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I visit PostSecret every Sunday, when the new week’s secrets have been posted. I am, admittedly, addicted.
Addicted to the tragedy, to the hope, to the humor, to the despair.
It is a remarkable phenomenon, this one of people purging their secrets on cards and sending them off to a stranger in Maryland, who then sorts through the throngs, the countless, the thousands of secrets, determing which to publish. And those sending the secrets; are they secretly hoping theirs will be chosen? Or was sending it enough to alleviate the burden one feels when keeping a secret? Is a secret we are reading, at any given moment, truly someone’s soulful admission, or is it merely a fabrication of feeling and emotion, a pseudo-secret one artfully designs, hoping to achieve a sort of immortality in print; their fifteen-minutes of anonymous fame?
I have tried to create a PostSecret of my own, to send off to Maryland. I have been a fan of PostSecret for about five years now. I have thought many times about what secret I would chose to reveal, if I were to create a PostSecret. And I just cannot do it. Everything secret I own, I have been unable to give up. I’ve even thought about inventing an interesting secret and creating a beautiful card. But I cannot do it. I would feel incredibly guilty; what reason would I have to lie? How desperate and pathetic would it be? So when I think about all the secrets I am reading, and the many to which I can relate, I find it difficult to understand how they could give up their secrets so easily. It seems too easy, in fact. Even more terrifying to realize, is that, in admitting a secret to the world, you are also admitting the secret to yourself.
Until I am ready for that, I suppose my secrets must remain secret. And I’m okay with that. For now.
I know you’re supposed to do a “100 things” entry as a celebration for your one hundredth post, but I’m just not that patient. Plus I like random numbers. Plus I’m experiencing a bout of writer’s block. ( And I do have over a hundred posts on my MySpace blog, so there.)
Here is to my 67th post on semper scribendi 
Cheers!
1. I was born nearly deaf. I couldn’t hear much until I had a surgery at age six, and then had tubes in my ears until I was ten. My hearing still isn’t 100%.
2. I strongly dislike mushrooms. I gag when I smell them being cooked.
3. In business emails, I always sign Best Regards, in the first email to someone new, and Cheers! in each following correspondence.
4. I eat at least one apple a day. And not because of the old “an apple a day…” adage. But because I love them. Pink ladies are my absolute favorites.
5. Cheese and apples is the best snack ever.
6. I love cheese. I can’t even convey in words how strongly I feel about cheese. As third grade me would say, I want to marry cheese. If I had to choose between having cheese and having an orgasm… let’s just say, it’d be a pretty tough choice… Guess it depends on with whom I get to have either 
7. I love summer rain on the East Coast. We don’t get that in California.
8. And thunder storms. We don’t get those out here too often either.
9. I don’t listen to much mainstream music, except classic rock and oldies. I like a lot of indie/emo/folk rock. And house music, of course.
10. Pandora.com is my favorite new website.
11. I haven’t eaten red meat since I was twelve.
12. I wrote to Ann M. Martin when I was ten and she wrote me back
13. My sister and I grew up with a bunch of kids in our neighborhood and many Saturday evenings would be spent with all of them in our living room, dancing, the TV blasting Dance Party USA.
14. I’m not very girly, except when it comes to make-up. I make no excuses about that. ( And I’m blonde, I look like I’m twelve if I don’t wear make-up.)
15. My cat, Chester, may he rest in peace, would sit in front of our house waiting for me to walk home from the bus stop every day after school. As soon as I rounded the corner, he would run to me and jump into my arms
16. Chester also liked to sleep on my bum. When my high school bff, Laura, would spend the night, he’d sleep on her bum too.
17. Chester’s middle name was Harrison. And his nickname was Boboli.
18. I think swimming naked, in the ocean, at night, is the most incredibly peaceful and sobering experience in the world.
19. Red tide may be smelly and ugly in the daytime, but at night it is the most beautiful and amazing thing I have ever seen, have ever been blessed to experience.
20. Strawberry is my favorite flavor of ice cream.
21. When I eat ice cream in a bowl, I have to mash it and swirl it all together, to make it creamy. I don’t even take a bite until I do this.
