baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Alternative theraphy "Never leave any regrets on the field" It's funny. The longer I'm away from diaryland, the easier it becomes to NOT write-to hold in all the thoughts that would normally spill onto these pages like black paint on a white wall-a glaring testimony to my thoughts and self-absorption. At first, I would think about writing-make mental notes of events and occurrences that would fit naturally into my diary. I would wonder about the many wondrous people I've met through this place and miss them; their virtual personalities, wit and humor lighting up my eyes as I waded through my day. But, now, more than a week away from this respite, I find that typing out my thoughts has become a chore. As my fingers have slightly improved (I'm at least playing again thank God), and as I've taken a quick vacation from work, my mind has jelled back into its old habits-meaning that events and anecdotes of my amusingly plain existence is now being filed away as memories-and not as diary entries. This doesn't mean that I prefer it this way. It's just that I have little choice. If I can't play the guitar, then I certainly can't type. But, it also means that I've lost this outlet (for the time being)-this avenue by which I jettison some of the daily thoughts that weigh me down. Writing is indeed therapy-and this diary has epitomized therapy in many, many ways. So, therapy must come in other forms. Like Irving's newest novel-where the above quote came from. Amusing, lovely and poignant in so many more ways than I can describe. I closed its pages just this morning-reading the last passage as Girl-Unit sat across from me on the sofa in her blue nightgown-her legs reclined on the coffee table, gardening book on her lap, and our dog at her feet. Or my sister-who flew into town last weekend filled with the fear that Mom may not be with us very much longer. And although sis and I spent our time together cruising the Getty and LACMA, the minutes filled with jokes amidst the Monets and Renoirs hanging on quiet walls, we both knew that whatever hatchets she's wielded against mom must, or should be, buried quite soon-before our mom herself is buried. It's not easy facing the inevitable passing of your parents. It's not easy writing about it either. And that little detail, coupled with the ache in my hands, makes writing the biggest and scariest chore of all.
4:08 p.m. - 2001-07-27 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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