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Prompt: Motivational Monday! Lloyd Bridges, born on this day in 1913, once said "I'm foremost an actor. I feel embarrassed being compared to the guys who really work at it. I fake it, I make believe I know all about it, which is what you're supposed to do as an actor." What are your thoughts on this, in relation to the things you write? ***************************** HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I love reading the responses that people with decent to good self-esteem answer questions like this. Its always so uplifting,. I'm looking forward to it. Also, is there really no way to embed a damn gif without a premium account!?! Even if its a url? HALP! ***************************** But seriously... You write as you are. Not what you are. Not how you are. Yes, all those things. But more- and arching-over those things, you write as you are. Because if you are fearful to write, you may write in muted, unassuming, even self-undermining tones - as if asking permission. Or you may write what is expected... What will get you attention... What you think will be pleasing to the ear. But regardless of how it's expressed, you will be writing for validation... For permission to speak... to breathe. If you are brave... If you are courageous... You may write with reckless abandon... with pensive caution or... With assertion and righteous authority... But you will always be seeking to write about that which is your truth. And so on. If you google the term "Imposter Syndrome" you will get literally pages and pages of content (I've more than just a few). It is apparently that common. In fact, it is so common, that Fast Company  not too long ago published an article breaking imposter syndrome down into five types and delineated specific strategies to address each one of them.But this is not about that specifically, so I'm not going to into it. You can read it if you're interested. The point I'm coming around to here (I promise I'll get there soon) is that what you think of yourself or how you think others think of you not necessarily incredibly relevant to success. Lloyd Bridges may not have thought of himself as the right kind of actor according to his self comparisons with other people. But he was honest with himself about that... And he fucking did it anyway. Even if he felt like he was faking it, he fucking did it anyway. And for all he knows, every single one of those "other guys" the thinking the same damn thing, over compensating, or just really, really stuck up their own asses. So... Fancy I should be saying this. (I've always been much better at giving good advice than taking it.) Especially since, not only am I a trained actor, but I gave up acting because I felt like I was shit at it, in spite of what other said (haters not included - because if there's anything I've learned in the years since, there will always be at least one hater, even if it isn't malicious hating. You just can't please everyone. If you've not a single hater, you're either inconsequential, bland, or oblivious). I didn't give up writing for the time that I stopped writing. Not really. It wasn't a choice. I was going through a lot of shit, most of which I couldn't even find the words to describe and that silence turned to writer's block... Which turned to a vicious cycle of self-deprecation and silence. But I am struggling with this very feeling of inadequacy, like I've lost something irretrievable, in the process of trying to rebuild the only thing I've really ever felt like I was good for. So, when I write, I have to remind myself of that. Every time I write: how much it took just to muster up the self-compassion and will to allow myself to return to a beginner's mind on this... Reminding myself of the fact that, if you're not willing to write a bunch of utter shyte, you will never finish up with anything good. Yes, confidence is a big deal. It dictates a lot but it doesn't come before the doing. It might never come (although, you know, therapy helps too). But success if in the doing, not necessarily how you happen to label yourself at the moment. The only way you can really fake to is if you're trying to do it like someone else. One more thing is that, I love how Bridges started off this comment with: First and foremost, I'm an actor He didn't say, I try to be an actor. He said "I am an actor". Case closed. *****************************
This one's for you, Dolores O'Riordan [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] My pick for today's Soundtrack is Zombie by The Cranberries , who's lead singer was reported dead today. Zombie is another song that figured in my early social consciousness. Below is another song close to my heart, Dreams. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
Prompt: The Sunday News! Still on the lookout for any kind of good news, so I'm gonna be really lenient on this today. Give me your definition of leadership, and provide an example (if possible, or a poor example if necessary). ***************************** So, leadership, yeah! I would define leadership as the skill of bringing people together into a cohesive and functional team by nourishing and encouraging each member to apply and cultivate their strengths. I had a really good supervisor once. The site director at my old job. Yeah. She was great. In other news: Parts of Chernobyl and the surrounding irradiated zone are being gradually converted into a solar power plant. That is fucking cool!!! Articles about this seemed to have just started coming out in the past few hours but, holy crap! That's awesome - even though its incredibly disturbing that the last reactor wasn't shut down until 2000(!!!) Also, apparently there's a website called Good News Network . That's where I stumbled on the original article.*****************************
But just so we don't all get too happy, I thought I'd add a little doom to The Sunday News! [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] It turns out (I just found out today) that one of my favorite bands, A Perfect Circle, has been slowly releasing songs for their first full length album of new music in 14 years!!!. Its scheduled to come out sometime this year. Yaaaaayy! What's more, they apparently toured in Camden in November and I missed it (Booooo!). Below is my favorite version of (probably) my favorite A Perfect Circle song. It was really hard to pick one. This song saw me through and out the lowest points of my adolescence. It became my de facto theme song when I decided to drop all my druggy friends, get my shit together, and go to college. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] So, here's the thing about my love of A Perfect Circle. I love them. LOVE. But, unlike Tool, which I can pretty much listen to in almost any mood, A Perfect Circle has been the go-to band that's helped me catharsize*** (how is that not a "real word"?) so many dark periods and emotions in my life that I have to be judicious about what moods I'm in when I listen to them. Otherwise, my strong association between them and working out the sads will actually now bring up a lot of the feelings I've come to associate with them. I love them anyway. Its just that the past few years I've had to be in a very specific kind of mood to listen to them, which is sad because they're an amazing band with incredible lyrics. And another (very depressing song). [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] The new songs I've heard are really great and seem to be escaping this effect (so far). Good job guys! *** Why "cathersize" and not purge? 1) Its prettier. 2) It offers a minute connotational difference (in my opinion). 3) It's technically a correct back formation of catharsis, even if Google doesn't consider it a real word. LETS MAKE THIS A THING! |
