What if I just wrote a cheap novel, something simple and catchy like an 80s pop song, the kind no one wants to admit enjoying. I have to stop being such a book snob. I will never be a Fitzgerald or a Salinger.
I could use a fun pen name—maybe the one I give at the fast food window or at Starbucks. Maybe I should use something more 1940s like Eleanor—the lonely spinster who hides behind a typewriter and emerges now and then wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. The sloven, grey malkin with a steamy secret she has tucked away in the attic waiting to be discovered in a dusty box after she dies. Eleanor isn’t like that at all, actually. I just like the way the words write. See there? She lives now. I wonder what is on the page that is snapped into her typewriter.
I was deeply inspired what seems a lifetime ago by a writer who for some reason thought I was a decent read. I reread a couple of his posts tonight for old-time’s sake, loved them, said so, and then reading through the comments saw that I had already expressed my love for them when they were written and posted in 2018. I laughed when I saw my alter, alter ego–the 3rd (?) iteration of me. Why I hold on to nothing and resurface now and then like a turtle in a pond is a mystery. I try not to read too deeply into myself. Not much good comes of it.
Writing is different for me now, mostly because I have no time for anything but an occasional blurb in response to a prompt that catches my eye. Prompts are easier for me to write a response to than for me to follow up on an original thought. I feel like I’ve run out of those. In fact, that occurrence, the one when all the ideas were used up, likely happened millennia ago and the ideas keep reincarnating and mixing around with other stuff in people’s brains to make new ideas that have also come and gone. All of everything has been written already. It’s just most of the words have been forgotten. Or they’re in books I haven’t read. There are a lot of those, some of which are in a stack on the shelf over there under the ones I’ve reread multiple times. Whatever the case, deep, existential thoughts evade me.
My efforts have detoured the past few years, the last two in a similar direction those efforts took two decades ago when I pursued deep thoughts of a different nature. Ones that require lots of weird math. This blog has been my attempt to hold onto the writer in me. But the space has become an occasional, quick escape. Makes me sad. But time is a thief, and I have so little of the bits between later and now when all the big stuff happens, like work and life-altering events, that writing seems wasteful use of my time. I’ve reached an age when everything I do matters because the clock is ticking faster. I remind myself I have a good 40 years left provided genetics and avoidance of major disasters holds up. That’s almost a second half of life, one whole chunk of time nearly equal to what I have already lived. But less happens in the second half, which makes the clock more noticeable. The ticking is louder these days, and life is slipping by. Do I have time for the tiny details anymore? My sense of urgency to fit the expectations I have for my life in the next four decades overshadows the whimsical world I once lived in my head. Social media has replaced brain space I reserved for the reinvented original ideas I once conjured. I don’t like that word, conjured. I feel its meaning has been altered, though it hasn’t really. I have just allowed it to lean toward a more sinister meaning, the consequence of being led astray by mindless entertainment. Media has contributed to the bastardization of word-craft. Memes have replaced prose, condensing ideas to a single image. We immediately absorb what was once savored, then scroll to the next random (or not so random) tidbit that an algorithm has decided would entertain us. My attention span is not what it was once, and that has had a profound effect on how I spend my leisure time. Hence the neglected stack of unread books under the stack of read ones that, themselves, are gathering dust. It’s not really that I don’t have time for them, it’s that I choose to give in to the instant gratification of social media. Soon I’ll forget my words altogether.
I miss my writer friend who helped me nurture them. I think he has slipped into the ether. Or is buried in a book. Not writing where I can find him, anyway. Who will inspire me now? I need to read those books. I need to reread Bluebeard.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? The summer slipped by so fast with all my medical escapades and whatnot. Kinda sucked, actually, but I did get a bit of warm sunshine. One-hundred degrees is the new warm in Texas, in case you didn’t know.
I spent the past week immersed in physics conversations with like-minded physics folks. I did a lot of walking and ate a lot of food that was really bad for me. It was a nice getaway, and I learned a lot. Met new people. Made friends. Geeked out at the University of Texas in Austin with other geeks. Super fun.
