Feeling a strange mix of emotions...
Monday, January 31st, 2005 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serai...though not a completely unfamiliar one.
I had told![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shadowfax8 that I would do a write-up on ORC for her website. My intentions were quite honest about it, as I thought I'd have a great deal to write about. And of course, I expected to go on at length here in my LJ about it, as well.
But when I got home from the weekend, I found myself reluctant to talk on it at all, apart from an occasional comment in someone else's journal. Everything about the weekend that wasn't personal (the stage appearances, the setup of the place, the signings, etc.) has already been described at great length by others, and everything that is personal, well... I find I don't want to talk about.
I don't want to speak in public about how I felt watching Billy strut his stuff, or listening to Dom's voice as he snarked and ruminated. I don't want to talk about how it felt to put my head on Sean's shoulder for my photo op, or what it was like to look into Elijah's eyes, even if for only a moment. I don't want to go into detail about meeting all the lovely people that I met, or what it was like to fall in so quickly with kindred souls I'd never seen before, or how much I miss being touched and held and hugged so much. Or how it felt to see others crying and help them through it, and cry myself and be helped through it, and all of us understanding just exactly why.
Part of me feels guilty and sad and like my usual flaky unreliable self, because I promised, and one should at least try to keep one's promises. And that if I don't write about all this, it'll eventually fade away like an old photograph, and all those memories will cease to exist, and then will they ever have existed at all? (The persistence of memory and the impermanence of time, always in counterpoint and opposition to each other.)
But another part of me feels those things are somehow delicate and sacred, that the whole experience was too deep and large to cram into words. That if I try, I'll diminish it, take the shine off it, drag it down to something that I'll read years from now and not remember why it all mattered so much, wonder how any of it could make me feel so intensely or care so deeply. That part of me feels these memories will die if I do that, will become small somehow. That what they're meant for is to sink into me as another layer of my life, like the rings that grow up and make a tree. Those rings cannot become strong wood, the flesh of the tree, if they're exposed to the light. They have to grow secretly, under the cover of rough bark, in order to sustain the life within.
So I guess all this is by way of saying that I won't be writing about ORC, I don't think. At least, I don't expect so, though one never knows. But it just doesn't feel right. I find no impetus in my fingers to make the words. So I'm sorry if I've disappointed anyone. I didn't mean to, honestly.
*sigh*
I had told
shadowfax8 that I would do a write-up on ORC for her website. My intentions were quite honest about it, as I thought I'd have a great deal to write about. And of course, I expected to go on at length here in my LJ about it, as well.But when I got home from the weekend, I found myself reluctant to talk on it at all, apart from an occasional comment in someone else's journal. Everything about the weekend that wasn't personal (the stage appearances, the setup of the place, the signings, etc.) has already been described at great length by others, and everything that is personal, well... I find I don't want to talk about.
I don't want to speak in public about how I felt watching Billy strut his stuff, or listening to Dom's voice as he snarked and ruminated. I don't want to talk about how it felt to put my head on Sean's shoulder for my photo op, or what it was like to look into Elijah's eyes, even if for only a moment. I don't want to go into detail about meeting all the lovely people that I met, or what it was like to fall in so quickly with kindred souls I'd never seen before, or how much I miss being touched and held and hugged so much. Or how it felt to see others crying and help them through it, and cry myself and be helped through it, and all of us understanding just exactly why.
Part of me feels guilty and sad and like my usual flaky unreliable self, because I promised, and one should at least try to keep one's promises. And that if I don't write about all this, it'll eventually fade away like an old photograph, and all those memories will cease to exist, and then will they ever have existed at all? (The persistence of memory and the impermanence of time, always in counterpoint and opposition to each other.)
But another part of me feels those things are somehow delicate and sacred, that the whole experience was too deep and large to cram into words. That if I try, I'll diminish it, take the shine off it, drag it down to something that I'll read years from now and not remember why it all mattered so much, wonder how any of it could make me feel so intensely or care so deeply. That part of me feels these memories will die if I do that, will become small somehow. That what they're meant for is to sink into me as another layer of my life, like the rings that grow up and make a tree. Those rings cannot become strong wood, the flesh of the tree, if they're exposed to the light. They have to grow secretly, under the cover of rough bark, in order to sustain the life within.
So I guess all this is by way of saying that I won't be writing about ORC, I don't think. At least, I don't expect so, though one never knows. But it just doesn't feel right. I find no impetus in my fingers to make the words. So I'm sorry if I've disappointed anyone. I didn't mean to, honestly.
*sigh*