| Sooo... I missed a few days - for which I ask no exemption and intend to bring myself to current by Sunday (even if it doesn't technically count - I'm actually not clear how that works exactly). However, out of those days came some good things. Then there was yesterday, which I spent curled up in a ball of pain and nausea after accidentally taking 3x my normal dose of nerve pain/anxiety medication (the dose was raised but the new, higher dose tablets look almost identical and, well... that was a learning experience from which I have only today mostly recovered! Otherwise: Tuesday I got caught up blazer shopping / dinner with my aunt and kids. Got home late. Wednesday, I killed it at the interview (re: blazer) for my first choice MSW field placement. I start in two Mondays. Then I spent the evening wallowing in errand and pain medication induced exhaustion, put my kids to sleep and fell out. Yet somehow I managed to keep myself awake long enough to practice - head draped over guitar, bleary eyes burning - for (I think?) ten minutes. Thursday... You know: [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] And onward to today's: *****************************
Fun Fact Friday! On this day in 1998, 19 European nations agreed to prohibit human cloning. What are your thoughts on cloning? Would you consider doing it, if you were guaranteed the results would be used for ethical purposes? Or would you and your clone decide a life of shenanigans was more fun? [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] I've had a roughly lifelong fear of body doubles and I'm pretty sure this movie has enough - if not everything - to do with it. I don't even remember the movie per se, I was so young when I saw it. But I distinctly remember it leaving a clear impression that if I ever discovered that I have a doppelgänger or body double of any kind (including clones), I would promptly dispatch it. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] And then there was this damn movie, which I also saw as a kid, probably compliments of the SciFi (not "SyFy") channel. Long story short, I'm not a fan of body doubles or whole-person cloning. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it should be all-out illegal. There are some legit medical applications for it. But there need to be some serious stipulations on it as well. 1) For one, non-consensual cloning (without first-person consent from the genetic donor) should be all out illegal. 2) Full-person clones should be considered 100% fully autonomous people with all of the rights, privileges, and responsibilities entitled to any other person, not property (because that would make them a whole person and we have a name for non-consensual [i.e. not the sexy kind] bondage of whole people. Its called slavery. And NO!). 3) Full person cloning for medical (organ donation) should be illegal. I'm not opposed to selective organ cloning but if that organ is being stolen from a living, breathing, (most importantly) thinking entity then NO! (and none of these underhanded, contrived, finagling arguments about "what constitutes thinking?" bullshit people have been using to discriminate against neuro-atypical people for the last hundred years). Other than that I'm totally fine with it... I think. I think I might engineer new body parts for myself. Or a new body. Maybe a chimera body with a few chromosomal changes into which to transfer my consciousness. Yeeeees, excelllent... But would I give up my family for that? [Insert existential crisis here] And I don't suppose I'd opt for a life of "fun" "shenanigans" with my clone for obvious reasons, plus the fact that I'm... not into myself sexually... and therefore see no other legit reason for full-body cloning myself. (Though, if that's your bag, have at it Baby, yeah!) ***Wink*** [Post edit: Wait a minute. Don't we already have enough issues with over population as as? No, screw full person cloning!] *****************************
My Soundtrack selection for tonight is NSFK (kids). [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] This song picks me up, cheers me up, and keeps me going. |
| It's Officially Monday. Me: "No, no, I don't want to adult today. You can't make me!" Life: "Yes I can." Me: "I know." *********************************
Prompt: Motivational Monday! Musician David Bowie, born on this day in 1947, once said "All my big mistakes are when I try to second-guess or please an audience. My work is always stronger when I get very selfish about it." How true (or false) is this about your own writing? What's more important: pleasing yourself, or your audience? ********************************* Bowie and blogging on the same day!!! I'm fairly new to blogging. I've started blogs in the past, in which I've always inevitably stopped writing after one or two blog posts. Or else, I think and think, write a lame post, second guess it, ruminate it into the ground. Ultimately, I'd leave it sitting around in the dusty, forgotten ruins of an attempted blog, which would be visited, dusted-off, and abandoned again after once-more rehashing the very same process. And always the problem is this: I second guess myself. And, of course, nothing I do is ever good enough. At least not in my head. (Except sometimes when I find something crumpled up in the corner or shoved into a pile of old notebooks, read it over and go: Whoa... that's actually good.) That's 95% of why I joined this challenge. It gives me a daily aim (the hugest of thanks Fivesixer!) and regardless of whether I feel like it or not... Whether I feel like I have anything relevant to say or not... Whether I feel up to the challenge or not... Whether I feel like I have a right to have an opinion on something (which is crap because everyone has a right to an opinion even if that opinion is shyte) or worth being heard... I've committed to doing it. But, most importantly, I've committed to not necessarily giving a fuck about whether anyone likes my blog posts or not. Every day, I read the prompts, think about what I'd like to write, and get smacked down hard by a wave of self-doubt. Then I get the fuck back up. I think about it some more for a few hours... Then I write. Think about it for a few more hours... Acknowledge the bullshit in my head... Then I hit "publish" anyway. (Like right now, I'm going to stop compulsively editing - because I actually wrote this three hours ago.) Each night it gets easier. Each night I get more used to looking for an interesting angle in the prompt for the day - even if it's not something I'd otherwise consider interesting. Then I write it - whatever it is - in such a way that makes me happy. Then I put my thoughts (and by extension myself) out here (in this group) as they are. I'm really enjoying it. I can remember a time when I used to write like this: "The Fuck do I care what other people think?" Or rather: "Fuck it. That'd be funny." But I stopped (let's not rehash why). And it's nice to remember how that feels again. Not only do I think I've written (outside of academic stuff) more consistently over the past week than I have possibly in at least a year, I think I might actually have written more for myself over the past week than average as well. I actually get up and look forward to writing these posts. I'd probably caution that it may be well to put out one's blog to the right audience - whether it be intended to provoke discussion or just to be a safe place to put out one's thoughts. But I would say that's an "agreed" for my writing. I would print it out and stick it on the wall above my writing desk. Done. *****************************
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] This is the first Foo Fighters song I can remember hearing... From the first CD I can remember personally owning. Though I may actually have bought it on the same day as Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. I remember going down to the Coconuts on 6th avenue and 8th street, the one that used to be across the street from the Barnes & Noble and Gray's Papaya. This was a year or two before I found the goth scene. Before I started hanging out at The Cube on Astor Pl. and trolling the shops on St. Marks. Before the recession decimated what was left of the already dwindling goth/punk/cyber scenes in the area and everything left got pushed out by fusion noodle bars and gourmet pizzerias cashing in on that East Village charm. I remember walking out of Coconuts - a pre-teen all starry eyed and feeling grown for being out late (like, 8pm or something and with a parent) - peeling off the wrapper, popping it into my god-awful brick of a CD player, and pressing play. I remember melting, drowning the good death, inhaling it, swallowing it ravenously, riding it the whole train ride home. Again and again on repeat. I recently listened to the album again (first time in a whiiiile) and much to my surprise Every. Single. Song. Still spoke to me. Many in different ways, some in the same ways but so much more. Some in ways I was too young and inexperienced to understand. Not every band retains its relevance year after year - even shifting and changing as you grow and experience more of life. With that said: holy shit it's been 17 years! Sucks that I have no one to go to their show with me this summer though  (Save Entry) |
