Signed up for the “intro to memoir” with Alan Watt, of "the 90 day novel" fame. He professes to tell us the difference between journaling and memoir. It’s scary-but I did sign up. I mean, is it worthwhile to write a memoir, just because I love writing? And to spend 90 days on it?
Journaling is probably my narcissistic supply first thing in the morning, so to move from journaling to memoir could be a bigger leap than I know. Could be I can’t switch, can’t keep the focus. Journaling favors the small picture, the small steps, such that I can write in any new direction at any moment. It favors discovery of connections, or revealing new things, new ideas and theories, -wacky theories, half baked ideas propelled by deficient grammar. The joy of the wonder of the new at every turn without regard for actual understanding, rather than the slow unfurling of the larger picture set in a real life scene. In short, fantasy is encouraged in journaling for me, and the presentation of ‘my life’ on the world wide stage of a book seems a far cry away.
One thing that might aid me however is the fact that everything that I experienced back then seems to be different now. I’ve been doing so much looking back , so much recovery work, so much self analyzing & family analyzing that the scenes that I remember are endowed with a time machine quality, an elegiac glow even. Every time I return to one of them I get new stuff, new connections, a zap of realization and if not release from tension, then at least some kind of physical literal understanding. As if the postures of the people in the actions taking place were magical in themselves and glowing. Energy was transferring, a dance was occurring that transcends mere words. Even the negative memories such as my Dad spanking me for saying ‘motherfucker’, I can return to it and in the ridiculousness of the the whole being pulled across his knee and stinging wack wack wack of it, I can feel how a very particular fear of others was engendered and deposited into said buttocks, and I hear the whole universe laughing about it. And is this why I have a distant fascination with baseball, the swing of the arm, sometimes with a bat in clenched fists? Postures and intentions matter, is what I think I’m saying, and memories in themselves, can bring tears or mirth. And hopefully not malice.
After all, it seems a miracle that people do continue to make the world go round, the working people that is. Maybe this emotional work of understanding and connection is the real work for humans and as such my switching from journaling endless narcissistic supply and channeling that towards eureka moments of my own memoir, that others can relate to, will have bonus agape value. I hope so.
My father did let go of his antagonistic approach to parenting, as he went through tumultuous life changes, and eventually in my 20’s, he and my younger brother and I went on a two week hiking and canoeing trip around the southeast US: Okefenokee Swamp, Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia and the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. We didn’t actually talk about much, just enjoyed the views, the campfires, the woods, the waves. We’ve been good together ever since, except for that one time he got angry at me for not voting when Al Gore lost the presidential race in 2000. And judging from the climate crisis on planet Earth, maybe he was right about that.
Because one of my wacky self propelled theories is that I was, in a profound sense, born straight into the culture wars and I’ve been lost there ever since. Is that what it means to be American? I was dropped in 14 short years from my mother’s comfy and luxurious womb straight down into the socio-politico, a charged place where war and peace are being constantly redefined. Home is yet to be definitively attained, even still, -maybe by the time I retire. I’m 61 now and thinking about retiring early at 62.
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