Fangirl Introspection

Some public figures are incredibly generous engaging with their fanbase. I need to be careful with this, as it can turn pretty quickly into delusion. On my part. Like we’re friends or something. We’re not. I’m just a fan.

Take Instagram. And take violin superstar Hilary Hahn. Her account. I’ve been a fan for over 20 years. She (or her social media manager) has liked a few of my comments lately, and it’s been easy to crank out really lengthy responses to her posts. I mean, there are boundaries, right? A point when it’s too much? And I’ve just kept pushing, seeming the biggest weirdo. AND I DON’T EVEN PLAY VIOLIN.

Here are some of the comments I’ve made, from the most recent to three weeks ago. (These are not counting the ones she hasn’t liked.)

Pretty embarrassing. Yeah, it’s too much. Ultimately, participating in social media gives me the opportunity to come to terms with my fanaticism. Also, perhaps I realized too late that I’ve stopped commenting cold, and instead I have been using her posts as writing prompts. I haven’t been respecting her space. I’ve been trying to perform and practice writing in her space. Pretty rude.

So I’m trying to dial it back.

We’re not friends: I’m a fan. She’s an icon. There’s obvious distance.

More Non-homework Things

So, I was browsing through Bookslut and found this article, which is an interview with the guy who was the instructor of my beginning memoir-writing class at Gotham Writing Workshops. I took the class back in the fall of 2006.  He’s the one who gave me this feedback.

Maybe I’m going to try to go back to a little writing again. I’m not sure how to do that.

That is all.

My Eyeballs Are Dry.

Have you ever been working on a thing, let’s say, writing, and hit a nice groove and are typing along, thoughts flowing steadily, then all of a sudden, someone not only turned the faucet all the way off, but s/he turned it all the way righty-tighty, twisted off the handle, and threw it into the lake? Let’s say, the Pond at Central Park. Where the rowboats are. Where I’m sure lots of other faucet handles and maybe a few dead bodies are. Raccoon bodies and human torsos. And now I’m screening the lake, and it’s gross and biohazardous and the tourists think I’m odd, and I can’t find the handle. Nothing but an event of Excalibur proportions would make it appear. Ah, yes. The handle would levitate, glowing with creative magic; it would float from the lake all the way back to the faucet – which is my brain – reattach itself, go lefty-loosy, and water would at first trickle, then become a steady stream.

I wish that would happen. Last Monday’s nostalgia entry just sits there, unpublished, incomplete. I’m trying to refocus to refinish the post, because as you’ll recall, the dang thing disappeared on me. I want to write this post, though. But, I want to make sure I do it right. I can’t find my faucet handle. So, people, I’ve hit a rut, but I’m determined to write every day, still. It might be disjointed and random and I may use the word and way too many times in a sentence and I would like a grilled Swiss cheese sandwich. With tomato.

Not that I normally keep track of these numbers, but when I was at my very fittest, I weighed 14 pounds less than I do right now. Shedding all that weight in 6 weeks is extremely unrealisitic, since I gained it over a year and a half, but that weight is a huge factor in how my body responds to working out. I could lose half of that and be perfectly content, since that puts me in the range I weighed most of my adult life. I say “most” because I have to be honest and count the summer I worked at a bagel shop. So, May. Start pounding the pavement/asphalt. Get back on your bike.

Oh. I joined a rec center, actually the city’s network of rec centers. Because I need a pool to practice swimming. I’ve been visualizing my freestyle stroke; hopefully I can make it work at the pool.

And maybe that’s where my faucet handle is.


Nostalgia Mondays will continue next week, as what I was typing got completely lost, except for the first paragraph, and I’m too frustrated to try rewriting it right now.

I sort of lost my temper at a roommate this past Friday. It had to do with the temporary wall I built, and people not realizing they’re starting to knock it down, and all it really takes is one good bump before my entire room is open to the apartment, and the personal living space I carefully guard (which could perhaps maybe might represent myself) is no longer personal. It’s all I have. I was terrified of that vulnerability, and I was furious at the lack of awareness. It’s a stud frame, people. I shimmed it to the ceiling. No screws or nails in the floor or ceiling, because I’d like to get back as much of my security deposit as I can when the lease is over. It’s relatively sturdy; you just can’t ram into it. How can you not realize you’re ramming into it? One of the beams took a few hard bumps and dislodged the shims which then fell onto the floor. The beam visibly shifted, and I truly felt my world was about to collapse.

And losing my temper isn’t so much a visible tantrum as it is a palpable chill.