22. I love to exercise, but hate to think about having to do it. The motivating myself is the hardest part.
23. Same with writing.
24. Getting out of bed in the morning is the most difficult part of my day. I seriously, honestly think I have some kind of disorder. But I love mornings. Go figure.
25. On that note, I am slightly narcoleptic. Ask any of my friends. I can fall asleep anywhere, everywhere, in any position.
26. When I was younger, I thought my grandmother got cancer because she was a cancer. Following this logic, I figured I would inevitably get cancer as well.
27. I still think I might, since both of my grandmothers died of breast cancer.
28. I love that numb, raw feeling of your lips after a long make-out session
29. I love Robert Downey Jr. Love, love, love.
30. I will live in Europe, one day soon. I want to be an ex-pat, and sip cappuccinos at little cafes, smoking thin cigarettes, wearing berets, writing in my journal and laughing at American tourists.
31. I have a beautiful antique diamond ring that I wear on my right ring finger every day. I inherited it from my step-grandmother. Turns out, some old lady who lived in the same senior community, gave it to her before she passed away. I found out that a lot of old people do this, trade jewelry. It’s a shame that I’ll never know the amazing history of this 1920s era ring. It really is spectacular.
32. I carry my journal, plus at least two books, with me everywhere I go. My handbag is incredibly heavy but I’m used to it.
33. Even though I carry my journal with me everywhere, I still forget to write some things down, even when I make a mental note to do so.
34. And then I’ll remember them a week, or even a year, later. I do this with stories too. I will think up a story in my head, but won’t start writing it for some time. Months, usually.
35. If I get caught in the rain without an umbrella, I don’t freak out and run for cover. I just keep walking, and get wet. (Unless I have to be somewhere looking presentable.)
36. I’m annoyed at myself that I can’t think of simpler things to write in this post. Like one sentence stuff. I have to write freaking paragraphs.
37. My MySpace blog has been viewed over 15,000 times.
38. This blog has been viewed less than 100 times.
39. I still have my first stuffed animal. It is a squirrel that winds up like a jewelry box and plays Frere Jacques. I love it. I keep it on my bed or on my nightstand.
40. I couldn’t whistle until I was a teenager. Even my sister could before I could. My whole family made fun of me. Remember the oldest son in the first Honey, I Shrunk The Kids movie? I loved him when that movie came out, because he couldn’t whistle either. Now I’m an AWESOME whistler
41. My sister and I occasionally send each other greeting cards. We call them “Mission Statements” and in lieu of writing “life” updates, we write our favorite movie, Friends and The Simpsons quotes in them, and then call each other upon receiving the card to laugh hysterically together.
42. I didn’t light a match until I was 20. I used to be very pyrophobic. I still am, to an extent.
43. I had two recurring nightmares as a child. One was about the whole neighborhood I lived in burning down in an angry inferno and all my family and friends would die in the nightmare fire. In the other, I would be chased down the street by a Tyrannosaurus Rex and have to hide in a rain gutter to escape it.
44. The first time I ever ditched school was in the sixth grade. Kaylee Morrison and I forged notes from our parents and then walked to her house, watched movies, ate candy and jumped on her trampoline.
45. We had many pet hamsters and rats growing up. My last rat, Polly, would sleep on my shoulders under my hair, from the time she was a baby, the size of a walnut, until she was about 5 pounds and ten inches long. She died in my hands and I cried for a week.
46. My favorite dessert is chocolate-dipped strawberries.
47. When my sister and I were little we had these swirls of blonde hair on the backs of our necks. Mine looked like a six and hers looked like a nine. Our parents thought it was the funniest thing. We didn’t understand why.
48. My first car was a ’67 VW Beetle. It was charcoal gray and had a sunroof that was kind of difficult to crank open. Even though it broke down a lot, I loved it. I would like to own another one day.
49. I am a big fan of Formula One. I watch all the races with my dad. He and I went to the inaugural U.S. Grand Prix in Indianapolis, September of 2000.
50. I am a major Golden State Warriors fan.
51. I don’t know if I could ever live in a place where there weren’t a lot of trees.
52. I love cold weather. Thus, living in California gets kind of annoying sometimes, even though I’ve never lived elsewhere.
