The Night Phenomenon

I've spoken of this "late night" phenomenon before, but not in great detail.

This Fitzgerald quote always hits me:

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.  ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is a rawness inside, at least for me, when night falls. I feel vulnerable and exposed somehow, not just my mind or body, but my soul as well ... especially when you get deeper into the night, like that 3 a.m. point. There is just something ... something there that's hard to pinpoint. But for me, it's this out of sorts feeling, a discomfort, but not all bad. Just a bit ragged. 

Sometimes I'm driving late at night or just sitting at home and there is something about the darkening skies, being cloaked in shadows, that just haunts me in a way hard to describe. It feels as though the weight of the world, of my emotions, of people of my past and associated memories press in on every part of me like a hundred hands.

It ignites a combination of feelings really, which is what makes it hard to explain. When I was younger — and this happens even now every once in awhile — I would be walking outside at night and suddenly be overcome by this feeling of disgust, at least, that's what my cousin and I used to call it. The "disgusting feeling." It was like a combination of feeling violated somehow, used, tainted, seduced or manipulated ... or sometimes, an ominous feeling of foreboding.

I've never been able to figure out the trigger either. Just that it almost always happened at night and oftentimes when I was outside. And it would assail me out of nowhere and settle deep in my stomach.

Nowadays, however, as I've grown into a woman — one who has experienced so little in some ways and so much in others — the nighttime spurs very different feelings.

I feel both a swelling inside, like I've got so much running through me, I can hardly think straight ... but I also feel like I'm being drained from my core. The actual emotions range, but oftentimes they are melancholy. However, when I've actually shared my nights with someone, I mean, truly "shared" them — it's been quite some time now—the night has a way of evoking this life in me that is hard to contain once it takes hold.

The moonlight, the stars or how my breath mists in the cold air all affect me in the acutest ways. And if I'm inside, just lying next to someone, I feel a deeper connection to them somehow, like all the walls I keep up to "protect" myself these days and in the past, crumble beneath me when I'm sharing this seemingly mundane occurrence — nighttime.

Conversely, if I'm alone and not keeping busy, I often do feel the pinpricks of solitude against my insides. Or sometimes, so many story ideas hit me at once, I don't know that I'll ever get around to writing them all. But it's as though I'm suddenly overcome by my muse and unable to channel it all at once.

And again, during those moments, especially if I'm alone ... I feel a bit lost in the dark.

However, as of late, I've noticed I am no longer yearning for just any presence or any pair of arms to comfort me. I feel my mind trying to escape the things I'm feeling, but I'm forcing myself to stay with them this time and I realize that even when I do that, I'm no longer looking to find distraction in someone else.

And that, if nothing else, is progress.

~C~

Writing

There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.  ~ Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith
   
Last night I decided to go to Capitol Theatre on the west side to see a movie my brother told me I would like, Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." Indeed, I enjoyed it. A lot. Without giving too much away, the plot revolves around this successful Hollywood movie-script writer, Gil (played by Owen Wilson), who tags along with his fiance, Inez, and her parents to Paris for a business deal her father was completing. Long story short, Gil falls in love with Paris again (he went once before and regretted leaving). This ties in very closely to how I felt the first time I was there in 2004 and then again this year. Maybe it's the romantic in me, the writer in me, or both, but something pulls me in so strongly when I'm there. Gil wishes he could go back in time to Paris in the 1920s during Picasso, Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald's time and while walking back to his hotel one night, he is mysteriously transported to that era.

Suffice it to say, he runs into Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Faulkner and Salvador Dali among other great artists and writers. If someone were watching me as the light from the screen played off my face, they'd have seen a huge smile throughout that entire movie. I related completely with Gil, who had this endearing naive innocent way of viewing the world around him. What I wouldn't give to meet all of those historic figures and just sit there in enamored fascination and listen. There is no coincidence in my mind that many of the greatest artists and writers created their works while in Paris. It's as though that city carries this effervescent energy that emanates its history while inspiring and moving its present. And in the film, as he continues his journey, Gil learns much more about himself and his writing than he realized.

I, too, feel like I'm on a path of rediscovery. I haven't felt this passionate about writing again in a long time. It's as though a flame has been re-lit deep down inside me. I'm seeing characters in people all around me and the details of every scent, breeze, shared glance or touch I experience are like pools of paint colors, waiting to create a tapestry; snippets of stories waiting to be told. When I think about why I love writing to much, I have trouble explaining it. I just know that when I was in elementary school and we had an assignment to write a short story, I found myself completely immersed in the project. It never once felt like work. And having had a very active imagination that lasted well into my early teen years -- and I suppose never left in some ways -- writing also feels like a release valve for that imagination or my emotions and experiences. It's like holding your breath under water, feeling your lungs screaming for air and then when you hit the surface, feeling that blast of relief. While I've also dabbled in drawing, sketching, etc., and have always loved and carried a great admiration for art; writing, in a lot of ways, feels like painting or drawing as well. It's creating a vision with words fueled by the senses. It's an element of exposure and vulnerability that requires a level of risk-taking. And it nourishes growth in me, as all passions should.

Just seeing Paris again on film last night gave me that deja vu, familiar sensation that hasn't left. And on my ride back home with the giant, golden hued moon as my compass, I breathed a whimsical sigh, suddenly overcome by a feeling of both slight trepidation and excitement for what's to come.

Who knows ... maybe one day soon, a much longer visit to Paris.

~ C ~