And I go back to work on Wednesday. I’d honestly rather be holding deep discourse with peers than planning for school, but I gotta remember the good parts that come with being a teacher. Just today I got an email from a student from last year asking for a recommendation letter. He reminded me that I did a decent job. That was helpful, as was the refresher last week, given my months-long bout with self-doubt. Gotta let that stuff go already. It’s gonna be okay.
Anyway, T-minus 20. In the meantime, I think I’ll go for a pedicure tomorrow and take a nap in the massage chair at the nail salon. Take a walk. You know. Pretend It’s still June for a couple of days.
I’ve been watching movies. The past three nights I have watched the first 5 episodes of Star Wars. I’ve never seen them back-to-back before. The series is outstanding when watched in order. Even better having watched a bit of The Mandalorian beforehand.
I watched Jaws last Saturday night. I always get wrapped up in Quint’s story about his experience on the USS Indianapolis. He gives me chills when he tells it. And every time I wonder whether the fate of those sailors was punishment. I heard once that Oppenheimer felt great regret for his involvement in the making of the bomb. I wonder whether Feynman did, too. I really like him. He saw the world as a beautiful and wondrous place. How could he not?
No sense wondering whether the evils that combat evil are justified. Maybe Spock was right. You know, “The needs of the many,…”
I have read about the tunnels in Japan. My brother saw them. He felt the evil living in them, and he was terrified.
I don’t like to think about such things. I’m not qualified. I’m more of a Yoda fan.
“Train yourself to let of go of everything you fear to lose.” That’s my favorite Yoda quote.
He told that to someone powerful who felt too much. The man’s fear turned to hate, just as Yoda said it would, and that man’s fear destroyed his very soul.
Fighting fire with fire is a response to fear, is it not?
This is too much to dwell on on a Tuesday night before bed.
Ah the stress. The emotions that pour out as verbal abuse. Not like that. But snapping, Yelling. Someone gets hit with it if they are within listening range. Someone becomes an unintended target. Then on and on until the dog gets kicked. You know the story.
And the things we let get to us that cause the stress…some valid, others contrived. Mostly contrived, but maybe not.
I need a baseball bat and a room filled with fragile things. The inanimate kind. The kind I can smash without feeling bad about afterward. Without feeling regret. Like I do with the snapping and yelling at people who are in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This is why I hide. But hiding doesn’t go over so well, either.
I’ve been walking in 100+ degree heat (that’s 38+ Celsius for most of you) twice a day since summer began. Okay, not every day, but a lot of days. The heat burns off the negativity.
I should have walked longer this time.
I just erased a rant that would rival Scarface. I needed to write it. I needed to erase it. No one should be subjected to that level of anger. No one should feel it, either. I watched Anakin Skywalker turn into Darth Vader last night. I don’t want that to happen to me.
Lying here in the dark, it occurs to me that what I need is a muse. I’ve never been able to write without one, be it a human or a cut deeply puncturing my soul.
I have neither. I have concepts and puzzles and interpretations. I have physics, which used to be a passion and could be a powerful source of inspiration if the passion was still inside me.
But I’m numb. How can words be found in a heart that is void of feeling?
I’m teaching people to write concisely, with precision. I am training people to express their knowledge fully in four sentences. The work is cold. and the knowledge is just that…knowing.
I could not teach how to write creatively. How to dig inside oneself and find questions and meaning. How did you do it, Mrs. Sizer? How did you inspire me so deeply? I wish I could ask, but you are dead now. I still have questions. I never asked for answers–you punctured my soul without my permission. And I am grateful.
I cried today because I thought someone was dead. The person fell of the face of the planet: no longer worked at his place of employment (the front desk person was not helpful); disappeared from social media; did not return my texts for the last week; just gone. You might be saying to yourself, “He blocked you, loser.” But no, he is my trainer, a person who I’ve known for years, a person who changed my life. I have no personal relationship with this guy other than the fact that he is my trainer and my friend. Not a talk-outside-of-work friend, but a friend. We confided in each other. He made me capable of lifting a ridiculous amount of weight. He empowered me. I was stronger physically and mentally because of him. And then, poof. Gone.
So yeah, I cried. He was dead or in jail or on the run. Those were the options. In the middle of all my crying, he texted back that he was fine, “lol.” Asshole.