The Sunday News! Ok, I know some of you don't like this day...and some of you don't care about sports. Sorry then that you're stuck with me ...but hear me out, cuz we all want good news. Buffalonians have donated over 300k to Cincinnati charities this week , and sent a truck including 1,440 chicken wings to the area as a thank you. For a fanbase that's known primarily for drunken exploits before games and throwing themselves through flaming tables, what do you make of this example of sportsmanship? ************************************* Well then, here goes something (and please do hear me out)... I don't know a lot about football. In fact, I know so little about football that I hadn't even stopped to think about how much or little I know about football until this morning. A love some sports - some of which I've been involved with over the course of my life, others I haven't. Boxing... MMA... Cycling... Gymnastics... Track... Crossfit... I even loved what little "football" I've been forced to play in gym classes. But it's not a sport that I've ever really gone out of my way to care about. That's not because football sucks either. I've just never had a lot of exposure to it. My close family members never really watched it. My partner only occasionally watches big games so he doesn't feel left out of the conversation at work the next day. I basically only watch football at bars (because I love me some bar food and drinks), at in-law or extended family functions, etc. Basically, I enjoy watching football when I do... but let's be honest (and don't take this the wrong way because I have the utmost respect for the effort and dedication it takes to maintain their physiques and athletic prowess), but when I watch football I basically see a field full of luscious glutes attached to muscular arms and legs running around tackling each other. All of the technical aspects of the game are lost on me, which is to say nothing negative about the sport. It's just not my bag - sports wise. Glutes notwithstanding, this guy means nothing to me  So, as one might imagine, I had to do a little homework on this one. Also as one might imagine, social science nerd that I am, my major takeaway is... A bunch of stuff about organizational legitimization of social societies through charitable giving, involving the Catholic church and the Free Masons (Shriners specifically)... Basically a bunch of stuff I doubt anyone is looking to read (and more than I feel like writing) right now. So, I'll keep it to the more directly relevant stuff. Maybe I'll write about the rest later... 1) As luke-warm as I felt about it for most of the day, this is pretty cool. I'm trying to imagine this happening in certain other sports. It would be amazing. The 300k in charities was stand-alone effing awesome. BUT THE WINGS!?! That put the fun, light-hearted cherry on it for me. I mean, look at this laundry list of stuff the Andy & Jordon Dalton Foundation do.Life should be full of good feels. But to send all this (meaningful) good-will in the direction of a rival team's causes, instead of sending ire and douche-baggery. That's pretty big. We should see more of it. 2) Imagine Mayweather fans getting together (to do anything charitable, actually but I digress) sending McGregor's pet charity $300k? Nope! But it would be pretty awesome, wouldn't it? Shit, imagine how awesome it would be if the boxers themselves had each tried to one-up each other in the lead up to their match by donating successively larger sums to each other's pet charities (instead of trading coded racist and homophobic slurs), then stepping into the ring, having an amazing fucking match - then leaving with some measure of respect between them? Imagine if someone sent Tyson a new pigeon coop (if he wasn't retired). Heads would be blown. And the thing is that, I don't think it's all that far-fetched. But the cultures around these sports are extremely different, so I wouldn't hold my breath. Which brings us to... ************************************ All of Life's Good Questions
Keeping things light: this song is some several years old, but while I've only recently fallen in love with it, love it seems to be because I cannot get enough. Hope it brightens up your day as it does mine. "What if guitars squirted sour cream and nacho cheese and pure sulfuric acid?" [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
Prompt: Fun Fact Friday! So, I can't choose which "fun fact" to use today...but here's where I usually get them from: Pick one and tell us how it relates to you, how it makes you feel, how it punches you in the gut, or just stirs up whatever it is inside you that makes you wanna write something. **************************************** At first I was really unenthusiastic about today's blog prompt. That was before this unassuming tidbit caught my eye: 1896 - It was reported by The Austrian newspaper that Wilhelm Roentgen had discovered the type of radiation that became known as X-rays. "I have seen my death." These were the words reportedly spoken by Wilhelm Roentgen's wife Ana Bertha Ludwig upon having an iconic x-ray image rendered of her hand. Thus were uttered perhaps the most ironic words in nuclear-medical history. Why? Both Ana and - four years after - Wilhelm died of intestinal carcinomas possibly caused by their exposure to x-ray radiation. As ironic as this is, they still come in a distant second to the death of Marie Curie who, after propounding the harmlessness and widespread medical applications of radium and polonium, died from aplastic anemia caused by radiation exposure - leaving behind a real estate property (where she did much of her research) and a trove of personal effects so contaminated they have to be stored in lead boxes (e.g. her famous notebook - but not the house obviously). They are projected to remain dangerously contaminated for the next 1,500 years! Thanks for taking one for the team Marie. May you rest in peace... In your inch thick lead lined coffin. http://www.robinsonlibrary.com/science/physics/biography/rontgen.htm https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_R%C3%B6ntgen#Personal_life https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/physics/laureates/1901/rontgen-bio.html http://www.sciencealert.com/these-personal-effects-of-marie-curie-will-be-radioa... *************************** Here are a couple of songs I've loved for... basically my whole life. (Again, very socially conscious upbringing by a science teacher and a misanthropic realist poet trapped in a dead end job). Though my mind has been on the bigger button all week, I'd be lying if I said I haven't been jamming to these songs all year, as they've picked up such extra significance and urgency. By jamming, I mean clinging in sarcastic desperation to anything that at least pretends to offer the restoration of some... any... sense of sanity in this world. If only in jest. The second isn't included in Soundtrack because I'd hate to cheat (on my first day participating no less) and the song was released a number of years before I was born. Honestly, it was a toss up and I was going to post both anyway but then I realized this one wasn't eligible. Soundtrack of Our Lives
[Embed For Use By Upgraded+] Not Soundtrack of our Lives: [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
"You are only free when you realize you belong no place - you belong every place - no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great." -Maya Angelou |
