When I was in college, I fell in love with Anais Nin. I read all her diarys, devouring every one like nectar off a spring blossom. What passion, what romance, what darkness lay on every page. Her diaries were written in the manner of someone who knows that her words are going to be read one day. And so, I began to write diary entries. I wrote of my bizarrely fucked-up first "serious" relationship (who doesn't have one of these in their lives?) I wrote of my new Euro party friends, the raves we went to and the music we listened to.
As I wrote my daily dairy entries, I wondered if my words might be read by someone else one day: I was affected by this thought. In the process of writing, I edited as I wrote. In doing so, I edited my life.Sure, I wrote the truth; but, in hindsight, what is truth, really, but one person's account of the past?
We've all seen Rashomon, right? (If you haven't, rent it, now.)
Funny enough, here I am, 15 years later. I no longer have to worry if someone will read these words. One day, someone, somewhere, will.
Ahhh, deep exhale. How bizarrely freeing that feels.
Honesty without the illusion of complete truth.
In addressing the audience, in acknowledging you, dear readers, the blogger becomes not a diarist, but an actor, performing selected bits from her life and sharing them with an unknown, unseen, but certainly not omniscient third party.
Welcome to my diary-life. I'm a fun, wacky person who probably comes across as incredibly thoughtful and sometimes serious. I am all these things. I'm also a yoga teacher, writer, mom, cook, wife, lover of animals and the ocean, story-teller, editor, and much more.
Right now, my 19 month old daughter is asleep and I have to wake her up. If I don't, I'll be screwed with her evening sleep time, and I want her to sleep before 10pm, if possible. I've also got to find out if my hubby is coming home for dinner.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment