Zoka Coffee Roasting
Since the decision to remix my book from fiction to memoir, I’ve had to revisit my original outline. Starting over is annoying, but necessary – particularly in this case, because the type of content I’m creating is completely different than what I initially envisioned.
After several months of hunting, I have finally found a new Therapist. Round of applause: it literally took all summer, multiple visits, insurance conflicts, denials and then some, to find a suitable fit who happens to be in close proximity.
Inside Zoka: Cornered.
She [I’m going back to a woman] will be the benefactor in helping me work through some of the core challenges I have come across while writing this book.
I’m incredibly excited [and undoubtedly nervous] to bust open the proverbial, “Pandora’s Box.”
I started the “information gathering” stage a couple of weeks back [if I’m being real, I tapped into this process months ago] – sitting down to, first just simply remember relevant events from 2012 – early 2018; basically, a large chunk of my post-college 20’s.
Journals, various relics [brain scans, medical bills, get-well cards], Facebook messages [I’ve talked about using those before: here, here and here ] all collected to be put in order:
What happened? When? Who was involved? Outcome? How did this lead to that?
I am my father’s daughter: like him, I keep everything. Honestly, I should probably scrap book this -ish. I’m far too lazy and not nearly nested enough to undertake that sort of project.
As I am at the coffee shop finishing up the timeline, I try not to tear up at the overwhelming memories that come to the surface. I repeat to myself [in the form of a mantra]: “you will not cry in public – knock it off!” I’m moved by The Weeknd’s “Call Out My Name”, whispering from the Are&Be Spotify playlist. It ends and the track flips to Drake’s “In My Feelings” …can’t cry to that shit.
Remembering The Details: Flashback.
Names and in some cases, dates and events can be difficult to recall. I write as much as I can recapture from memory, in a way that makes sense for the scene [or…how I want that scene to be perceived]. At times, I’m unsure if I can trust my own mind, especially given the irony of having gone through a brain injury.
From Chapter 13, “On Information, Facts and Data,” Mary Karr provides her take:
“My own first drafts start with information, then I try to herd that information out of my head into a remembered or living scene. I often interview myself about how I came to an opinion. Then, rather than present an abstract judgement, I try to recreate how I came to that opinion,” [p.124].
I agree with her perspective, however, the idea of “interviewing” myself from scene-to-scene immediately invokes a visceral, emotional response, that has, in the past, pushed me away from doing this…
…hence why a Therapist is incredibly important as I move through this process.
Issalot, man. It really is.
I literally bring my laptop into sessions: we goin’ get this shit out. Don’t get it twisted, I make effective use of my time with her and take notes to refer to later.
What’s interesting to me, is trying to reconfigure people’s energy in my mind: conversations we would have, how they look, how they smell, phrases they would use or things they would say -- this is where technology and social media relics come in handy [because nobody is out here writing letters anymore…tuh!].
Karr suggests to, “try to find something singular and dramatic a person does, instead of just gluing on a label that limits meaning to present day fashion and won’t make sense fifty years hence,” [p.125].
I distinctly remember my landlord who I lived with in St. Paul: she had an older brother out in Maryland; they owned the Minnesota house where I stayed. The two of them came into some money to restore the home and converted it into an apartment when their dead-beat Dad died and left them a stack.
My landlord was a mousey, woman in her early 30’s with a bad dye job, stringy hair and thin rimmed glasses. Her style came from Hot Topic – baggy jeans and band t-shirts – the stuff made of emo/pop punk acts of the late 90s/ early 2000s.
Her behavior was very regressed – it’s like she never matured passed 17. Her brother was a few years younger but acted more of an adult then she did. She was both quiet and whiny – easily swindled into doing whatever we wanted her to.
She had a bizarre fascination with Japanese dolls and Nintendo video games; her room was lined with them. Together, we lived with several other people in a 2-story house, including a 50-something year old woman who slept on the sofa, chain smoked and didn’t pay rent. Back when I used to partake, I would bum cigs from her now and again.
Stories for days; that house was crazy.
Point is, I still have emails upon emails, texts stored in old phones and IMs to help bring the past to the present.
Sidebar: these are not items I’m using for retribution. Yes, I care and have my Therapist around to help work through those things, but it’s been 6 years. It’s not about seeking vengeance – it’s about understanding why what happened did, and how I can learn from it. There is a domino effect at play and I’m trying to find out at what point it got pushed.
Karr leaves us with this: “In any good memoir, the writer tries to meet the reader where she is by offering information in the way it is felt -- to reflect the writer’s inner values and cares either in clever linguistic form or dramatic scene,” [p.127].
My landlord was obsessed with Fallout Boy – I remember thinking, “you’re still listening to that?” I used to be into them…in High School. This was 2012. I graduated in 2006 and she was at least 32.
I was also kind of judge-y back then. Ha. In her defense, FOB had some bops.
