I love that the link I click on to write a blog entry is “create”. I don’t think of writing as an act of creation, but of expression. Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it…It’s informed by my understanding of what I’m doing. I’m not writing down something new or interesting, I’m just sort of..documenting what’s in me. I think that’s why I like the Neil Gaiman quote that I posted a few months ago. We’re all overflowing with worlds. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. And I’m lazy about writing, so the only thing that gets out is the world, or the idea, or whatever, that pushes itself to the top, that bangs against the side of my head and screams its throat raw.
And then I only write it because it needs to be sanitized. You can’t just SAY “I cut the daisy from my throat” — you can’t say that you write something because if you don’t, you’ll have to crack your skull open to let it out, because it amplifies, and roils, and pushes, until it’s all you see when you close your eyes and all you hear when the radio turns off and the neighbors dog stops barking and the traffic is phased out by that part of your brain that decides what is, and is not relevant. So I write it, I write it because I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I don’t sanitize my outputs. And Natalie says that the goal should be learning to avoid sanitization, learning to speak frankly? That’s crazy. What would the neighbors say?
That’s not what I meant to write about.
Patience is a virtue, which I do not possess. When you find out that something you’ve been waiting for is about to become very, very real, it’s easy to get excited about it. When you find out that you have to wait, it’s frustrating. I’m glad we don’t have to induce, that’s awesome, but I (greedily) hate that I have to wait.
The joke at the time of the wedding was “Are you ready?”…I think the expectation was a look of nervousness, or fear. A split second. In body language, they’re “Micro gestures”, the moment before you gain control of your face, erect the facade, when you are accidentally honest in your expression of whatever emotion you’re feeling. I may even have pandered to that joke, said “Well, I guess”, fabricated a hesitation or a grim smile, as one going to the gallows. If I did, it was because the alternative was ridicule. Ready? Yes. Really? Absolutely.
Impossible. The arrogance of youth. This just proves it, doesn’t it? Not ready, has no idea. Doesn’t know what he’s getting into.
But I felt ready, and if the last three years are any indication I was sufficiently prepared.
Here we are then. It’s going to turn my world upside-down. I can’t prepare for it. Nothing anyone says is going to tell me what it’s like and I simply can’t be ready for it. Impossible. I can only speak from ignorance, and I’ll certainly be regretting that, mark my words. I should be happy that I have another week and a half, though it won’t come close to preparing me!
Spare me that.
I’m ready. I am eager. In the core of my being I am deeply unconcerned. Which leaves only impatience. To see, to touch, to smell, to hear, and to know.
But mostly, I want to eat her toes.