53. I really want to live elsewhere. Soon. I hope to only be here for about three more years.
54. I am deathly afraid of jellyfish.
55. Spiders too.
56. I love the smell of chlorine; of swimming pools.
57. My family hates the Red Sox and their fans. We’re Yankees fans or we’re disowned! Kidding. (Sort of.)
58. I read books while walking.
59. It is a goal of mine to speak five languages, besides English, by the time I’m 35.
60. I never, ever wanted a tattoo. Until I started studying Latin. I got my first tattoo last month, while visiting a friend in Baltimore.
61. I love used books. I love the fact that they have a history I can only imagine. Especially old, used books. I try to only buy used books, unless I’m looking for something specific. Even then, I’ll go to an independent bookstore. I am loathe to shop at Borders or Barnes and Noble. (Although I do like to browse in those stores. But not buy. It’s my way of “sticking it to the man.”)
62. I especially love used books that are inscribed, or have notes in the margin. My favorite is a 1936 printing of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, illustrated by Norman Rockwell. On the inside of the cover, in a scrawled cursive; “Bryan, from Grandpa Palmer, Dec. 25, 1968.” I found it at the Berkeley Library bookstore for $3.50. It is a fantastic find and I would have bought it anyway, but the inscription made even more special for me, because it was once special to someone else.
63. I love, love, love wine. I am definitely a product of my home town of Napa, CA. I shudder to imagine a world without wine.
64. I have a scar an inch long on the inside of my lower lip. Every time I feel it, I remember getting smacked in the face by an orange street pylon, which my drunk friend was swinging like a baseball bat. Not looking, I walked directly into his swing. It was a grand slam.
65. I once had a crush on a married man with whom I worked. I’m fairly certain he had feelings for me too. Because I am a good person, and so was he, nothing ever happened between us. Except for a bit of flirting and many serious conversations over cocktails and cigarettes before, during, and after work. It was the best job, the most fun at a job, I’ve ever had.
66. I secretly loved doing “stadiums” before swim practice when I was younger, but pretended to hate it because I wasn’t the fastest, and I’m very competitive.
67. If stranded on a desert island and could only bring one thing, I’d bring my Concise Anthology of American Literature.
It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words.
I think words are worth thousands of pictures. Millions of pictures.
Because what I see may be completely different than what you see, even if we’re reading the same book. And both may be completely different than what someone else sees. I guess it is kind of like meeting people after “hearing so much about” them. The reality of what they look like is usually not even close to what you saw in your mind.
There is a reason that we’re often disappointed after seeing a movie based on a book we’ve read. No big screen production, not even on Imax, can compare to the sheer magnitude of what our imagination can produce. Not to mention all they leave out. While watching a movie we’re merely spectators. But when reading a story, we become involved in the character’s lives in a much more intimate way. We have a life-like, 360 degree view of the story, not a two-dimensional rectangular one.
And sometimes we even become a character in the story. Especially if it is written in the first person. We have such a close relationship with that “I” character that it can be difficult not to identify with him or her.
Creating fiction, being a writer of fiction, has to be the most difficult and least appreciated art form there is. Not that taking a beautiful photograph or painting a masterpiece isn’t difficult. But they are certainly easier than crafting a novel; inventing characters, and their lives, their worlds. And in a society attuned to instant gratification, it is certainly easier for people to appreciate a photograph or a painting, even with the slightest of glances. But to fully appreciate a story one has to invest time, cognitive thought, a bit of reflection and sometimes a little discussion. Or a lot. Especially when you’re reading the classics; that almost goes without saying.
So you can imagine the struggle a writer feels at any moment in his or her “career”, wondering if their months, years, decades of passion will ever come to fruition. Will ever be appreciated in a world diagnosed with ADD. And you can imagine how frustrating it is when someone suggests you pursue something else, too, so you have a career to fall back on. And you just grit your teeth, but smile and nod, knowing it is the practical thing, and yes, maybe you are even pursuing other options. You tell them so. You tell them that you are a certified massage therapist and health educator. You tell them you have worked in hospitality for over ten years, in all aspects of the industry, from housegirl, to bartender, to concierge, to banquet manager. You tell them you are currently interning at a record label, and you have a deep love of the music you are representing, even if they think it is frivolous. Like disco was. You tell them you would like to write for a magazine one day. You tell them, no, I don’t have a boyfriend, but yes I would like to get married and have kids one day. Soon? They ask. You are at that age, they say and smile sympathetically. Maybe, you say, smiling back as your stomach churns uncomfortably. And all these things are true, of what you have done and who you are and who you eventually want to be.