I’ve been numb, lethargic, and nothing has brought me joy lately. The cry was cathartic, and I felt better after pulling myself together when I got his whatever text. “If you need me, I’ll be …” I do need you, actually, but let’s ignore that I asked.
I was in the Home Depot parking lot crying my eyes out in a hot car. I suppose I should thank him for breaking the thick shell that encased the emotions I haven’t had access to. I stopped going to training sessions for the last few months because work was keeping me late every night. I told him we’d start back when school ended. He was his usual, “Hell yeah, we will gym it up” dumb self. He’s not dumb. I only wrote that because I’m mad at him. So it seems I don’t have a trainer anymore, and I’m down one friend. I have few friends by choice. I have too many sides to me, which means I have too many ways to feel what other people feel when I’m around them. Too many friends exhaust me, but I cherish the few I have. He was one of them, and now he is being an ass. Or maybe he is running from the law.
“lol”
………………………..
I am redoing my bedroom. Tomorrow I’m going to paint it a powdery cornflower blue. In a week or so, I’ll be replacing the floors with a dark laminate tiles–you know, the kind that look like hardwood but aren’t.
So much for spending my time prepping for next year. I’m being dramatic. But you know that.
………………………………………………………
I had a conversation with Chat GPT a few weeks ago. I asked it to explain a physics concept that I was grappling with. It gave me a long explanation about basic stuff that not only did not answer the question but was wrong. I tried to guide the program to address the problem while correcting it along the way. Each time, it apologized and agreed with the correction. I finally gave up and thanked it for the attempt. It apologized again. Maybe it learned something. Maybe I’m contributing to the demise of humanity by helping to train AI. Who am I kidding, we all are.
I also ask it things like, “Write a mission statement for a mad scientist in the style of Kurt Vonnegut.” I was disappointed in the response. Again, “… in the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald.” Not great. Then James Joyce. And that’s when it occurred to me what it was doing. The voices were void, but the vocabulary was spot on for each. I then asked it to do the same task in the style of Dr. Suess. That response was awful. AI has no imagination, but why on earth would it. Digression–rhetorical questions should be written without a question mark. That is not protocol, but it should be. Back on topic–I asked it to draw a butterfly using keyboard symbols. Here’s what I got:
I’m pretty sure that’s a dog.
All the responses I got after the Dr. Suess request, regardless of the question, were in rhyme.
Interesting.
Next:
write two stanzas of a poem in iambic pentameter about a butterfly interacting with a dog, then draw a picture in keyboard characters conveying that poem.
In fields of green, a butterfly takes flight, Its wings a kaleidoscope of colors bright. It dances with the wind, so light and free, A delicate beauty for all eyes to see.
A playful dog, with wagging tail and zest, Approaches the butterfly, eager to invest. With curious eyes, it watches in delight, As the butterfly flutters, a joyful sight.
That is a cat and a dog. But I appreciate the emojis for clarification.
…………………………………………………………………..
Write a haiku about writer’s block.
Blank page, stagnant mind, Words elude like fleeting mist, Writer’s block takes hold.
I noticed that most of my first sentences in the last post were a little dark. I like the idea of writing something akin to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, but I lean toward suspense. I think that means that Coraline is up my alley. Alice in Wonderland, even. A first sentence and a genre. Progress.
A reflection of my life possibly.
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My posts are close to if not after midnight. This post is for June 5, but it is currently 9 minutes into June 6.
Let’s pretend we are on 2015 laptop time. Computers kept time for crap back then. I kinda liked it.
In keeping with my goal to write everyday, I am here at my computer with nothing in particular to say. I need to overcome that. Let’s just write, shall we?
My vacation does not feel like a vacation this year. It feels like time to do a bunch of stuff that I normally wouldn’t have time for. I find joy in my walks in the hot summer sun, though. Today was not hot; super weird for this time of year in the swamp where I live. I used to live in a hotter place, one with no humidity. My lungs would singe with every breath, but my young self didn’t have a problem with that. I ran around barefoot on asphalt that had tar bubbles. We fried an egg once on the pavement. Texas can be brutal, but I love the heat. I’m happiest in the summertime. Even here in southeast Texas, where the air is so thick with humidity that you gulp every breath, I feel joy when I’m in it. And there are alligators in the suburbs–I’ve seen them.
