Let’s start by addressing why I’m making this thing–
I know I’m stating the obvious, but bear with me a moment.
I’m 23, it’s been a full year since I graduated college, and….
Shit went down within that 365 of That New Kind of Life Freedom. If you’ve followed my endeavors through my “Naked in Public” account, then you’re keen to how it’s been for little Katrina Nelson. For those who weren’t avid readers, you’re forgiven; love isn’t about the amount of attention given, but rather the quality…
And admittedly, I did rack in a good sappy poem or two…Or three.
One cry for help… or Nine.
One monologue of ecstatic inspiration…or several.
I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: I’m becoming acutely aware that I’m one passionate motherfucker. It’s not a gift or curse, it just is.
And here’s one thing I learned from being so OPEN about feeling so much, from taking the opportunity that writing gives you to revisit your old sentiments…
I didn’t talk about the things that made me feel so much. I didn’t. I left out concrete details, I left out names. Poetry kept things ambiguous, let my heart scream without being held accountable for it’s tantruming.
Which– let it be known!– is not right or wrong… but it is what it is.
There’s a book–a book so near done I can taste it–sitting partially printed in a binder on a desk in Upland, California. You know all those Naked in Public poems I wrote? The quick tales? The funny ones? The sad ones? They have bigger stories behind them. Stories that connect, having intertwining characters. Stories that I’ve sewn with (I believe) beautiful fiction, stories I’ve connected with (in my opinion) elaborate ideas. Stories I’ve souped in with letters, stories seasoned with real images and art.
It’s in a binder. I’ve been hitting print. Like I dopely relayed earlier: Things are changing.
I suppose I noted this most when..
A week ago I found myself sitting on a black futon, sometime around 3 a.m., confessing (to the least likely person I’d ever imagine, who sat across the way) that the future I was most obsessed with was the one surrounding the someday-publishing of my dearly hidden project. A small smile danced on This Guy’s lips as he leaned back into the black couch as his eyes lowered into a playful squint, daring me somehow. “Let me guess, it’s your story.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I shrugged back, unsure of what to say to both his body language and his words. “Sorta.”
He was still for a moment… Then his smirk moved into a wide smile, his brown eyes grew big and he sat up straighter. He slapped both palms to his knees, “Wait, let me guess again… It’s the story of Katrina BELSON: a girl who’s the opposite of everything you are! Yes! There I go again, with another million dollar idea!” I tried to hide my flinch by throwing my head back and laughing, too. The idea of my opposite being more entertaining then myself… I shook it off as best I could.
But he was right, in many ways. I was writing my story, but at the same time I totally wasn’t.
And then several things clicked at once–but I was far too stoned to convey them. Que smug writer grin.
Because yes, I was too high to figure out how to say it wasn’t about me at all, but about everyone who made me.
I was too slow to explain that the reason I felt so attached to this work was because I was so passionate about the people who inspired me to write it.
I wasn’t awake enough to convey that it’s all about those golden teachers who took me in. The boys who loved my faults. The books who brewed my mind. The girls who never left me. The families that raised me, the cities that built me, the demons that ate me, the men who broke me, the habits that killed me, the the the the and and and
I was far too stoned to explain that the best way I could acknowledge the characters who have changed the course of my life…was to make sure they never died.
The greatest gift I’ve found that I could possibly give another human being… is immortality. Shakespeare taught me that. Within eternal lines to time, thou growest.
And also–in my creative fit of asshole– to make sure that those who openly doubted another human being never make it to a word I type. May they rot in ignorance, may their story expire the moment their breathe does, may no syllable of their name ever linger in the enterntiy of the written voice… these are my cruelest thoughts. I try and keep even my revenge poetic.
But alas… I was too high to convey my Mission Statement in any form of eloquence, and I let it hover in the room with smoke, allowing my stormy truth to spiral into formlessness.
It was peaceful and somehow painful, not giving my full answer to This Guy. I choice peaceful, however, and let “painful” slip away into a good-humored silence.
And as the simple couch conversation spun itself into a distant cobweb of a weekend memory, my good-humored silence hopped on a plane destined for “IT’S TIME FOR A NEW ADVENTURE TO SPEAK TO, KATRINA.”
And it pointed towards “Print.”
And it aches along “Edit.”
And it started to sing,
Things are changing.
It’s called ACTION.
So I write to you from here. From…
A kitchen floor.
Okay, let me explain.