Diarists are a strange breed. I've encouraged everyone I've ever met in my therapy practice to become one--those whose stories feel too big for them particularly. For the rare folks whose lives have absolutely shattered them, I've recommended books--at least the title of their books. After that, I'd say to them in deep disclosure and revelation and countless times, "that is perfect for the book".
Some people's titles were so unmarketable that I woouldn't let them stick after they came falling out all pitifully--a limp baby in our laps. I don't expect that they will try to publish and true marketability doesn't matter in the scheme of their lives, but moxy and the courage to make an impact in the world does. Most of these people are women. I thought the least they could do is create one string of words that knocked you over.
I'd say, "I don't know. I don't think I'd reach for that one in the bookstore." On the other hand, for the really moxyfied, I'd clap about their titles and say, "that one will fly off the shelves. there's your retirement fund."
I can't print the absolutely gorgeous ones that finalized themselves into at least a metaphoric reality for dumping stories. I can say that the best
working titles
I ever proposed have been "Confessions of a Crack Baby" and "A Whore Comes Out of the Closet Naked". As offensive as they seem, they were well-received--in fact, received with joy--and built upon. You have to have just the right relationship, of course, but having this imaginary depository of the absolute truth freed them somehow.
But aren't those titles exquisite? And wouldn't you skim them as you stood in Barnes and Noble looking for diversion or perhaps an adventure of the mind? I would.
There was the best bookstore on earth in Houston in the 80's. It was open 24 hours and had stacks like a library of the rich and famous. I'd go there during a weekend bender at my typewriter, in the middle of the night or later. It was fantastic. I'd drive through the near empty streets toward the neon glow of that well-peopled oasis. The other customers were kind and like-spirited. We smiled and yielded, but really never spoke. Business was on. It was not a place to find a date. The less interesting store, with chairs and couches, was for that. I thought then that any guy who preferred books to booze on a Saturday night might be for me.
I dragged pounds and pounds of books out of the library for the rich and famous and lined them like little soldiers around the baseboards of my nearly empty apartment. I've never much cared that I own books I haven't read.
I might read them is always the answer when people have asked me if I have already read them. In fact, reactions to these hoarded items have told me a great deal about people I don't know very well. I liked you more if you smiled and rummaged around. I liked you much less if you were indifferent or critical.
It was a simple screening process.
I was lonely in those days and nights in Houston, sometimes painfully so. I developed a habit of regular massage and hair salon visits to remedy my body's need for touch. I only dated non-physically as I called in in my head. I didn't want to hold hands, kiss or anything else. I would let you hug me when you first saw me and then to say goodbye, but that was that. It worked with a few men who were tired of romantic relationships, too. Some of them are still my friends. One says from time to time
when we were dating. That doesn't seem accurate somehow although I know it is. I let it be.
Writing diaries is more of a fictional pursuit than non-diarists think. The guy who says we dated illustrates that for me. Me wondering if that is accurate also does. What is happening now in my diarying is that I am combing for important things that have never been thoroughly discussed. Hence, the title of this post. First: blue cheese and peanuts...
As a child I had some 'electrical involvement' that was notable first to my dad and then, after he pointed it out, to my entire family. When we traveled in his car alone, with me in the front seat, the alternator light came on. If I sat in the backseat, it did not and if I were not in the car at all when he drove, I was told it also did not. This fact alone meant somehow that I was very special. I liked it. I think I was 10 and could not own a working wristwatch either because they all stopped shortly after I put them on. We attributed it to the same odd relationship I seemed to have with electricity. No wristwatch broke my heart, however, it interfered with me playing nurse and taking your pulse. I was chided for that anyway. Why a nurse? Why not a doctor?
What does this all have to do with bleu cheese and peanuts? Plenty. Bear with me as I segue.
The leap we take now is to migraines.
When I had my first migraine it definitely felt electrical. As I tried to explain what was happening to me, I likened it to being "glued" to something that was electrocuting me. I'd felt this a couple of times in my life at very low levels when I touched an old fan and another time, a hair dryer. Migraines felt like this to me. Bleu cheese and peanuts? the doctors told me to stop eating them and my "headaches" would get better. Those were not headaches. Those were torture.
I amended my diet, got some relief and began reading metaphysical books. I also did meditation and deep breathing, got massages and changed my self-talk. Who knows what the essential ingredient was?
However, I know that migraines are electrical.
Sunglasses and bright light? They are part of the cause and effect, too. Bright light debilitates me. Sunglasses help. They haven't revealed themselves to be migraine-related but they are respectively the cause of an overall bodily experience of increased electricity and the solution for it.
Diaries? They alter the electrical experience. The current becomes more tolerable. Nuff said.
Photo:
Gold River, Marie Monroe
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