I cheated and went in search of something to post that I wrote in the past in a running document. The document began several year ago and is still going strong. Sometimes I date entries, but mostly I don’t. I don’t know when I wrote the entry below, but it was a while ago. I have exhausted my thoughts for the evening, so I will end with an old post.
——————————————————————————————–
I have decided to practice writing first sentences…
It was a dark and stormy night. (jk)
The new keys were springy and danced beneath her fingertips.
She shrieked with a magnificent look of glee and terror as she careened toward the ground through thin clouds in a blue sky.
And that was that.
“So far, so good,” she thought, as she spun the dial of the lock to ensure nobody could get into the vault—or out.
It was a pleasure to burn. (Okay, not mine, but maybe my favorite so why not see what it’s like to write it.)
Day faded into night, releasing the moon and the eyes that it lit in the darkness.
The shovel made a thud on the ground as she brushed her hands together to wipe away the dirt and blood.
Indignation dripped from his downturned mouth and down the back of his throat as he nearly choked on the words that he allowed only his hateful glare to convey.
***No more “as he/she’s”***
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” He whispered so the dark couldn’t hear the fear in his voice.
They stood at the edge of the precipice and waited for the last sunrise.
Only the bones of their love remained.
The second time was even better.
He was mesmerized by her audacity.
High noon follows the sun around the planet every second of every minute of every hour. But the sun chases midnight and never catches up to it.
I prefer the old pond to this new one. Few people were ever seen around the old one, and the wooded stretch was more woody. The old trail was a bed of dirt and roots and leaves, and the new one is concrete. But I shouldn’t complain. It’s still a nice walk. Much less character along the way, but nice. Cookie-cutter.
…… … . . . . . .. … .. .
I feel like my life is in its homestretch. There aren’t anymore surprises, just a couple of plans to play out. It’s not that I don’t like the prospects, because I do. I’m just sad that I know what they are and that there are so few of them left.
I say that like I’m a hundred years old.
I might as well be.
The older you get, the more each day is the same as the one before and the faster they all fly by. Before you know it, you’re fifty, your dad is ninety, and everything feels, well, over.
I miss my friend.
… . .. .. . .
She moved to Jakarta about six months ago. A couple of days ago, she moved into a high-rise apartment and now lives on the thirtieth floor overlooking a bustling city. She is a light in the world, now thirty floors up where everyone can see her. I should text her. Evening has arrived on my side of the globe, and her day is just getting started.
She and I made a paper rollercoaster once with a pulley system. It was genius.
We also skydived and made excessively large cakes.
We were an hour away from each other during the lockdown, so we made videos for each other. One of hers was a tutorial on how to juggle. She did not know how to juggle, so it was more of a how-not-to. She was juggling by the end of the video. I made a Claymation video out of playdough, and I used a catapult that I constructed out of a shoebox and a plastic salad spoon to launch a variety of objects across the living room. I didn’t use clay to animate any part of the catapult video, but I did launch the playdough. I used the slow motion setting and drew over the video the parabolic trajectories and all the math stuff involved. We were teaching youngsters from afar, so I made sure they benefited academically from my attempts to keep myself and my friend entertained. We still make random videos for each other, especially now that we are in opposite time zones.
We had plans to build a massive pendulum filled with paint so that we could make a painting. That never happened.
We were ridiculous, and I miss her. I feel like I’ve aged since she left.
I stepped outside this evening to meet a big, full moon on my back porch. My plumeria stood tall in the moonlight, quite proud of himself. He was about eight inches tall with two leaves when I put it in my cart at HEB two years ago. He is now several feet tall and outgrowing his pretty blue pot. I would plant him in the ground, but he doesn’t like the cold winters we’ve been having. He lives inside a few months out of the year, dormant and sad. When I put him outside in the spring, he wakes up within days. Within a week, he is covered in leaves.
An old man stopped me in the paper-plates aisle and commented on my little plant the day I bought it. He asked if I knew what color its blooms were. I did not. He was strangely excited for me; said he got one at that age, like we were talking about kids. I told him that I was surprised how well they do in my town since they are tropical plants. He said his grew magnificently while living in New York. His grew pink flowers, but he wanted red. I still don’t know what color mine will bloom. Maybe I’ll find out this summer.