Prompt: Tell us what annoys you most about yourself. Kill your idols, so you can love them for what they really are. My Luvey (partner) has been subjecting me to this documentary called Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond and its giving me the feels. Little things get triggered now and then - things that I just don't think about but they're sitting there in the back of my mind non-existing until something dredges them up again. Like the fact that I once wanted to be a comedian. I used to worship Jim Carey and Robin Williams. I had VHS's and DVD's of SNL's Greatest Hits: Adam Sandler, Dana Carvey, Mike Meyers. But Robin Williams and Jim Carey were my idols. I grew up on The Mask, In Living Color, Ace Venture. I knew the words to When Nature Calls. And Robin Williams was my hero. Mrs. Doubtfire got me through my parent's separation. I would watch his stand up, his movies over and over (except Popeye - he creeps me out). I wanted to be like them. I wanted to make people happy, to join them on their holy mission to bring light and joy into a world full of shit and pain (I grew up in an extremely socially aware and pessimistically oriented household). I even auditioned once for Caroline's Comedy Club. They told me to refine my act and come back for another audition. I never went. When Robin Williams killed himself I felt nothing. And I think that means I had no idea what to feel. I have a particular knack for emotional denial (<----Understatement). So, what I felt was not a nothing per se, but a void - a something should be here. It was what happens when your feelings get compartmentalized, vacuum sealed, and left in the back of your mental closet because some higher order metal function knows it just doesn't want to fucking deal with that messy shit right now. My life is a graveyard of dreams. And certainly not because Robin Williams went and offed himself. I didn't become a comedian. I gave up acting after four years of formal study, which I love and miss to this day. I used to draw and paint. I even gave up writing - the only thing I have ever felt good at (but don't anymore) - for a really long time because I struggle to see any worth in myself. I didn't know how to believe in myself then. And I still don't. Self-deprecation is extremely useless. I know this. I can know this intellectually all I want. But the actual maintaining self-esteem part is pretty difficult for me. Hard as I try to figure out how. I wax and I wane and I've only recently started to really understand what that means. But the worst thing is I'm not sure that anyone else sees any worth in me either (except my partner and my kids). Jim Carey goes through crippling depressions. Like Robin Williams did. Like many other comedians, it turns out. I didn't know that until very recently. I watched a documentary on Jim Carey about a year ago. It reminded me how much I used to idolize him. It made me appreciate him more because he could have given up. He could have let himself sink into the floor. But instead his hurt makes him want to make the world lighter for other people. I mentioned how my partner is "subjecting" me to this documentary (slowly over the course of days). I have no illusions about my ability to compartmentalize and dissociate from my feelings. It took me over a year to watch any of Robin William's movies again after his death. That movie was Hook and my partner subjected me to it as well. After which I balled for the first time since his death and my eyes are tearing up now. But that's what it took to poke a hole in me. And I dissociate from other things too, like pain from my childhood, embarrassments, dreams that have died in my heart. Heroes - especially ones who remind me of how un-special I am. How boring. How negligible. How uninteresting. How unwanted. How, as one person once informed me: "Mild mannered". And then my partner subjects me to this film and my psyche says "Fuck. That." I bitch. I squirm. I groan. And then I can't help but watch. I'm enrapt. I'm transfixed. My partner and I are leaning off of the couch mouthing the words to the clips of his films. I'm brimming with gratitude that my partner has done this again - because he never fails to remind me of little pieces of myself that I've forgotten, or given up , or the ones I thought had died in the dark. And he acts like these things are just everyday parts of what he sees in me. Childish things, pointlessly amusing things I gave up in the course of just surviving, the little lights that keep our hearts young. But I digress... Pretty soon, as I reflect on them, it occurs to me that part of my reticence to watch this film doesn't stem from the fear of my feelings about myself, but rather the admission that one of my childhood idols is getting old. Creepy old. I've lost a bunch of inspirations over the past few years: David Bowie (there was no holding back those tears), Robin Williams, Alan Rickman. Those guys, let's face it, were getting up there. But they weren't creepy old. Jim Carey is creepy old. And he's not even all that old. Jim Carey is turning into that weird old guy who, when you comment about the cold weather he starts philosophizing about how perhaps the weather is only cold in our hearts - an embodiment of the winter inside of us. "Open up. Feel the warmth..." (Or maybe he's just high?) Among other things I've learned about his life over the past year or so. He's gotten a tad fucking creepy and he's kind of (<----understatement) a dick. Yes, I have to admit that if I'd worked with him on the set of Man on the Moon, I might have punched him in the face. I feel bad for Jerry Lawler. Jim Carey was an asshat. He was going through some delusional shit. And that shit is exceedingly real. He is just so incredibly human. At no point have I ever harbored delusions of perfection or sainthood about any of my idols, but until I brought them down from their pedestals, I was missing the deeper dimensions of it. I recently found out that Daniel Day Lewis gets so wrapped up in his characters that he goes through separation anxiety at the end of shooting and has trouble re-adjusting back into his own life afterward. I find this awe-inspiring. Terrifying. And touching - all the same. Now every time I see that he's working on a film, my heart chokes back tears of awe. Simultaneously, I find myself gripped with concern and the deepest need to give him a hug and a cup of hot tea. Ginger tea. Or earl grey. Whatever he wants. The good shit. Jim Carey went through something similar while filming Man on the Moon. But Jim Carey is an asshole (in many ways). He's a jerk. A philosopher. A wondering soul. A creepy old man. And a beautiful person - all the same. Because at the end of the day, he's a real person - flaws and all. And maybe it's okay for me to be, too. |
| Prompt: In lieu of the traditional Motivational Monday prompt, welcome to your first curveball of 2018 *Smirk*. Tell us about a New Years' Resolution you're glad you didn't stick to. "He's never coming back, you know." My father quipped in his typically self-important and undercutting way. "He doesn't have the stomach." I'm staring out the window, head propped lifelessly against a plain white hospital grade pillow watching that same spot of saccharine pastel paint that's been peeling off the wall for likely years now. The old lady on the other side of the curtain is moaning for more painkillers. The nurse said she'd be back in ten minutes - a half hour ago. But all I can think is how my close friend and former lover just traveled all the way down here from Yonkers after an overnight shift just to watch my blunted body shit itself in front of him. My father takes a break for the lavatory while the muted fingers of my one still-functioning hand fumble the phone into view. Neither of my supposed closest friends have returned my phone calls. One: not at all. The other: not for days now. (She will later say I'm being too needy.) My supposed-former-best-friend's father once told me that: "You find out who your real friends are in the hospital and in prison." Funny that she would be the first of enough to teach me that hard lesson. But not him. January 1st 2007. I watched the ball drop from the private room in in-patient physical rehab - compliments of four weeks trapped inside my lifeless body, inside a hospital room, a flurry of claustrophobia - and my recent development of debilitating anxiety attacks. My oldest (and truest) best friend is standing toward the doorway explaining to her asshole boyfriend that, no she would not be leaving me lonely on New Year's eve. My resolutions that year were pretty simple: 1) Get my feet back under me. 2) Force my fingers to write again if it's the death of me. 3) Get the fuck out of this hospital. 