A Hard Day’s Night
It’s been a long, long day.
My head hurts. My eyes are sore – the computer screen is killing me. There is this throbbing that sits heavily behind my eye sockets, feels like it’s nested in the middle of my head, a swollen rock of exhaustion. And then there is the pulsing of pain, thump…thump…thump… that even the glass of pinot grigio is not melting away. Arrghh.
I’m not writing to whine. I’m writing because I want to write. The act of my thoughts trickling out of my fingertips soothes me. It usually starts slow after too many hours of mechanical thinking. The brain is numb…it needs time to recover. Then it slowly switches gears. At first it’s just a few drops, then the droplets increase in frequency into a slow trickle, then faster, steadfastly it builds in volume, until it erupts into a stream of consciousness that just can’t be stopped. All I can do at this point is just to keep up with the flickering of my fingers on keys. Faster faster. It’s pure bliss. This is the stuff that feeds my soul. This must be what people call “the zone,” whatever that is (RE), and when I’m there nothing else matters, I lose all track of time and space. The context around me just melts away. I get tunnel vision, and it’s amazing.
I so wish I could write more now, but there is another task that I must finish tonight. There are still two more films I want to talk about from TIFF, both by Herzog. It’s been simmering in me for what feels like weeks, and then last night I found out about the Rogue School of Films while reading his website, and my world pretty much exploded. There is so much that I want to say. I know I will say them. Soon, when I’m coherent.
Lastly, for those of you reading this, I feel your presence. No, seriously. I’ve kept a diary for ages. I had another blog and that was locked and restricted to a circle of close friends. Writing has always been a refuge, personal. But I’ve also been lucky to come across certain people in my life who have encouraged me, almost at miraculously perfect timings. There was my language teacher in grade two who first read aloud an essay I wrote after a school trip to the botanical garden. I never thought of myself as a writer before then. Then there was a PhD student whose name was Grace that took a special interest in me in grade six, encouraging me in a quiet and continuous manner, and secretly I idolized her. Then there’s my high school English teacher who had a fervent love for Dawson’s Creek and my homework. He made me believe that my words are worth pursuing. Then there’s Roger Ebert, who for all purposes has no reason to take notice of my writing, and he did. And he not only took notice, but took interest. A Pulitzer winner, survivor of cancer, with more than his share of things to do, so encouraging of a virtual stranger. Why? I shall never presume to know. But I am truly thankful. For I am at a point in my life that I really needed this. And I’m glad that it came to me.
So yes, I do feel you reading the words I write, comment or not. It’s not about that. To me it’s always been about the people. The human connection. I’ve always been sort of in love with people, as individuals. They are the most fascinating creations in the world. No two are the same. A world of infinite possibilities within each. I think, no matter what I end up doing for the rest of my life, I will never stop being fascinated of people, and I will never stop being in awe of them, and in love with the world within them and created by them.