a mouthful of bees couldn't stop me

"If this will be
anything
then let it be
over."

There's something very curious about saved conversations. If I hold a letter, I can tell (reasonably speaking) how old it is. The feel of the paper will tell me, the look of the paper, the shade of the ink. Even the smell it holds may tell me things. All of these are possible with a physical object--a letter, a book, a scroll.

But data is different. Data is, to a certain extent, frozen in time. It's always fresh and always new for the most part. So opening up a saved conversation is much like having it again for the first time.

As a friend--relevant to the conversation, as it happens--once said, the wound bleeds anew when exposed again to the blade. And so it is with saved digital discussions.

"If this will be
anything
then let it be a
disaster."

So...why am I bringing this up? Because this year I had the bright idea to gather up all the remaining threads of an abandoned relationship, and analyze them through saved conversations. For NaNoWriMo.

Absolutely unpublishable, for a variety of reasons, but the chief one is that--at least right now--it feels like I'm digging into different parts of me, digging through skin and muscle to meat, seeking out anything that might have healed wrong, broken badly, or infected, and hoping to stop before I hit bone.

I know that's graphic, but that's really what it feels like. I already know that the pressure of editing whatever this is going to be is going to be too much for me. And at this point, I'm wondering if this was actually a good idea, that may lead to good things for me, or if it's just another way to sabotage myself under the guise of recovery.

At this point, I honestly couldn't say which it might be. Maybe it's both.

"A mouthful of bees
couldn't stop me
from whispering,
I don't know you."

So that's where I am. My brain dragged me out of bed only a few hours after I'd retired, and I ended up writing at a fever pace well into the afternoon. After starting, finally, on November 5th, I'm now at 15,841 words.

In two days. I'm not kidding.

"But if scars could sing
about the permanent things
they'd say it's damaged
but it was something."

But, I can already feel cracks in the foundation. Though maybe they're needed, this next time around. Because obviously, I didn't heal right the last time--if the years of isolation and hermitage have taught me nothing else, it's taught me that pulling back from the world was the wrong thing to do. Now, I need to figure out what the right thing to do will be. If there is one, single, "right" thing.

"If this will be anything
Then let it be over..."

I still plan to cover the Sinners' hunt. I've been given access to the Sinister Goth blog, and I'm contemplating what they need my voice for, over there. I'm working on writing more, interacting more, both on and off the screen. We'll see where all this goes.

But if anyone talks to me during this month, and I'm a little crazed around the edges...well, that's why. In case anyone wonders.

It's not too late to get involved in NaNoWriMo, if you're also feeling masochistic. There's a participation banner on the left side of the blog that links to their site. Get involved, if you wish. They eagerly accept donations--and they're a very good cause to donate to--but what they most desire is people who will write. That's all. They just want you to spend a month, and invent 50,000 words within it.

They just happened to pick November to do it in.

Good luck, whether you join in or not. Meanwhile, I'm back to excavating the past, and trying to understand why.

(The lyrics are taken from "Lament" from the group Mount Moriah. I'm finding them very interesting of late--all the musicians have backgrounds in heavier sounds, the jagged notes of punk, the heavy chrome of metal and hard rock. But when they create music together, they're drawn to American roots folk. So they turn out these lyrical pieces that are heavy on symbolism and acoustics, with an electronic edge.)