4) Return to UMass (the college I'd attended at the time). 5) And put this shit behind me (like the nightmare I hoped that it was). Life doesn't always turn out the way you plan it. Fast forward 11 years... I never did return to UMass. Several more hospitalizations put me out for the count and my insurance refused to pay for cross-state medical. "That nightmare" lasted the better part of 6 years. Chronic illness is an interesting thing. You can never truly put it behind you. No matter how much better the drugs that keep it at bay. There's always another treatment. Another flare up. Precautionaries. Medication side-effects almost as bad as the disease. Depression. Anxiety. The constant haunting terror that everything you've accomplished with be torn away from you again... The times that it actually is. Life goes on. You get older. You take shit jobs to keep your shit insurance. It takes six years to get that degree because virtually every other semester sees another paralysis, another stay in the hospital. Another round of chemo, more steroids. You struggle to keep your head above water as your feet fight to tread through the sand, although somewhere deep inside and every time you wake you could swear that you've already drowned. But a funny thing happens when you stick your life out for the long haul. When you learn to face things as they are and keep going. Fast forward 11 years. January 1st, 2018 Near maniacal laughter sounds blithely from a room in the background. Followed by high pitched shrieks in protest - both child screams. Something thuds. Times Square is packed with bodies and their sounds waft over to the writing nook, where my fingers dance lithely across the keyboard. The temperature's hit record shattering lows this year. There's a first for everything, I suppose. My partner yells: "Its three minutes to midnight..." A pause. "I told you to get off of your brother." I turn from the screen where my grades from the past semester of grad school smile back at me. I've taken up social work - a field with which I fell in love after 3 different schools (including UMass) where I studied things only marginally related. Then one day, looked around me, sitting in an outpatient waiting room and found my own light. I grab my cane and hurry out to the living room. My partner smiles. I don't think we would have been together if I'd gone back to Massachusetts - as good friends as we'd been. Whether we would have or wouldn't - doesn't matter. My life is pretty beautiful, pluses, negatives, and all. And I can't help but reflect on the particular strength of his stomach. It turns out that you do learn who your friends are in hospital (and in prison, I suppose, can't attest). You learn that and a whole lot more. You learn that your plans are less important than your will to move forward and carry on. You learn that if you really want to do something, you don't wait for a special day to profess your commitment. You carry on. You work on it every day until you've gotten there, no matter how many times you fall down. But you also learn that ultimately some things aren't cut out to happen and whether that's a good thing or bad is (more frequently than we realize) up to us. You learn about the beginnings and end of things - which always come - even to friendships, the meddle of others and importance of your own self-worth. You learn about this delusion we like to call destiny. The ball hovers in the air above its nadir. And my phone vibrates. It's my oldest, truest friend wishing me Happy New Year. Turns out our broadcast is a minute behind. Who cares? "Happy New Year's." my close friend, former lover, and life partner of eight years whispers. Our children look on in utter confusion. "Is it our birthday?" they ask. They're obsessed with this. Maybe I'll finally teach myself guitar. |
| So… I took the day off work and spent four hours prepping for NaNoWriMo yesterday. Yes, you read that right, FOUR SOLID HOURS (FUCK. YEAH. THE GOOD LIFE). If you knew me, you’d know that this is incredibly out of character. Generally, I’m what you’d call a pantser. Some speech act, phrase, or image of a scene pops into my head and I roll with it, feeling it out and following it the thought where it takes me. Occasionally, some ideal or question on the nature of (whatever) about which I’ve been thinking reveals itself as a central idea in the story and together, the two become the thread that directs my story to its inevitable conclusion or lack thereof (I find that the ambiguous ones are always the funnest, mainly because I like mind-fucking people, but that’s another story). I’ve always written like this as far as I can tell and the thought of planning out my story has always felt like the most anathema buzzkill I could imagine. Until, perhaps, now. The 1st problem with pure-pants is that my ability to continue writing a story depends largely on my ability to sustain the feel of the scene in my own head. My stories tend to be very character / relationship / mood driven, so anytime something disrupts those threads, its very hard for me to come back to it. Now, if any of you are a parent, you know that from the beginning to the end of writing a single scene, at least 5 non-negotiable tasks will creep up. “Mommy, I potty”… “Mommy, wajer/wa’er peas”… Mommy, I eat…Luvey, (insert something entirely trivial that my fiancé suddenly feels a burning need to talk about)… Mommy, I hurt!!!” (And just for cuteness’ sake, my sons pronounce water as “Wajer” and “Wa’er”, respectively.) Something requires my attention, which extracts me from the scene, and I have a tough time finding my thread again or I fall asleep and never return, leaving the scene fallow. Pure-pants problem #2 (actually the main one), for me, is that historically my work isn’t particularly plot driven. I actually have a really hard time laying out plots, and the bigger the story, the harder it is for me to map out a plot for how I want to get from A to M to character #4’s Z. While it isn’t so much a problem with short stories, all of my novel ideas are HUGE (sometimes intergalactic) with multiple main characters and plot threads. Add to that creating separate worlds, cities, cultures, histories, institutions, governing bodies, and conspiracies… I think you get my point. What usually happens is that I start writing one part of the story on planet A, hit a snag. Run over to planet G, hit a snag… on and on until all I have is a jumble of fragments that seem daunting to integrate with one another. Then my douchebag alter ego chimes in telling me my word choices are shit, my characters suck, my plot is lame, and no one will ever want to read this. Finally, after I’ve read my fragments for the 36th time and critiqued myself into the ground, THE DREADED BLOCK sets in and there goes my story until I get to thinking about it a few months / years later and the whole process starts over again. So, feeling the pre- NaNoWriMo anxiety upon me (and also: Seriously, douchebag alter ego? I haven’t even started writing yet and you’re already offering you’re un-solicited opinion!?!?) I’ve decided to try a little prep basically aimed at helping me sort out my plot, combating the pernicious influence of my self-abusive douchebag alter ego, and generally helping me keep my thoughts going, even if I hit a snag or one of The Wubbles need potty help. I actually started my NaNoWriMo prep pretty late so I'm trying to make up for a lot of lost time - but WOW has it already gotten intense. I don't think I've worked on my writing this diligently since college and it’s amazing. I’ve decided to work on an idea that’s been bouncing around my head for the better part of the last decade, but just in the past few weeks; I’ve developed it exponentially. I’m using a modified Snowflake Method shared on the October NaNoWriMo Prep assignment page because it seems to allow for a pretty nice view of a multi-thread plot as its being developed, which has already allowed me to identify places where my plot needs a little filling out and other places where my character’s individual plots don’t mesh well and need to be reworked. That way, I can fix the problems sooner rather than later. Right now I’m mostly working on my plot outline but I’ve also written some fragments. I have to admit that this isn’t pure-prep either, as I’ve found that the fragments are helping me define the structure of the plot itself. For instance, one future fragment in particular, has really helped me define the trajectory of one of my plot threads and the relationship between two of the characters. Before the NaNoWriMo purists get all up in arms, it’s a future fragment and that wont be part of this installation of the story, but will likely resurface in one of the sequels. You can find it here ("Lutalica: Fragment #1" ), if interested. Reviews are welcomed and encouraged.I really hope this doesn’t kill-the-joy for me. I’ll keep you posted on the experience. With that, I hear a little duckling calling: “Momma! Momma!” So, I’ll have to end this here. Thanks for reading, stay tuned, and Happy Halloween!!! **************************** P.S. Did I mention: I actually got up at 6:30 this morning (ON A SATURDAY!!!) to write this? Winning! |
