Do you ever feel like you don't exist? Like you don't matter? It hurts, doesn't it? Today, I share my thoughts from a few recent trips I took and an event that happened. As I traipsed the city of Minneapolis a few weeks ago, going out to different parts, exploring as I often do, the scooter my best friend, I realized how the United States has failed and continues to fail on the issue of homelessness. Some cities seem to hide it better than others, painting a false perception with a simple police baton, or some, like Portland, go in the opposite direction, even embracing it as a separate subculture. It's no secret we have a serious issue here, so I won't bore you on what we already know. That we need change. That we need more social programs. That we need governments who make it a priority. That we NEED. But in NYC a couple weeks ago, the problem was even more prominent. And I still wake up some nights with that sinking feeling that we must to do better. In a park one morning, sipping my too-expensive coffee, I noticed a cluster of people surrounding somebody. Of course, I tried not to stare, and of course, curiosity got the better of me. How appropriate as it centered around a cat. A woman sat with her cat curled in her lap on a hot and smoggy day, and people gathered to give her some money, some lingering, some simply dropping coins in a can by the sign that read: Please help me feed my cat. After a couple days in the city, you become a bit desensitized to homelessness. The first day, you find yourself giving money, smiling, doing anything to try to be...well...human. And as time goes by, you just don't know what to do. I'm not proud of this. I'm just being completely honest. We start to ignore it. We stop making eye contact. We have little voices inside our heads that say --"What will they do with the money?"--or "Jesus, not again?" As more time goes on, you just ignore it. We walk by. We try to pretend we didn't see. But we see it, damn it. And we can say or hear or make every excuse in the book, but we are suddenly looking at the homeless as a thing and not a person. As a problem and not a worthy living individual. As if this PERSON doesn't even exist. Why? How does that happen? But this woman wasn't being ignored. Instead, people cared. They cared, not about her, but about her cat. That was the sticking point. I heard murmurs: 'OMG. That poor cat.' And yup, stupid me, I started to cry. Maybe I was exhausted. Maybe I was hormonal. But the point is, no one cared about her. She wasn't important. But her cat? Her cat was important.
And the hardest part of all this reflection is that while food and hunger and shelter and all that is vital, it's the emotional part that keeps us living. I know. I have a dog that wasn't supposed to live through a week and with love and care, is going on 14! And I also know first-hand what being ignored feels like. It's awful. It kills self esteem. It can make us have moments of the darkness of feelings, of self-loathing. Imagine that feeling every day? Now imagine that feeling times 50 or 100 or 1000. Imagine being ignored by EVERYONE. Every. Single. Day. Yes, America. We MUST to do better.
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The lights, the sounds, the food and cultures, the wealth, the grit--New York is like no place on Earth. I haven't been everywhere, and likely never will of course, but I've traveled enough in and out of the country to know. I once wrote in a novel of mine that people always say big cities aren't friendly. I think the opposite is true. I think it's the friendliest place to be. Where can you find yourself eating the largest piece of five-layer chocolate cake at midnight, followed by the thickest slice of pizza right after and watch life as if it were midday? That's what New York is: Alive. Throw in seeing the hottest musical of our day, and you know you're alive. You know you're seeing history being made. You know you're a part of it. You know, unequivocally, that America is changing. That the face of America and what is means to be American is changing. Has changed. Will be changed forever. That I, too, am changed. That's what Hamilton made me feel. God damn! Where to begin. Let's just start with the music. The hip-hop story-telling of something we've only looked at through dry and boring textbooks suddenly became the most poignant story ever told. To remember what speech and writing could once REALLY do. How one person with so much passion and drive could do. What thinking could do. Follow-through. Persistence. Without such people, nothing changes. Without such people who knows what this country would have been, if anything. It's fascinating to think about that. And it's also fascinating to think about the person who created it too, here and now, a story so long ago, filled with all the poignancy of today. Lin-Manuel Miranda's gift of writing! His gift of the written word! The blending of cultures and story-tellers, America has a new face. And it's both recognizable and unrecognizable at once. Oh! How exciting. This musical, then, to me, is all about writing, and the effect the power of words can have, then, now, always. What struck me most as a writer myself, and of course a romantic, watching Hamilton was Hamilton, himself, as a writer. He used words to incite change, every time. Essays, of course, speeches and discourse, of course, but the love letters. Damn. Those love letters to women. In a digital age world, we often hear people mourn the loss of letter writing, but we still have it. It's still so important. We write letters to one another every day in emails, texts, and messages. It's no different when someone writes us poetry or words or lines or paragraphs--they're letters. Isn't how we still fall in love with someone so often? Through their words? Love is attraction through language. It's cerebral. It's always been that way. Eliza's song states: I saved every letter you wrote me From the moment I read them I knew you were mine You said you were mine I thought you were mine Do you know what Angelica said when we saw your first letter arrive? She said: "Be careful with that one, love He will do what it takes to survive" You and your words flooded my senses Your sentences left me defenseless You built me palaces out of paragraphs And there I sat, thinking about all the love "letters" I've gotten, have gotten, will get, and each time I want to give up writing, I realize, without writing, without the construct and beauty of words, we are nothing. Even when we fall. Even when we sin. Even when we love more than one person at the same time. Even when our hearts are broken.
