To Reach The Green Light At The End Of The Pier
FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES: "We are saving ourselves through the words," says Eleanor, the leading lady of a novel-in-progress. This exploration into the creative process -- which includes plenty of distractions/tangents /thoughts & rants by Eleanor, her Biographer, and selected guest artists -- will continue until Eleanor is certain her story is "right." (But we dare not jump ahead of ourselves.)
There will be the occasional typo (as Eleanor points out), and much of this is intended to be "original draft" -- what comes out of our mouths (heads) first, and then set down in that order. Not all of it will be included in the novel, but all of it is happening in real time.
The Postings:
Eleanor says: Everyone is scared right now, but nobody knows exactly why. It could be money, because people are always scared that they're going to go broke. Or it could be crime, even though we have very little crime in Great Falls. Or it could be this loss of identity, and that one, I can understand, but my take on it is so different, I think, from everybody else's. Everybody else is caught up in their little teeny tiny worlds that they get trapped, and I know exactly what my teeny tiny world looks like. My loss of identity is all about this bubble surrounding me -- I mean, how I am supposed to keep secrets, for example, about my mother, the famous actress. Or secrets from my father, because he seems at least as scared as I am, and I am pretty sure it's not about money or crime, but kind of about me, if that makes any sense at all. What father is scared of his daughter? But as I said, this whole being scared is just the feeling of doom, and none of us can really understand why. Not even me in my bubble. I think a major part of my problem is my own fault, but that said, I don't know where to start, you know? I don't know where to start in trying to solve things. So that's my dilemma. I think it's pretty huge, but you might go, well, I have plenty of money in the bank (this is you remember), and I don't think crime is ever going to be bad in Great Falls, and as far as the rest of it, well, sure, I have these days, you know, when I don't know what the hell is going on, but mostly -- I think I'm pretty well set. So okay (this is me talking again): have it your way. Deny everything. After you admit to yourself how bad your life is, deny everything else. But again, this is only me talking, and you could very well say, so, who are you, Eleanor Spain? Who are you to talk about my life? You're just a seventeen-year-old girl, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Isn't this the time in your life when you are NOT suppose to be scared? Huh?
So I just respond (to you, but if this is not you, it might be somebody you know -- and I am not trying to be mean -- I hope you understand that): you don't know anything, but you try, and when you try, you're kind of pitiful. I wish you could see yourself. I mean, I see my "self." I see exactly where I am. And where I am is here.
(for Part One, see December 2008)
Eleanor says: One day or maybe it was night that I appeared just like that or kind of like that as in a vision of sorts or maybe not a vision but more like an angel like maybe a guardian angel except I was never intending on being an angel but wanting instead to be as human as possible and so I took refuge inside the imagination of this rather intuitive boy -- so I thought him to be, intuitive, just from looking at him, from watching him type his words, and in the middle of winter, too, with no heat but blankets covering his upper body and another blanket on his lap, and a mug of black coffee steaming up the side of the computer -- and perhaps he wasn't a boy at all any longer but he seemed to possess all of the qualities of a boy, you know, from the look of wonder on his face when he typed a sentence that never occurred to him or that awful disgust and impatience when the right words failed him, and I waited for this, for the words to fail him, waited for him to drink from his coffee, and that's when I climbed into his head through on eyeball or maybe his ear or maybe I just can walk through walls and therefore I can walk through skulls and into the brain cells whereeverything is happening, all of the parties I mean, crazy parties with these brain cells dressed up in costumes like Mardi Gras and having parades and throwing words and thoughts instead of beads or candy -- and I suppose I knew I was really at home then when this boy or man who seemed like a boy typed my name in the opening line to a new story: he typed"Eleanor," and it was the first time he had ever used my name in any one of his stories or novels, so I knew it was me and only me and there could be no other me and that if I left then there might be another me come along to imposter me, so I dared not leave or make any kind of noise at all or make notice or anything like that because he just had to keep me, you know, even with the Mardi Gras parades happening and those words and thoughts just flying about and barely missing me, and I know or rather I knew then that I wanted to be (t)here so much, for as long as it would take, for the rest of my life if I needed to be, whatever life is, you know, to somebody like me who wants to be human but doesn't know how and has no interest whatsoever in being an angel, though I guess at times I have acted like a guardian angel in ways that the boy wouldn't be able to explain otherwise, when I told him to watch out, don't step off that curb into traffic, or, walk away from the desk before the rock shatters the window, or whatever you do make sure you keep feeling as alive as alive as alive as I feel that you're feeling -- you feel alive, see, I can feel this too, see, and I know I am closer than ever to humanity, and I also know, that you and I are meant for this thing, this -- you know -- whatever this thing is, this story of my life even as made up as parts of it seem at first glance to outsiders -- this story of my life that is really real if anyone asks because that's honest as anything pure in this world, that my story is real and my words are real and those thoughts being thrown during the Mardi Gras parades by the brain cells are instruments really (think about it), to help us along, and that sometimes it's better to be hit in the head with a thought, or a word (think about it), than to miss it entirely -- because if you miss it or it misses you (think about it), something is gone or never was there in the first place, and that is a tragedy that's worse than ever being typed as a name on a page in the first place -- "Eleanor" he wrote, and so I became, and I am still here, so look at me, because I am not going anywhere, not any time soon -- I mean -- do you know what I'm saying, when I say this?
Eleanor:
The floor is littered with her thoughts.
Look at me. I’m your psychological painting for the day. What do you really see? Look hard at me. I’m all here. What you see is not what you get. You think you can know me just by standing out there for a little while? Stick around. Everything you need to know about me is right here, in these postings. Look deeper and you'll find me. I want you to find me. Today I want you to find me. Tomorrow I might not want you to find me. I change my mind all the time. But today, when you see me, I want you to try to know me. (I do.)
She presses her palm over her heart.
Set yourself free to believe in the impossible.
Fall in love today.
How do you spell Geography? I’ll tell you how. "George Elmer’s Old Goose Ran A Pig Home Yesterday."
ELEANOR says: "Please turn the page. Keep reading."
For more of Eleanor and her Biographer -- as well as the work of our many guest artists -- check out the older postings. "Everything is part of the process, and the process is the journey," Eleanor says.