So, it’s been a while but today I’m taking a stand. I WILL update my blog and I will return to the habit of doing it regularly. No bullshit. No excuses. Just around the time of my last blog post, I realized that there was so much going on in my life (too much) that I needed to take some of the pressure off. I needed a break from basically anything superfluous; which doesn’t so much mean writing per se (although it only stopped short of that because of sheer bull-headed will), but carving out time and emotional energy to complete fairly arbitrary and superfluous writing goals at a time when I’m running on a deficit of both definitely qualifies. So yeah, that happens sometimes; and sometimes it’s necessary. Every now and again we all need to go back into our burrows and lick our wounds. But then it just sort of continued and I know from past experience where indulging that sort of idleness leads. Plus, there are things I just don’t like and find it very difficult to talk about and a couple of them have happened over the past three months. This is not exactly the first blog post I’ve started writing over that time, but considering the fact that the last three started with some variation of: “I don’t really feel like writing right now. [Sic] I don’t really feel like sharing my feelings right now. I’d love to write (anything else), but I can’t think of anything else to write.” I’m thinking I wasn’t quite ready yet. And now that I’m finished exculpating myself from blogger’s guilt, I’m going to close my post with a few fairly glossed over updates so I can start my next post on a fresh page. And I don’t necessarily want to talk about certain parts any more than I have these few months, so I’ll just list them as quickly as possible so as to not have my post taken over by wallowing (which is what happened in all five previous incarnations of my “Hey, I’m Back!” post). I moved at the end of July. The apartment is great. The Wubbles started daycare. Every one has been sick off and on since that very first day. M died in August, about five days before her birthday – and that’s pretty much all I have to say about that. Maybe I’ll blog about it later. Or submit one of my extremely wallowy entries from before. I spent a month and change after the move public-commuting to the Bronx (FROM NJ!!!). My sister’s decided she’s not talking to me again because I’m not paying enough attention to her needs - whatever. I don’t rent space in my head for other people’s emotional baggage anymore – but it brought up a lot of stuff and no, I have no intention of getting into that. I started my new job in September and spent the first month fucking up and generally making stupid mistakes until I realized that what I was dealing with was a combo of depression and my own resistance to the direction in which my career has gone with this change. So, now that I’ve started pulling my shit back together and restored my good standing at work, I’m here on WDC uploading a blog post. Ooooh and I’M PREPPING FOR NaNoWriMo!!! More on that... |
| There’s too much going on right now. At this point, I think its safe to say that I’ve officially moved way past overwhelmed – first star to the right and straight on ‘till burned-out. I need to start working out again or I’m going to crash, it’s really as simple as that. But it’s also another thing in my life for which I’ll have to eek out the time and I can't afford to let any of these balls drop. My mother-in-law is dying. It’s terrifying to admit it to myself, but I don’t think it’s terribly healthy to keep my ass parked in denial. I would love to pretend its not happening. No one I’ve loved this much has ever died before. People I cared about, yes – deeply even. But loved? The people who died died and that was it. That was the end of the story. There was reckoning and there was coming to terms and letting go, but I didn’t know they were sick beforehand. I’ve never been a part of this messy business. And now I’m watching a beautiful, vibrant, courageous woman who taught me so much about doing what needed to get done, about family, about overcoming, fade away in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. This is a woman who lived through military service, an abusive spouse, breast cancer, a brain tumor, and single-motherhood. In my heart and in my head it makes no sense that she should be susceptible to anything other than old age - irrational as it is. I don’t know. She was diagnosed with liver cancer in May and was given a prognosis of six months to a year to live on May 13th. She didn’t even tell us until the next day because she didn’t want to upset us on my birthday. She was admitted to Calvary Hospital (hospice) last week. At first I couldn’t feel anything and I felt really bad for not feeling anything but it just wasn’t real. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I kept thinking about being brought into my father’s hospital room when I was nine, smelling the smell of decay on him and realizing that he was dying. That he was even capable of dying. And then how miraculously he got better and went into remission and stayed in remission. I would start crying in starts and stops, thinking: “But she’s going to be okay, though, too. She has to be.” But I don’t know if she is. I don’t know if my miracle is coming this time. Then, when it hit me, I was just so angry. I’ve been angry for the last month and a half. Some days it feels like all I can do to not put my fist through the face of the first person who encroaches on my solitude is slam my face into the nearest hard object. I don’t do either, I just breathe and fantasize about it. I meditate. I listen to the most beautiful metal I can get my hands on because it makes me feel rapturous and calm. I’ve had Symphony of Destruction on a continuous loop for the past month. I fight the urge to engage in every form of unwholesome habitual coping strategy that I used to use to *not* deal with pain. I know where all of those things lead; I’ve been far enough down that road. But some days, honestly, I just want to drown myself in a bottle of Dewars, chase a line, and say, “fuck you” to everything. I also know that it won’t make anything better and that’s not who I am anymore (and haven’t been for a long time), thankfully. And then, every now and again, I find myself staring up at the sky whimpering, “Goddess Please…” Like I’m still that scared little girl chanting and praying beneath her bed sheets, hoping that some power in this universe loves me enough to save me from my circumstances. Like I still believe in something enough to pray. I told M-- that I love her the day before yesterday. It’s not something that’s easy for me to say to people anymore. She has good days and bad days. On the good days, she’s alert; she’s her no-nonsense self but she’s in so much pain and its written all over her. She’s lost so much weight. On the bad days, she’s barely there. She stares off, face drawn out in pain. She can barely move. She barely speaks. She’s been forgetting things. She didn’t respond and I sat in the chair next to her not wanting to move, not knowing if it would be the last time I’d see her eyes looking at anything. I realized, while I was hugging her as she slept that she smells a little like