Side note: he is not the only old man who has approached me in a grocery store. The last one was Pablo, who walked over to discuss the pastries in the glass case I was looking at. That was an interesting conversation that ended with “I’m married” and a sincere apology. I believe the plumeria man on the paper-plates aisle really just wanted to talk about my little plant. That was a nice encounter, seeing as I didn’t know anyone who liked plumerias as much as I do.
I went on a date with a young Pablo in Mexico when I was a teenager. He was kind and nervous. I was, too, and the date didn’t go anywhere. I would have gone out with him again if he had asked, but he didn’t. That was a magical time. No plumerias were involved in that encounter, No pastries, either. Just a warm, summer-night breeze in Cuernavaca, a jeep, and just the right amount of cologne. Polo, I think.
Tropical plants and trees were scattered about the town. Is it a coincidence I gave my plant a Spanish name? I never considered the possibility. The moonlight suits him, regardless.
For me, summer vacation generally involves hiding from the world. This summer is different than the rest, not because I’m not trying to hide from people but because I have plans to do productive things. One of those things involves preparing for next year. I’ve managed all my adult life to avoid spending my summers working on non-summer activities (i.e. work work), and it sickens me a little to know that I am making this change. But if I don’t want to lose my mind next year, I have to.
Writing is a decompression, as is walking and anything else I can find to do that I like doing. Writing used to be a burning, insatiable need, but time away from that passion snuffed out the flame. I never believed that could happen. I’m as shocked as I am saddened by the loss, but perhaps that fire in my belly will return. I hope so. In the meantime, I’ve set a goal to write at least once everyday. Much of what I post will likely be garbage since I’ve made writing a goal and not a whim. I still enjoy writing, I just don’t always have anything to write about. My brain isn’t as creative as it once was. Or I’m not. Brain just does what I tell it to. Or is it the other way around? If Brain is in charge, I’m in trouble. Then again, if Whim is in charge, I’m in bigger trouble. Neither of these likelihoods bode well for me. Maybe I’m better off sticking my head in a book.
I peeked into my past today and found that what I thought was, wasn’t. I suspect there is a small chance that what I saw had been altered in some way, and I felt somewhat slighted. I saw elements of my presence as though my ghost had been haunting, however, and I felt vindicated. Or honored? Last night I peeked somewhere else and found that what I thought was, most certainly was, and I felt validated.
Moving forward is difficult when you want to live up to your past.
But I’m out of practice. I need to cut myself some slack.
. . .
When you fall off the horse, you screw something up, though not terribly. When you fall off the wagon, the consequences are harsh. But you can get back on both.
I stay clear of wagons, so I have none to fall off of. I rode a Clydesdale for a while, though.
You dreamed you were in a submarine with Adam Sandler. He was sitting at the helm with a blanket in his lap like an old man navigating darkness in solitude. You asked him how he knew when to turn and which way to go to avoid hitting underwater things, and he pointed to a button on the dash and told you to push it. You pushed the button and heard a ping, but you didn’t see any screens with blips and circles to see where the underwater things were. Adam wasn’t concerned, and you quietly shrugged off his indifference. What choice did you have? He seemed confident enough, though in truth his confidence appeared to be a solemn familiarity with the waters. He appeared to be a sad prisoner of a dark fate, wandering the sands of Davy Jones’ locker. You found a window that looked out onto an underwater forest where people had taken up residence. They had escaped to that haven from the law of the land above, and you envied their freedom for a moment. You watched them become miserable before your eyes as they bickered with no way to break free from each other. They had no new place to flee to. You, on the other hand were free to roam, albeit in the confines of a dark submarine with an old man. That’s when you noticed the song that had been playing over and over in a loop. You asked Adam to turn the music off because it was driving you mad. He reached up to click the knob, and you woke up.
I’m leaving this reminder of your dream here so that you can revisit it later and ponder its meaning. Take your time. It’s likely the result of something you ate before bed, anyway. Everyone likes Supertramp.