We can use words in any way we choose, but when we use them for the ultimate, to love, when someone knows how to write, and write well, we are convinced they are special. We are convinced that we are special, because they've made us so through language. It's what Shakespeare meant when he wrote: Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs. Everything about Hamilton is about language and words and their power. And I'm powerless now but to be changed forever. It's funny. My dad always loved that song from Fiddler on the Roof, maybe one of the earliest memories I have of musicals, a love of mine. And though I often hear people talk about the sunset and all its beauty, I rarely hear people talk about the sunrise. So today, I want to talk about the sunrise, something I haven't witnessed in a very long time. When I was younger and camping with my family, my dad loved to wake us up wherever we were to see the sunrise. He'd poke my brother and me, and we'd begrudgingly crawl out from under the warmth of our sleeping bags, remove the pillows from our faces that blocked the very sun we were about to revere, and either walk, or scramble into the car, to go see the sunrise at some ungodly hour before 6 am. As I grew into a teenager, I often "passed," my dad going it alone, decreeing: You only live once. After he passed, I often warmed at the thought of all those years ago, the thermos held tightly in my tiny hands full of the coffee he'd make I couldn't drink but loved to smell like I loved to smell his Old Spice. And this morning, I felt myself right back there. I set my alarm, something I loathe to do, made some coffee, poured it into a thermos, and went and sat on the beach to watch the sun rise. I could marvel and describe to you the colors and how the horizon met ocean and sky, that moment of grace where I know I'm important and not at the same time, a moment where I toasted my freedom on the 4th of July, and the inexplicable awe of nature. But instead, it was the smell of that coffee mixed in the with sea that I noticed more than anything, and I swore I saw my dad's smile in the clouds, a smile so infectious, anyone who met him talked about it. Before I knew it, the tears soaked my face, but they weren't sad tears. They were profound tears. I was sitting on that beach because I could, because my parents gave me a life that set me up to where I am now, a life where both my parents, but especially my dad, had made great sacrifices.
When I sat there, I knew I wouldn't be seeing a rainbow I often associate with my dad, given the weather, and yet, I kept looking anyway, because in that moment, I knew, though I am agnostic, there are greater things at work I'll never understand, like why my dad was taken from me so young. And even if scientifically there couldn't possibly be a rainbow, the possibility of it still existed. We don't have answers to everything. We never will. But my dad was right: You only live once. And so, I do, living freely, able to have the luxury to set an alarm if I choose to go see the sun rise with my dad. Paper Cuts was months in the making, where eight poets came together, shared their work, critiqued each other, applauded each other, and worked as a team of artists to become better poets. At times, it was difficult, and sometimes the paper cuts took longer to heal, but they did, and so, too, did we. Our words, like skin, became more beautiful, textured, and interesting over time. Where layers grew, so did our integrity and character. It took some mistakes, some Band-aids, and some trial and error; but mostly, it took vulnerability. Without that, there is no growth for a poet. And as we exposed our wounds, slowly allowing ourselves to become more and more uncomfortable, we realized our deepest poetry was brimming just below our surfaces. We are now ready to share our work with you, hoping our poetry cuts into your heart, your feelings, your emotions, and that you’ll heal, somehow, along with us. To read moe about our journey and our special thanks, get your copy of PAPER CUTS: We bleed but do not die. I read a lot of posts on social media that say "we used to" or I remember at time when...as if things were so much better, that people were so much smarter, that people valued so many more things they don't anymore. Recently, I read a post where someone lamented how wonderfully respectful we all used to treat one another, how things used to be, how we used to value literature and art and intelligence and God and a list of many other things. I wanted to respond. But there was no reason to. It would