peaches, a little like cantaloupe. The day before yesterday was a bad day, but yesterday was a good one. Yesterday, she told me she loves me. We sat in the courtyard, while The Twins bounced around. My sons have always been really sensitive to other people’s pain. I don’t know if that’s because of my illnesses. They’ve seen me during flare-ups – times when it hurts too much to walk or even lay in bed or my nerves are on fire. They usually come over and ask “Ouch?” then they stroke my cheek and whisper “Shhh… shhh…” like I do when they have a boo-boo. A couple of months ago, when things were really bad, they started nursing their little stuffed monkeys: “Shhh… Shhh…” When they see her, they stand off like they know that something’s very wrong. You can see in her face how hard it hits her, but they eventually settle in. They cuddle. Then they get rowdy and we have to go. She doesn’t have the energy to keep up with all that. We had to explain to them that, “Abuela has very bad ouchies, so you have to be careful with her”. Yesterday, she specifically requested their presence. It was good. Her face lit up. It was a good day. I’m pretty tired now and I don’t really have much else to say. I have two wonderful little people sprawled across my bed and My Luvey and I have to go out to the new apartment to paint tomorrow. I think its time to rest. |
| She’s a 55 year old Caucasian-American woman of Cuban descent with warm brown hair that falls in tendrils, brushing her rounded shoulders, brown eyes of a similar hue, light skin with a hint of crème. A long hooked nose – long features in general – and a softly drawn, age worn face. She’s 5’5” at a plush 169.49 lbs with shoulders carved into a habitual slouch. Her cream colored, ¾ sleeve blouse is spotted with burgundy ink blotches strongly resembling hearts. Green khaki shorts. Her eyes wear a perpetual look of faint worry. He is a tall, thin, almost stately looking 50 year old man who moved to the US at age 19 with his family (now dead). If it wasn’t for the shocks of silver creeping back through his jet black hair from his temples, people might mistake him for a man in his late thirties/early forties – probably with a stressful job. He holds his entire body very straight: hands folded neatly across his stomach with the last two inches of his heart printed tie laced loosely between his thumb and palm. Back straight, shoulders squared, face guarded but not hyper alert or hostile, his posture is discreet and self-contained. There is a sense that the space around him is immutable, deceptively placid like the moonlit surface of a shaded lake nestled deep within a forest. Meanwhile, not fifty feet away, headlights fly down the interstate. She leans into him: arm nestled halfway under his as if seeking to hide; hand tucked carefully into his thigh; legs resting gently against him. Their spaces do not bleed into one another’s. But like once distinct roots, have grown into a fit - interlocking pieces of a puzzle. Her space does not compromise his and his does not overtake hers – yet they overlap perfectly. She sits forward, eyes alert – a sudden jerky motion – body etched in a hunch while he barely moves, even as she taps her fingers absentmindedly, one by one, and repositions them on his thigh. Reassured by some observation, she softens slightly. Some long moments later, she leans in an inch or two, preoccupied eyes darting generally toward him, then toward the window, and back in brief and repeated intervals. Her lips shape rapid words. Then, a reaction: his bottomless eyes, suffused momentarily with a warmth that seems foreign amid the deep seeded neutrality of his face, lock squarely onto hers, neck shifting almost imperceptibly toward her. He responds, face unreadable. And yet she seems to find, between her furtive glances, some confirmation there. The two slip comfortably back into silence, until finally the woman jerks once more forward in her seat, squeezing his thigh. His eyes return to attention as he follows her onto the train platform. |
| Is it just me or are people just more interesting on the Path train than on the MTA? By that, I don't necessarily mean that the people themselves are inherently more interesting, but that people in general tend to be less interesting while they are on the MTA. People on the MTA always seem so absorbed: absorbed in themselves; absorbed in doing nothing; absorbed in ignoring; absorbed in waiting. Like waxen figures glued into place - they are subsumed and disconnected. They are muted. They stare dully ahead of them, eyes locked onto the periphery, perpetually missing one another. On the Path, on the other hand, people always seem to be engaged in something, be it talking in a group; being a drunken asshole; trying to figure out where the hell they are; staring at one another. Its the kids on the MTA who are the most interesting. They throw tantrums and spiral out of control. They are alert, curious, alive - or dull. But their every move or pose is a tableau oozing hints of their daily lives, their personalities, their "selves" - even as they doze across their parent's lap. Right now, I'm watching a little girl of maybe 7 watching someone else at the end of the train. One moment she is scanning the ads overhead. Then she is stretching her neck to look out of the window. Now she stares at me, as I peek briefly from under my hair and return to my writing. She screws up her face, underscored by a half-mouthed smirk of curious bemusement and I make no pretense at the fact that I'm writing something that may or may not pertain to her. She returns to her visual wandering, every now and again fearlessly glancing back to see what I'm doing. Her identically dressed sister is sprawled out fast asleep on (I'm assuming) their father's lap as he stared blankly ahead of him. Her inquisitive eyes follow me to the door, lock on through the window as the train pulls away. |
| I haven’t gotten a lot of my official Goals done over the past two weeks, but I have accomplished a lot. Three of the six tasks on my To Do List got done. Not entirely too bad. Additionally, I found, viewed, applied, and signed for an apartment; did a fuckton of research on NJ housing laws; negotiated my lease; vetted and set an enrollment appointment with a daycare center; replaced The Twins’ social security cards; and applied for and scheduled interviews for two transfer positions. I think that deserves a pat on the back, even if I am a little behind on my creative goals. I’d love to have the kind of life where I can traipse around with my head in the clouds. I’d love to be able to sit around all day writing and commenting on social media. I know a few people like that: want to go to Paris? Ask an elderly gentleman friend to take you. Need new furniture? Oh, yeah, the slave will buy it. Want to go back to school? Boyfriend will pay all of the bills. I envy them, sometimes more than others, other times not at all. Would I trade-in for it? Nah. I worked my way through undergrad – all the while fighting an uphill battle against two chronic illnesses, chemotherapy, corticosteroids, sometimes paralysis, depression, anxiety. I have walked out of the outpatient infusion clinic, stomach churning, veins coursing with intentional poisons and hopped a cab across town so I wouldn’t miss the first day of my Evolutionary Genetics course. I have labored away my nights behind a cash register in the BOH of a hotel restaurant / room service booth, only a day after one of my many hospital discharges, counting money that I couldn’t feel between my deadened finger tips, as a grain-of-rice-sized lesion in my brainstem cut off the life giving nerve connections between my brain and my hands. I have commuted three-plus hours per day to and from a soul crushing job, starved for sleep, to keep the roof over my beloved childrens’ heads, the food in their stomachs – then labored late into the night to finish work for my classes so that, very soon, I would be able to give them something better. And all the while, I have toiled unassumingly for everything that I have. Not that others haven’t. Not that I begrudge my friends their beautiful vacations or think that their lives are in any way completely uncomplicated or perfect (I don’t and they definitely aren’t). But I am damn proud of what I have done – what I continue to do. A year ago tomorrow, I maneuvered my way into the first job in ten years that I actually enjoy. And this past week, I made a number of massive and uncertain leaps in the direction of my eventual end game. I think that’s pretty damn praise worthy. Now its time to get back to work. |