I once had a small room with dark drapes, an overstuffed chair, and bookshelves filled with classics. I spent most of my time in that room typing on a keyboard that had most of the caps missing from its keys. I wrote everyday, often until the wee hours of the morning. I filled my screen with words that spoke to a world of writers. The rest of my time was spent taking walks. I squeezed in a few hours of work five days a week, but I was always thinking about that blank screen that waited for me on that old computer in that dark room.
Then suddenly it all came to an end. I deleted everything.
I deleted myself in one keystroke. In an instant, I lost connections I cherished. I needed to reconnect to the world around me. I needed to wake up from the dream, so I closed my eyes and … click.
It’s taken me years to regain the ability to write.
I don’t have that dark, little room anymore, nor the chair. Not even the bookshelf survived. The computer sure didn’t.
But here I am now, typing on a new keyboard in a big, well-lit room, filled with anxiety for no reason other than the fear that the real writer in me is dead. New books are mixed with the old ones, all of which fill new bookshelves. Some books are still unread because the word junkie in me can’t help but purchase books I don’t have make time to read. How many books have I downloaded to my Kindle in the last two weeks? Four maybe. I’ve started reading all of them, and I’ll probably never finish them.
One day I’ll regret not having chased down an expertise. I’d settle for just one at this point, but I yearn for mastery in everything. A master of nothing is what I am, and only a shadow of a dream remains for one thing that I was once good at.
This keyboard has no memory of how my fingers once danced. I have nothing to show for that time in my life but worn pages in a few old books. The new books have witnessed nothing, not even a gleam in my eye.
Today is the last day of the year and the thousandth of previous ones just like it. Ah but this one is different! Today I don’t feel the slow release of poison from my pores. Pent-up stress does not have its grip on me today, which is odd considering I just finished what should have been the most stressful year thus far. This year was certainly the scariest.
I told a student today to stop running from what he is scared of. To be better. Hours later, I realized that I was talking to myself. Not literally, of course. The boy had been there, and I had told him those words. I asked him before he walked out what he is going to do. He replied, “Don’t run from things that scare me.” I added, “And be better.” He left, and I heard those words again hours later when I thought of how I absolutely did not want to continue on this path I’m on. “Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.”
I don’t have the confidence to realize my potential. I don’t have all the answers and often don’t have the background knowledge necessary to come up with them. I’m afraid of revealing my incompetence. I want to press forward but not at the expense of my dignity.
Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.
Don’t run from things that scare you. Be better.
I am my own terrified student. If my students knew this about me, they wouldn’t chase after the scary things that I convince them they can achieve. If I have not conquered the scary stuff, myself, how can I lead those who are afraid?
Maximus Meridius, you were scared, too, weren’t you?
Atticus Finch, you aren’t as smart as you seem, are you?
Atticus Meridius is my name. But not really. Not really.
“Reality is the construct of others who can’t function in the absence of boundaries.” I just heard a character on TV say that, written no doubt by someone who lives in fear.
My name is Atticus Meridius, and I am gripped by my incompetence.
Her name is Atticus Meridius, and she is fearless.
Driving home this afternoon in the misty grey, I listened to a song by an artist that someone shared with me a lifetime ago, and I was transported–not to that other time but to another realm. I was a living a surreal scene in a movie, floating through the trees down a narrow and winding road. Everything became clear during that drive. The world as we know it is spinning around as though flowing through a funnel, faster and faster, headed toward one inevitable destination. I’m not sure what that destination is, but my bones tell me it’s something wonderful. All the sorrows of my past and even my day dimmed in the light of this realization. I felt an overwhelming sense of hope and calm. Of peace. That no matter how badly things go between now and the end as we know it, everything will be okay.
A long time ago I found myself, figuratively in every way, swimming in formulas and ideas, buried happily in a vast ocean of mathematics and physics. Drowning in dopamine. Today, after many days of foggy thinking, I re-wrapped my brain around rotational motion and all its fine intricacies, and everything came flooding back. The power of who knows how many minds ran through my veins, as music written by a genius is played by another and fed into the ears of an artist’s hand. I wrote, I dissected, and with that orgasmic victory of accomplishment and validation, I solved. I understood and proved to myself that I am what I thought I might have been once. That I am a part of something greater. I am not the amalgam of my experiences nor even a product of them. I am a part of something greater than I. I am the music that flows through the artist’s hand. I am the result of inspiration and a part of its formation. I am the ocean I drown in. I am Archimedes, Newton, and Mozart. I am the music of Phillip Glass, the keys on which his music is played, and the heart of the player though which his music is felt.