have fallen on deaf ears and would have just become contentious. People were commenting: "I know" and "100%" and all myriad of responses like that, not challenging the content at all but doing exactly what the post said it condemned: Lack of thought. While I see some validity in it, I do. I see what the advent and popularity of social media has done to many of us who look for sound bites and instant gratification, our research skills vanishing, our attention spans minute and impatient. But the post screamed close-mindedness to me, elitism, even worse. It read so narrow-minded, so condescending to any aspiring artist or writer today who values all those things listed and more that I wrote my rebuttal to just myself, not wanting to get into a contentious debate that was just filled with sycophants. It amazes me how sometimes we use arguments that don't add up, just to push our own agendas of what "good" art or writing or culture is, to push our beliefs onto others as facts. It still bothers me so much so that I finally share it with you. I'd love to know how YOU feel about it. We used to have segregation. We used to be wildly homophobic. We used to legally hit our wives. We used to disallow girls from going to school and women from voting. We used to own slaves. We used to burn ‘witches.’ We used to think the Earth was flat. We used to think the boogie man lived in the primeval forest. We used to believe homosexuality was a choice. It used to be okay to slap a girl’s ass at the workplace. And we used to lobotomize people with mental illness. Yeah, sure...let's go back to the way it "used to be." It was pure utopia.
Every wants it. And everyone wants it now. The quick fix. The fast sale. The get-rich quick scheme. The lose weight by some miraculous drug. What ever happened to hard work? Patience? Paying dues? Why is everyone is such a rush to “be” the future when the present is being completely ignored? Every day when I open social media, I am bombarded with something. I feel like I’m living in Brave New World. The pill that will cheer me up. The drink that will make me skinny overnight. The scheme that will really sell my books. Ads upon ads upon ads. And it’s eating us alive until we are dead shells. The pressure. The noise. The friends grabbing the gold rings really made of straw. We want to be the best. We want to look good. We want to succeed. But let’s work for it. Sweat. Grab the yoga mat and get to the gym. Put on some sneakers and hike. Eat what we wish to be. Grab an apple. Put color in your diet, green especially. Work hard. Get up with work ethic. Set goals. Write them down if you have to. Check them off as you go. And don’t cut down people or corners. Feed your mental health with reading and writing and healthy habits. Surround yourself with friends who are there and stop worrying about those who always go absent. Be alone too. And learn to like it. Breathe. There is no such thing as a quick fix. Not unless you want the huge crash afterwards. It won’t last. Angela Duckworth’s noteworthy book and philosophy GRIT lays out what really fosters success. And it’s not the most intelligent. “Grit is the perseverance and passion to achieve long–term goals” and “is a strong predictor of success and ability to reach one's goals.” In fact, “When comparing two people who are the same age but have different levels of education, grit (and not intelligence) more accurately predicts which one will be better educated” (https://jamesclear.com/grit). Grit isn’t talent. Grit isn’t luck. Grit isn’t how intensely, for the moment, you want something.
I recommend the book if you’re finding yourself in a constant downward spiral of chasing the quick fix. We are becoming, no HAVE BECOME, a nation of laziness. That is what’s killing our spirit. And I refuse to live that way. Okay. Deep breath. Politics. No one wants to talk about it and everyone is. No one wants to get into debate, because we don’t know how. Everyone is always right and nobody is, because NO ONE is everyone, and no one can put themselves into anyone else’s shoes the way Atticus Finch wishes we could. We say we do. We say we don’t judge. We say one thing but do another. That’s the problem. Reversing Roe v. Wade is catastrophic. Period. (NYTimes article if you’ve been living in a cave https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/14/us/abortion-law-alabama.html). But before I give my opinion, and that is what my blogs are, so move right past this one if you don’t want to roll your sleeves up and get a little dirty, I want to point out a couple points of fact.
