Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
to seize everything you ever wanted - One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip? [Eminem, Lose Yourself, 2002]
Believe it or not, this song (clean version) is the first track on the workout playlist on my iPod. I probably don't seem like the typical Eminem fan... overweight, farsighted, 46 year old woman... and I guess I'm not really a fan of pottymouth rapper boy BUT this song never fails to morph me into a workout maniac no matter how crappy I feel when I get to the gym. I mean, if the song is true and the movie that this song is from (8-mile which I did not see) documents the truth of his journey from mobile home park to stardom, then I guess he has something that I'd like for myself... guts, courage, persistence, dedication, motivation, fight, perseverence.
But for now, I'm going to take a couple of ibuprofen and curl up with a good heating pad.
Sitting on the dock
June 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
On burning one's journals
This morning on the bus on my way to work I mused about writing, as I often do, and I was suddenly struck with a memory of the night, about five years ago, that I burned (shredded actually) every single diary and journal I had written in my youth. (!!!!) This does seem a bit shocking in retrospect, especially because what I was musing about on the bus was a question of whether I might, at some point in my future, write my memoir or at least a semi-autobiographical work of fiction at which time I would find myself regretting having shredded my personal written history. I asked myself, "Will I remember what I need to remember if I ever need to remember it?" To which I immediately answered, "Probably not and thank the dear Lord for that!"
I recall the journal-shredding evening quite clearly. It wasn't pretty. I remember being very, very depressed. Over what I don't recall but it must have had something to do with or been somehow related to my past. I pulled out the lockbox that contained all those diaries and journals, sat down on the floor, and read them, page by page, book by book. I remember loathing - no that's not too strong a word for it - the person who wrote all those words. How it drove me crazy to read that every single boy I met made me act stupid (writing my first name with his last name) and every argument with my parents made me feel helpless (I could never win). The shame and embarrassment of being a member of Weight Watchers at the age of 13 - back when I still had hope that one day I'd be thin. The pain and heartache of girlfriends who invited everyone but me.
As I progressed through the journals the immaturity left but the painful memories didn't. Heartbreak, arguments, weight problems, dysfuntional relationships, they were all there in my somewhat more matured life, and I still couldn't stand the person that wrote about them. Furthermore, every mistake, every embarrassment, every sin, was there on those pages for anyone to read if they ever got into that lockbox. That was certainly not anything I wanted my children to see someday! Oh dear what a frightening thought.
No, I don't regret shredding all that history. The way I see it, if I ever do write my memoirs or even a semi-autobiographical work of fiction, and they actually do get published, I plan to take some literary license and make them sound a whole lot better than they actually were!
I recall the journal-shredding evening quite clearly. It wasn't pretty. I remember being very, very depressed. Over what I don't recall but it must have had something to do with or been somehow related to my past. I pulled out the lockbox that contained all those diaries and journals, sat down on the floor, and read them, page by page, book by book. I remember loathing - no that's not too strong a word for it - the person who wrote all those words. How it drove me crazy to read that every single boy I met made me act stupid (writing my first name with his last name) and every argument with my parents made me feel helpless (I could never win). The shame and embarrassment of being a member of Weight Watchers at the age of 13 - back when I still had hope that one day I'd be thin. The pain and heartache of girlfriends who invited everyone but me.
As I progressed through the journals the immaturity left but the painful memories didn't. Heartbreak, arguments, weight problems, dysfuntional relationships, they were all there in my somewhat more matured life, and I still couldn't stand the person that wrote about them. Furthermore, every mistake, every embarrassment, every sin, was there on those pages for anyone to read if they ever got into that lockbox. That was certainly not anything I wanted my children to see someday! Oh dear what a frightening thought.
No, I don't regret shredding all that history. The way I see it, if I ever do write my memoirs or even a semi-autobiographical work of fiction, and they actually do get published, I plan to take some literary license and make them sound a whole lot better than they actually were!