And around with you I flow, as though through a funnel, spinning faster and faster into a singular moment, a singular existence. Yet, myself, I am. Because He made me. And everything that streams through my mind and fingers and even onto this screen is made for me for Him and by me by Him because all of it is a part of who I am as He made me to be. As He made you to be a part of my story as you read these words. As together we narrow in on a destination of His design, returning to a singularity and bursting through to the other side where a beautiful new world awaits. As I did today when I found myself. Again.
Writing stories is hard sometimes. I’m thinking maybe I should just write the beginnings to stories and end them with a …
That wouldn’t make me much of a storyteller. But if I’m writing for myself, then the endings might not matter.
…
I have the week off, and I’m going to spend it as I do every holiday — getting my shit together. Another journal, another diet reboot (excuse me, “lifestyle reboot” <eye roll>), another crack at exercise. I have reframed my habits. Instead of seeing habitual failures, I see healthy breaks in destructive behaviors. I see extending my life another year. Maybe after a while I’ll see those breaks grow longer until they meet up with each other and squeeze out the destructive behaviors. That’s the goal. Getting back to writing is part of that healthy reboot. But it’s a careful balance. Sitting around in a dark space with a computer in my lap does nothing for my physical wellbeing outside of eliminating stress.
I’m also considering consolidating my writing blog with this one. But I like the setup of the other blog and I’ve already established it. But … ack … effort. Maybe I can add a link. HMMMM.
I just started writing again after a long absence. That’s not true. I write little notes on my phone all the time. This particular spot here is about a minute old, so I can’t say that I’ve been absent from here. What I have kept my distance from is sharing anything substantial, partly because I haven’t felt like sharing and partly because I haven’t written anything of substance in a long time. Too long. I don’t feel myself when I’m not spouting absurdities, and I haven’t been myself in a while. I’ve been living some version of myself that the real world sees. I’ve avoided the inner me. She never really knew herself any better than I did, and that’s likely why she writes or why she would write if I gave her the chance. Writing is reaching for words in the dark. It’s finding something that isn’t there and shining a light on it. She was always pretty good at pointing out the unobvious because her blindness to reality trained her to see the details that no one else could. But she I have had to live in the real world the past few years and have lost touch with the yummy details, those nuances that hide around corners and peek between the wooden slats of the fence as you pass by, like smiles in the negative spaces where the silhouettes of tree limbs curl around patches of blue sky.
Nah. I’ve been aware of them. I’m discovering that inner me and outer me are actually the same me. In my second half-century I am finally able to reconcile the two. I’ve just been too busy for a pesky imagination.
That’s what imaginations become when you get busy with real-life stuff: pesky.
Anyway.
I’m considering crawling back into this den of slippery words and making alphabet soup again. I could leave one foot out of the covers to balance my imaginary world with a little cold reality. Give my reality a little warm imagination. No need to be so polarized. Right? I think I need to at least try writing again. Seriously. Inner me needs to come up for a breath.
It’s in the dark where words are found. They run from the light where any old fool can pick through them. They like to be discovered and manipulated. They like to manipulate. The relationship between the writer and the words is symbiotic: a mutual benefit between the user and the used. Which is the used is up for debate. The struggle is real.
And yet, writers continually allow themselves to be tortured by the need to seek and find the most elusive words. I often think of them, those words, as imps. But when coerced, when manipulated by the craftiest hands, they are beautiful. I fear the challenge and yearn for it all the same. More often than not, the words best me. Occasionally I win. But the harder the struggle and rarer the victory, the sweeter the joy. Like a drug, the accomplishment of good writing sends shockwaves through my veins. Such a silly thing, really, pining for fleeting moments of joy found in arranging funny symbols into anything remotely provocative to the senses.
What is it like to master the art? I suppose it’s best I never find out. My life would cease to exist in the real world if I do, and I’m told that I’m needed there.
Another Writer, Another Blog 