Are you making the connections? The topic of abortion is never an easy one. No one advocates excitedly, spiritedly and with great glee and happiness for such a thing. No one is excited about abortion. No one cheers for it. NO ONE. It’s messy. It’s ugly. It’s leveled with nuances and grey spots and circumstances and a myriad of factors, and nothing about it is black or white. Can we not agree on that? What we differ on is what constitutes life. The embryo, the fetus, a baby…all that is debatable, but science has pretty much proven that too. So let me point out something else. Non-Christian faiths make up only 1% of Alabama by every consensus out there. Making another connection? I hope so. No religion should guide political or human rights decisions. That is yet another fact. The biggest thing I want people to think about today is that what comes with these facts I’ve outlined above. If you say ‘they’ have no voice in the womb and we must protect them, then the flip of that is true as well once they are actually a living, breathing person. Children being born into these circumstances is ALSO of no will of their own, and their chances are not great--possible, of course, I will concede--but shall I list the facts regarding unwanted children, overflow of adoption clinics, and how poverty and lack of education ranks into these chances?
Let’s put it more succinctly then: They have no voice against child abuse. They have no voice against poverty. They have no voice against hunger. They have no voice against racism. They have no voice against poor education. They have no voice against health. They have no voice against violence. They have no voice against homelessness. They have no voice to be unwanted or loved. They. Have. No. Voice. You tell me which is worse? Let’s THINK about that. Lately, I hear a lot people use the word “narcissist” to describe someone. It’s particularly common in the writing community. At times, it seems to be used loosely, when someone in a person’s life doesn’t behave in a way that makes any true sense. They are basically assholes and then narcissistic seems to be the only explanation. Do you believe this term is losing its meaning? Are we all basically narcissists in ways but on a sliding scale? So many of the traits seem embedded in so many people these days. Kindness is overlooked and a trend of entitlement and self-aggrandizing seems to be an accepted norm. So when does it become apparent that a person with strong tendencies for narcissism is really just a toxic person in your life? And when do you stop trying to change them? You can’t. You can NOT change them. And they won’t EVER see it. So is it time to simply expunge these types of people from your life? To the non-narcissistic person, it’s very hard to swallow that this person won’t “see the light” at some point, if we just try a little harder to “talk” to them, especially when they have moments of warmth and seeming compassion. The only treatment for this disorder is therapy—but can a narcissist be open to therapy? Seems counter-intuitive. Here are some traits I’m sure you’re aware of. You’re probably going to read them and say: Who in this whole world doesn’t have some of these traits and then ask the obvious: Am I a narcissist?? As listed from the Mayo Clinic:
Seems like some of these contradict each other, huh? Maybe that is why it’s so hard to determine if a person causing you angst has this personality disorder or not.
I am not psychologist or doctor, (I just play one in my blogs 😉 ) but I am human. And I think that if a person exhibits these qualities over and over to the point of YOUR mental health, guess what? Who cares if they are or aren’t “narcissists.” We have choices. And we do not need to surround ourselves with people who make us feel, frankly, like shit. We owe them nothing. But we do owe ourselves something: To be the best possible version of ourselves as possible. Maybe that’s narcissistic to say. So be it. Sometimes entitlement is simple happiness. And we can’t have it, if we allow someone to constantly take it away from us. Because even as I write this I remember: “You cannot make someone feel inferior without their consent.” So stop accepting inferiority and do put your feelings first. We’re the only person we need to answer to as adults. When I saw pollen floating down from the sky today outside the window in this ethereal way like tiny feathers, I couldn’t help but think of wishes. And then I remembered the scene I recently watched in the Michael Fassbender version of Macbeth, where Lady Macbeth, played by Marion Cotillard, is sitting to perform her “madness” scene, and at first, I thought it a little dull, except that she is magnificent. Her facial expressions, alone, tell everything. But the floating dust, the pollen, those feather-like things we often think of when blowing a dandelion not yet mature to make a wish, said something in this scene. It wasn’t a distraction as one might think at first, but an enhancement. And I think it led to the symbolism of the moment, the symbolism of how we lead our lives. Maybe I’m thinking too deeply about it. Maybe it was purely accidental, and the director marveled: "Oh wow. How fortunate." Maybe they did it on purpose to create a dream-like sequence, a sort of ghostly allusion, specters in the air, omens. Maybe they, themselves, didn’t even notice. It might make sense if you really stop to think about it. We make wishes. We certainly did as children, running freely, playing in fields, picking up the flowers and blowing them into the wind as we wished for silly things like later bedtimes or ice cream cones or beach days and sunny days or to be kissed for the first time. But wishes are what we make them, aren’t they? And sometimes, perhaps, what we wish for can become a regret. “Be careful what you wish for.” It certainly became that way for Lady Macbeth. Oftentimes, when we wish, it’s because we WANT something. We want fame or love or more money or…just plain--more. The adage less is more seems appropriate in this light. It seems the moment our wishes come true, we begin to think of the next wish, a bigger wish, a better wish, a wish that gets us what we want all over again. When we get it, sometimes these wishes can come at big costs. Can you think of a time this was so in your life? I wish I had—or I wish to be—or I wish he would—But at what cost? Are we not living but instead wishing away moments?
