This is the beginning.
Here we are. It's a little awkward to start a blog. I kind of feel like I'm trying to pick you up in a bar... but let's just start at the beginning. As Julie Andrews so eloquently sings, a very good place to start. (I told you I'm a musical theater geek!!!) But she's right - isn't she? SO. Here we are. Let's dive in!
This all started with a piece I wrote in my creative writing class with the brilliant Jack Grapes. (If you're located in Los Angeles and you've ever had any sort of itch to write, RUN to his class immediately.) It poured out of me like nothing ever had. And when I sat back and read it, I was in tears. It embodied all of my truths. If not now, when? What are you waiting for? Insert one of 50 million quotes (some of which you may have seen on my instagram account) here. The reason those quotes are recycled is because they are REAL. And this piece of writing was as real for me as I'd ever been. So this. This was the beginning for me.
GRAPES
I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking about how I’m almost 40. I’ve been thinking about how I’m done with the first half of my life. I’ve been thinking about what I want for the second half. I’m looking for something that fills me. There’s no time left to squander time. I’ve been throwing it around like it sprouts on trees. You know what I mean? I’ve been thinking I’m gonna live forever and then, bam - it hits you out of nowhere, ya know? 40 is only two years away. I mean, that’s when you realize how old you are. Parts are sagging, sinking, drooping, wrinkling in all the locations where they once were taut. I spar with the sallow, grapple with the grey, slather balm on the crevices that have appeared. I’m old. I don’t feel old. I’m older. I’m older as in the world is no longer my oyster older. Except here’s the thing, some days I sort of feel like it might be. My oyster, I mean. I sort of feel like, screw it, ya know? What do I have to lose at this point? I mean, I’m old. All I have to lose is another year. But, I don’t want to lose anymore years. I don’t want to lose. I’m so terrified of losing that I don’t even try. I don’t try so I can’t fail. And my fear of failure has made me the very thing I don’t want to be - an old loser.
I am stuck, glued in a pool of sludge and mire, my feet refuse to leave the ground. I can not advance. Paralyzed by the worst trait known to mankind - cowardice. I sit typing with such urgency that one would think a life is at stake. I hit the enter key and the list I have been waiting for appears on my page. Within milliseconds, I begin to sweat. There is a bird tweeting outside but it feels like it’s built a nest in my brain, leaving little room for me to wrap my head around anything other than the happy tweet, tweet of the fucking bird. People start to come into the cafe, people that I know, with welcoming smiles plastered across their faces but I keep my head down hoping they don’t detect the skittish, overwrought dolt in the corner who has decided to forgo all hopes of a future because she is a candy-assed milksop who is crippled with fear and apprehension. The words on the screen reach out and wrap themselves around my neck. Having detected my weakness, they squeeze with utter joy and delight as they take my breath away. I can not do this, I think. I’ve tried to do it before and I stop. I’m going to fail again in the worst possible way - I’m going to fail at starting. I can’t manage to put one foot in front of the other, I can’t manage to walk. I believe I can fly until I try to do it and then I can’t even crawl. Tears stream down my cheeks as my entire existence circles my cranium smack in the middle of a coffee cafe.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The buzz of others’ conversations collides with the tweet of the bird and my chest constricts in a way that is so familiar that I am tempted to crawl under the table and curl into a ball until I become invisible to the rest of the world. This is not about this one moment. This is about my life. This is about the pawns I have not taken, the fires that haven’t come true. The bourbon runs through my brain and I am 10, 15, 23, 32 - as long as I have been alive, I have stopped myself from living. Somehow, through the din of the coffee shop and the tweeting inside my brain, I hear my email ding. I hit the enter button.
words subtle falling strong tears tapping through swelling spinning falling disbelief black flashing meadows years climbing battling screen breathe
The words I needed to stop the spinning. The words I needed to breathe again. The words I needed to hear when I was 5. The words I needed to hear when I was 15, 23, 32. Staring back at me from the screen: I believe in you.