There's this one about the time I met him -- I had no idea who he was before that night. And this one, titled with one of the few words that reaches deep into my guts and twists them up and causes so many feelings just by its mention (every time I hear it), that describes how his words helped pull me out of one of my darker grieving days. And this one, which talks a bit about the Red Notebook or this one, which mentions the idea in the first place. There's this epiphany-style one which, upon re-reading, is one of the truest things I've ever written about myself and my connection to words. And there are a couple other off-hand references as well.
This is probably going to be a bit scattered because I myself am scattered most of the time anyway, and because all these thoughts are still unraveling in my head. Because I'm getting a cold and I feel worn down (not just physically, but psychically, too).
I dislike journals. I used to buy them, because I'd get lost in the pretty covers or the page design or the secret back pockets (I love anything with pockets). People buy me journals regularly. There's a shelf full of blank journals in my library. I tend not to write in them, because I don't know what to put in them. I'm better at writing in front of a keyboard with a delete button and options to cut and paste, where my fingers move as quickly as my thoughts. And writing long-hand tends to make my hand hurt. Sometimes my wrist pops and dislocates. It's uncomfortable. On the rare occasion that I do start scribbling in a journal, I pretty much never fill all the pages. Often, I go back and rip out the pages I have filled -- because the words aren't right or they no longer fit or I'm afraid someone might find them one day and read them and get the wrong ideas about me. I take the pictures from the covers and scattered phrases from the torn pages and I make collages.
I realized recently that I haven't made a collage since the Red Notebook. I'm not sure why this is. (It also strikes me as interesting that I spearheaded the Red Notebook Conspiracy, which was all about filling a journal. A journal that, to this day, still has some blank pages.)
I'm thinking about journals and collages partly because of David Levithan, because his words inspired the Red Notebook Conspiracy, because his words have so often shown up in my collages.
I'm thinking about the River Song journal a friend gave me for Christmas (along with a TARDIS pen) that made me feel like I needed to fill its pages, because it was special (partly because of who it came from and partly because of the Whovian reference). I started filling that journal with quotes I find inspiring (things I'd normally put in collages or keep in a list in a draft email to cut and paste into my email signatures...back when I wasn't too lazy to do that). Late one night, I flipped that journal over and started writing from the back, a strange little entry about who I am. Who I really am, in all its simplicity and complexity.
And I was thinking about all of that just now because I was reading one of David Levithan's early books -- Are We There Yet? -- in the tub just now.
Like I said, I'm not feeling well. It's currently snowing like crazy outside and the water heater got fixed yesterday, so I figured I'd take a nice, hot bath with a mug of tea and do some reading. I got so absorbed in the book that both my tea and the bath water went cold. (At least the bath water could be warmed up without too much inconvenience.)
The book is about two brothers who are very different and don't get along well who have been tricked by their parents into taking a vacation together in Italy. Like every other David Levithan book I've read, I'm enjoying it. I like the characters and I like his analogies and the subtle lyricism in his writing. But I started dog earing pages when the lines reached in and twisted up my guts the way the word Lovely does.
Sometimes I want to simplify my life into a single bare thing. And other times I want to complicate it so thoroughly that everything I touch will become bound in some way to me. I've become quite aware of my contradictions, but there's no true resolution in that.And then
Elijah fundamentally wants everyone to be happy.
And also
Danny sees that Julia can't decide whether he's being true or whether he's just being kind. It doesn't occur to her that the two can be one and the same.
I feel like there are people who probably think that my gestures of kindness are not completely true (hell, sometimes I believe it, too -- I often say, "I'm not that nice"). But the thing is, I'm also not a liar. I can't even remember the last time I knowingly said something untrue. (Like, it's painful for me when I say something that I realize could be interpreted in a way that's untruthful, because it "feels like lying" -- a phrase I often use and think people probably find...well, weird.)
I got to thinking about how there's a bit of both Elijah and Danny in me, even though they seem like such starkly different characters.
All of that wrapped around to me thinking about this strange email exchange that happened between me and a friend (at least, I think we're still friends, but I'm not totally sure) about a week and a half ago. I'd spent some time thinking about a conversation we'd had and I sent an email I thought was trying to be kinder than where we'd left off. My friend mistook my tone (and I can see why, although I think there was a bit of an overreaction to it) and sent a response that was a bit exasperated, to say the least. In that response, my friend made a point of telling me that not everyone checks their email as often as I do.
Here's the thing about that: I try really, really hard to respond to people's emails quickly. Always. At work, I do it because that's part of professionalism, I think. I know not everyone does this. I know people notice that I do (they often comment on it and thank me for it). I know I get mad when something I'm working on grinds to a halt until I can get a response from someone who is not as timely as I try to be. At home, I try to respond to emails quickly because it's my way of telling people, "You matter to me."
And, yes, I do check my email a lot. And yes, I sometimes email people a lot (because if I'm thinking about something that has to do with them, I want them to know it -- it's important for people to know THAT you think of them and WHAT you think of them -- and because I worry about forgetting things if I don't write them down).
This is why I get so tense about being on time, too. I used to think it was because my mom was always ridiculously early for everything and insisted that if I wasn't 15 minutes early, I was late. Maybe that's part of it. But more than that it's this: I hate waiting for people. I feel self-conscious and weird while I wait. I worry that something has happened to the person meeting me or that I've somehow mixed up when or where I'm supposed to be. So, I try really hard to always be on time when I'm meeting someone. It's my way of saying, "You matter to me" and "I don't want to waste your time" and "I don't want you to experience those icky feelings waiting for me."
The weirdest thing about these two habits of mine? The reverse is not true. Yes, I appreciate a quick response to an email (especially in a professional context, but in a personal one, too). And while I do get mad about delayed professional emails, I don't get mad about friends who take some time to respond to personal emails (unless I'm trying to plan something and need information from them to complete the plan). I don't think they're trying to say "You don't matter to me." Same goes with my friends who are chronically late every time we get together. I might get anxious and feel crummy while I wait, but I don't get mad at them for it. I don't think they're trying to tell me my time is unimportant to them or that I don't matter.
And somewhere buried in all these contradictions and neuroses and attempts at both kindness and truthfulness, I know that I can overwhelm people (even when that's the last thing I want to do -- in fact, when I try to stop it, I seem to only ever make it worse).
I didn't write all of this down in the back of my River Song journal, because it's too much to write by hand, because it's too much to think about. (The quotes will, I hope, end up in the front part, though.)
Once again, David Levithan has given me much to think about.
But, for now, I'm going to just go back to letting myself get lost in the story.
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