things I’ve locked away in my soul as a reason I’m totally wrong to be a writer whether or not this is actually an accepted belief in in society.  They (whoever told  me, that is) say this thing about writing in pen, I assume, because it forces your brain to slow down and choose words more carefully.  Growing up raised on the steroids of internet, cellphone and caffeine, however, has taught me to move quicker and think faster so maybe good writers just write in whatever way is most efficient for whatever time period they live in.  All the things people say or think “good writers” do are just needless obstacles people put up to make being a writer seem like some mysteriously posh intellectual oasis to which some of us aren’t qualified to enter.

The more I think about it, the more I suddenly feel claustrophobic.  I want to let my words out into the world. I want to post them somewhere for someone to see.  I’m an exhibitionist of sorts.  My words mean nothing to me sitting stagnant on a page of my journal in the middle of the sky.  They need to be seen immediately in their nakedness straight from pen to keyboard with only a few quick grammatical edits from here to there.  Of course I always edit it every time I read it again online but it must be out there as soon as possible.  Tingling and itching like a sneeze caught in the sinus cavity, my words wait until that glorious moment when it finally escapes with a force that cannot be recreated.

What would be so bad about people just writing because they wanted to and weren’t encumbered by the many things they should and shouldn’t do.  I imagine that the world would have a cornucopia of diverse thoughts from which to steal, morph or evolve into greater writing.  Maybe writers just say it can only be done one way correctly, which is their way, to make people like me feel unwelcomed.  The idea that the spotlight only holds so many is for those who are insecure about their place in the spotlight .

There’s no way to deny everything about me screams that I am wrong as a writer.  I crave and demand feedback and yet I hesitate to ever change anything suggested to me.  I’m too reserved in my personal life to ever print anything so risqué or real as to affect my reputation.  I’m horrible at grammar and spelling and sentence structure.  I write about 20 run on sentences in every short story and essay.  My poems have no form or structure.  But I know I will never be satisfied unless I write.  It’s an impulse I can’t quell in any other way.

When I was depressed, writing both shattered and saved me.  I don’t even care to be famous or even to publish a book that sells millions.  I just want to write every day for as long as I can and I want to write in the way that I write but better each time.  I want to say the billion and one thoughts I have every second as raw or refined as I need to in order to make my reader gasp and say, “well, shit,” as if they had never thought of something that way before.  I want to tattoo my words on my body and streak through the streets just so I can be positive I was read.  I would never actually be wild enough to do it, but that’s how badly I want to write.  More than anything I want to spit the most mucousy and rank loogie into the faces of the people who told me I wasn’t good enough to be a writer (because god knows I already knew that) in whatever way I can do such a thing without literally doing it.

It’s possible because I don’t care anymore if it’s “good enough” to anyone else anymore.  If it’s cathartic and relieves the pressure in my being, then it’s what I’ll do.  If the spotlight can’t hold me than I will design my own.


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