"My memory is too clear; too sharp; things should wear at the edges, and what is unresolved should soften. So scenes are near my heart like pictures in lockets..."
~Anne Rice, Interview With the Vampire
I've received several comments on this blog lately. Yeah, sure, they were ignominiously solicited. So what? This is the easiest way for someone to get to know me without sitting across the table for hours. They've all been very graciously good comments, flattering, kind and all too generous. Thank you, and again thank you.
It reminded me (as I was tripped and sent flying into recall the other day) of something Eric Clapton once said when asked about playing guitar: "I can't not play guitar."
Hear ya, Eric. It's reflexive. Entirely. Tell yourself not to blink. It might last for a few seconds; minutes if you're good at it. But eventually you have to blink... you can't not blink. A drama teacher once had us do an exercise. She said, "Close your eyes for 5 minutes and think about anything, but do not think about an orange." G'head. Try it. Unless you're a Zen master, bet ya have trouble not thinking about an orange. I know I did. I imagined myself in a meadow- a big grassy meadow; but, out in the middle of the field, yup, an orange. I imagined myself in a crowded theater. Sure enough, four rows down, just off to the left, there sat a woman with fruit in her hat - want to take a stab at guessing which kind? Before long, I caved and, in my mind, was holding a cool dimpled orange, had dug my fingernails into the skin of it, thereby releasing the oils in an intoxicating explosion of scent, juice running down my palm and wrist. Odds bodkins! Not thinking about an orange was the best orange I've ever had. (Don't tell me not to think about sex!)
Lady Gresham (shocked): What is she doing?
Mr. Wisley: Writing.
Lady Gresham: Can nothing be done about it?
I can't not do this. I can't not play with the pretty colors and textures and make my little flight of fancy bits of art. I can't not write, let my mind bubble over and spill - this proverbial overly full kettle that's reached boiling point. It would crush me to not be allowed that. Honest, I think my brain would implode. Restraints would be required (granted, there are those who think they should be implemented now). I'm still chuckling over Gordon's comment a few weeks ago about my imagination not only being out the door, but about three blocks away. That is, by far, the most spot on observation anyone has ever made about my thought process.
Sing it for me, Sammy...Whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong
Whether I find a place in this world or never belong
I gotta be me, I gotta be me
What else can I be but what I am
I... gotta.... beeeeeeeeeee... me!