| Right now, as I type, I am procrastinating on the last part of my weekly writing assignment. You know you’ve raised the bar to ‘functional procrastinator’ when you manage to be perfectly productive at powering through a whole prioritized list of things that you were previously procrastinating on, in lieu of what you’re actually supposed to be getting done at the moment – because its just that much more daunting. A few months (okay, several months) ago, I started working my way through a writing course in an attempt to re-establish my practice with a beginner’s mind. It was going great for a little while. That is, until I found myself up against the dreaded “Writing from Memory” chapter. Whenever I read the words “Write about a childhood memory…” my creative brain shuts down, jammed up with thoughts that I’d just as soon not remember because they threaten to upend my relative emotional stability. I picked up the course again this week and still the dreaded assignment awaits. Sometimes you’ve got to bloody your knuckles a bit in order to fight your way free. And I’ll get to that (today, I swear). But in the meantime, this dilemma has raised a couple of thoughts. I am currently a psychiatric case manager / counselor for an Assertive Community Treatment team. Basically, we work with people who have Axis I diagnoses (severe persistent mental illness) with high hospitalization rates and significant difficulty engaging in outpatient treatment. The ultimate goal and overarching conviction of the ACT treatment modality, and those of us who invest our professional hearts and energies to this work, is that everyone deserves to live a personally efficacious and emotionally fulfilled life. And that with a little (okay, sometimes a lot) of help our consumers can achieve this while living stably in the community (as opposed to languishing in a state hospital or prison, as is painfully often the case). Its pretty rigorous work and, as one might imagine, we have a very high turn over rate. Across the board, ACT teams tend to be constantly in the process of training new staff. Without the dedication and emotional fortitude necessary for this type of work, most new hires burnout in the first 6 months or so. I’m nearing my 1 year anniversary with the team and, barring a possible work-life conflict from my upcoming move; I intend to stay just where I am. I also recently submitted my grad school application for a fairly prestigious School of Social Work. The plan, as it stands, is to focus on trauma counseling and eventually become a trauma therapist. So, as I sit here not-writing (what I should be), my mind begs the questions: If I can’t slog through a 250 word paragraph about my past because of emotional interference from my own traumas, how can I be an effective social worker in a field sodden with vicarious trauma? How can I remain a fully present and useful tool for my consumers during the inevitable period of turmoil and emotional re-constitution that addressing these types of issues inevitably entails if I’m weighted down with my own baggage? What structures / habits / therapeutic practices can I institute in order to keep myself relatively intact and emotionally functional through the coming changes? It is imperative both to my personal happiness and professional aspirations that I continue to ask these questions and meet them with quantifiable action. Because, again: Growth is often necessarily painful and not a single one of our lives is without obstacles. Sometimes you’ve got to bloody your knuckles a bit in order to fight your way free. |
| I originally wrote this as my intro. But realizing that it was maybe a little too long and involved to be an effective intro, I'm re-posting it as an entry. The original entry date is 6/9/15. ************************************** So, here I go again. I've never been very good at blogging. Every few years, I spend a few days diligently setting up a new account: finding pretty pictures and tweaking my profile; thoughts full of all manner of personally meaningful shyte. Then I finally hunker down in front of my computer and... Nothing. Or a whole bunch of something that just isn't good enough. I clamp up with anxiety: berating and emotionally abusing myself. Or write a whole entry, reading and re-reading, and critiquing until its dead and the words are a meaningless static buzzing in my head. Eventually I lose interest, leaving it smoldering amongst the million other fires I happen to be tending at the moment. When I started my first blog by this title, I had this dream of writing something that would be meaningful to other people. To chronicle my experiences as a young twenty-something living with chronic illness and, at the time, in the process of becoming a mother; as a person just coming out of several years of inexpressibly painful and terrifying experiences and learning to live my life again. Writing has always been my front line mode of expression. It was as essential to my being as breathing. It was the basis of my sense of self worth and esteem, the bedrock of my reality. But at some point between the symptoms and the treatments (which I'm sure will come out in some level of fuller detail); between the crippling anxiety and the social and emotional self-isolation that followed; that most essential mode of expression dried up. Words were not sufficient to express my reality. So much went unsaid. And even writing fiction (my first and greatest love) became a near impossible task. Over the years, two things happened. I started to get my shit together, investing in myself, building a future for myself. But I also gave up on myself as a writer, telling myself that I just don't have it anymore. I should focus on more realistic things. Even then, the agony of feeling artistically neutered would drive me into periods when I would write a few small pieces and then give up the ghost again, so to speak. Even when I did write, I was too shit-scared to share any of it. Something funny happened a number of weeks ago. Whilst completing my grad school application, I found myself having to answer the question: "Why do you want to go into social work? What personal, professional, or volunteer experiences have influenced this decision?" Basically, a question that made it impossible for me not to talk about my experiences. So, after agonizing over how to verbalize my answer for nigh three months, I finally dug my heels in and forced myself to write about it. Then forced myself to write it over because it sucked. And in its wake flowed a torrential flood of poetry, prose, and an over whelming desire to keep going. That night, I read to my fiance the first two pieces of my writing that he'd been privy to in over four years. The next night, I read another one. And the night after: two more. Finally, I went looking for somewhere exactly like Writing.com. And now I'm here. Long story short(ish), this blog is a very different beast. This blog is for me. Its basically a personal challenge and a place for me to force myself to write (and share my writing) even when I don't think I have anything particularly creatively impassioned to say. My goal is to write two posts per week about something - anything. As long as I keep the words flowing. If you're reading this: Thanks for stopping by. I hope you find something enjoyable. If not: it doesn't much matter one way or another. |
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. "Timeliness" is worth between 0-2 points, and how I see that is if I'm going through the forum and I'm on the bunch of Day x entries and come across a Day x-1 or 2, I'll probably take off a point. Any later, it might cut into the "Subjective Judging/Personal Opinion" (scale of 1-5). Late entries can hurt your score but won't kill ya...I've seen people miss an entry occasionally and still place in the top 3.
It is a good thing for forcing yourself to write daily, especially when you're struggling.
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