But behind your smile is the relief in knowing that even if all of those things are true, it is partly because in order to write about dynamic lives, you have to live a dynamic life.
(Isn’t that the secret all writers share, but keep to themselves?)
Maybe we’ll have one of those nights again, someday.
We’ll sneak out the bathroom window of a sleepy motel room in the middle of a night so quiet we have to whisper softer than we’ve ever had to, stifling nervous and shaky laughter. And when one of us slams the top of her head on the window’s sharp edge laughter stabs the silence like Don Vito Corleone getting revenge for his father’s murder. Unabashedly piercing the guts and entrails of a still and peaceful midnight, we’ll screech as we make a break for it, pouring out the window, hopping fences and striking pavement with sneakered and flip-flopped feet. We’ll reach the safe haven, a private beach, private because no one else is digging their toes into the nighttime sand, no one else is braving the cold waters of a Southern California sea in early May; private because no one else will ever have a night quite like this night. This night we had when friends were new and girls were not yet women and life was undecided.
Or maybe we’ll drink beer and toast to Irish pubs and Taco Tuesday and reminisce about how we used to sit under neon lights in the empty parking lot of a movie theatre, music from the car stereo as a backdrop to our conversation about how one day we’ll live the dream, we’ll make the move and see the ocean every day with true, unadulterated independence and how we can’t believe that we actually did it, we actually made the move, we’re actually living the dream. To celebrate, we’ll run across PCH, and down to the beach, ripping our clothes off piece by piece, our footprints glowing in the wet sand, each wave sending bright blue electricity through our inebriated bodies as we sink into the warm black water and float in the red tide, the glowing phytoplankton framing us with each movement. For one night our lives will be as perfect as that moment and we’ll savor it and save it and even if we never get to have it again, it’ll be okay; because it was perfect. And how do you top perfection?
Maybe we’ll sing, we’ll scream to the tops of our heads and the soles of our feet, driving down the 405 with Helena in our lungs, in our throats, in our mouths, the windows down, the wind shrieking along, cigarettes burning bright in hand and the promise of beer and friends at our 80 mile per hour destination, the night still young because we’re young and we have nothing better to do because this is the best thing in the world, singing in the car with someone you love, someone you’ve known pretty much your entire life, someone you can’t even imagine living life without. And when we finally arrive, the song will be over, the wind over, the drive over. But it’s really just beginning because every time we hear that song, we’ll think of that drive, and the wind, and sing and scream along in our heads and smile. And when someone asks why we’re smiling we’ll laugh and not know what to say. Because how can we put that memory into words that will make sense to someone who wasn’t there?
But maybe we’ll just share a great bottle of wine and laugh about all of the crazy experiences we had when we were still young and full of energy and innocence. Maybe we’ll go to the local pool hall and play darts and drink beer and cheers to friends, old and new. Maybe we’ll travel together, or shop together, or road trip together, even just a one-day road trip, and discover that we’re still young, even if some of us are married, even if some of us have kids, even if some of us live far away. Even if some of us have passed away.
I want nothing but incredible moments and even more amazing memories. So thanks to all contributors; past, present and future
I look at you, a split second
Longer than a friend might,
And wonder if you notice me
Sneaking sideways glances.
I’m easily distracted
As I hear your laugh
In a crowded room,
Above the muddled chatter.
I ignore this person,
His mundane conversation,
And discreetly strain
To listen to yours.
I’m embarrassed, I blush
And feel so foolish,
To hold high hope;
To care so much.
I wish I could know
What you are thinking,
When ours eyes finally meet
And you hold my gaze.
I wish you could know
What I was thinking.
So we wouldn’t have to speak.
We’d just finally agree.
But even though I can’t
Quite let you know yet,
I know you see me look at you
Longer than a friend would.
And even if you can’t be honest
With me, nor with yourself,
I smile as I notice you
Sneaking sideways glances.
