It’s been a big week. A big weekend. I feel like a ton of things have gone down since my last post, and apologize for not updating sooner, but these things. Life has a way of sweeping me up sometimes, a tornado of activities and must-do-by-this-days lifting me up in a dust cloud of intensity and dropping me off somewhere into a nice quiet peaceful moment, unrecognizable until I’m shrouded in silence.
The moving process is truly underway.
I’m speaking of multiple moving processes.
The first moving process is the physical process of moving my life into a 5×10 storage unit, packing my “valuable” things into boxes, things I can do without for the next month and a half while I live at Mr. Man’s place. Things I will forget I own until I unpack them in my own new home, yet to be found. Until June, I’ll live with only the most necessary clothes and trinkets while my own “life” sit patiently awaiting me in a dark room, secured by a $6 lock. As this is not the first time I’ve boxed my valuables, stacking them tetris style, and I know a month into it I will question why I have any of these things in the first place.
Why so many candle holders?
Why do I need plates?
Why do I have 6 boxes of books?
I won’t have answers until I reopen those boxes, until I find the perfect place to place them in my new home, until those things make my new home feel like my home. Things are funny that way. They seem so important when we are looking at them, and then once we’ve locked them away from our eyes, we forget they even exist. Moving always makes me sad. This time is no different.
This move is much more organized than my escape from Sherman Oaks. The desperation with which I entered my Hollywood home has diffused, and now, I feel content saying I’m moving with purpose. Because I want to be somewhere different. Not because I feel I must. Still, a ton of feelings came up driving my Uhual down Highland Blvd. Hollywood, after all, marked the beginning of an entirely new way of living for me. It marks the biggest change in my life yet~ the taking back of my identity. The recreation of a self I like. Perhaps even love.
I had a ton of fun in Hollywood.
This is the first home I’ve never used to shoot pornography, or drinks down my throat. I never even had sex in the apartment.
Hollywood, for it’s piss filled streets and debauchery, will live on as the purest place in my life. Aside from childhood.
Another moving event happened today, when I met a lovely Jill Soloway, accompanied by Heather Woodbury, reunited with the irresistible Susie Bright, and got to hug someone I’ve spoken about quite often in this blog, Stephen Elliott. Jill and Heather picked me up, Jill and I had discussed attending the LA Times Festival of Books, and had been flirting with each other (in that special I’m a writer-you’re a writer kind of way) via email. Kind of an amazing experience to be surrounded by such strong, creative and driven people, and it seems that my prayers to be surrounded by women is coming true.
Two things were particularly moving however.
The look in Susie’s eyes when I walked out onto the “writers only” patio area. The smile. The warmth. She mentioned the last (and only) time we’d met I told her of issues I was having with my Dad. Felt it was interesting how I opened up about something so personal to someone I’d just met. I never had a problem telling people who didn’t know me and had nothing invested in me the complete an total truth. It was people I was supposed to love, or who loved me…. the intimate relationships where I failed to exercise that same rigorous honesty. Something left an impression on Susie. The fact that she remembers both me and the conversation is touching. I think we all want to be memorable.
The hug from Stephen Elliott. When I took his class on writing memoirs a few months ago, on the advice of a dear friend (hahaha, I’m not forgetting mofo…), it was one of the first times I thought “Maybe I can write a book. Maybe, with work, dedication, and a ton of ink, I can complete something. And maybe I can be proud of it.” In emails I’d exchanged with him since the class, I shared how his memoir inspired me to look at my relationship with my father, perhaps to take that on as a theme for my memoir. He’s never struck me as anything less than authentic, and his hug reaffirmed that feeling. I think we all want to feel our interactions are authentic. And honest.
The moving process, the process of moving, talking writing with Jill, sex with Susie, sharing moments with inspiring people… it’s days like this, like the past week… I have a hard time accepting my life, and sitting down to write, without hearing a tiny voice whispering. This is my life? THIS IS MY LIFE?
Constantly. Grateful. For this life.