Perhaps the wish should be just this. Just now. To just live in the right-now moments we are almost always missing, wishing, wishing away, because we’re not recognizing any present moments fully. Maybe the flowers truly know more than us. By blowing them away and wishing, we are spreading their seeds all around, some would even say to make more weeds, rather than letting them be what they could be by staying. Still. In their moment to blossom naturally. Just as we will, in our due time. We have much we can learn from nature. Let’s be still. And listen. In one of my classes yesterday, we discussed the idea of UBI-Universal Basic Income. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a philosophical proposal one of the US presidential candidates is proposing, Andrew Yang: “Universal Basic Income (UBI) is a form of social security that guarantees a certain amount of money to every citizen within a given governed population, without having to pass a test or fulfill a work requirement. Every Universal Basic Income plan can be different in terms of amount or design. Andrew Yang is running for President as Democrat in 2020 on the platform of Universal Basic Income. The UBI he is proposing for the United States is a set of guaranteed payments of $1,000 per month, or $12,000 per year, to all U.S. citizens over the age of 18. Yes, that means you and everyone you know would get another $1,000/month every month from the U.S. government, no questions asked.” I am no expert on this. And I don’t pretend to be. I’m a writer. A poet. A teacher. But I am human first. And I am a thinker. I’m trying to learn more about it. Do some research. Read. The debate ran the gamut in the classroom. It was split pretty 50/50. What was most startling, however, were the responses to Yang’s slogan: “Humanity first.” Many, though not outright stating it, basically said: No. Me first. Is that the type of society we’re living in? Is that what capitalism really is? Do people really care about humanity? About the welfare of others? Do most just blame and say: Not my problem? Does it come down to what economic class you may fall into? I, myself, work hard. Every day. But I don’t pretend I didn’t have a lot of help to get where I am financially. I had good parents. I had parents who worked hard their whole lives just so I could have a head start. I went to private college and I came out with little loans. I know I’m fortunate and lucky. My cards were dealt with lots of kings and queens. But I see daily that so many are not fortunate that way, even those working day in and day out--hard. And though they are trying, they are way behind the 8 ball to make it. If it comes down to feeding themselves or their children or going to college, they don’t have the resources to choose the latter. Decisions, opportunities—they aren’t plentiful for many. I’m not sure how I feel about Yang yet. Of course, theoretically, his proposal seems wonderfully human. And my god do we need to remember that! It’s that outside-of-the-box thinking I admire and respect. What I do know for sure is this. We have people who live paycheck to paycheck. We have people who can’t find their next meals. We have people homeless. We have children in dire conditions due to poverty of no choice of their own. And at the same time, we have people with private jets and more money than any one person could possibly ever need in 10 lifetimes. If you don’t see a problem with that disparity, you probably won’t give UBI a second look. But I know I do my best when I can actually feel my shoulders untucking from my ears, when the strain of just simply breathing becomes less labored, how simple love from another human being can actually DO things. Imagine having some stress alleviated to be the best we can be. To follow some dreams. To foster our talents. Now exhale and get started. 😊
You can read more here to understand how it might be funded, how it might replace our current welfare system, and so on. Knowledge is power. https://www.yang2020.com/meet-andrew/ Do you believe intuition really exists? Some days I do. Somedays I don’t. Even as I write this I’m all over the map! But I think I’ve discovered something about it. We tend to wish it away when it doesn’t suit us. We get into relationships or do things we knew we shouldn’t have, do it anyway, and then put out blame. If we had just listened from the get-go to our gut, we would see that. Ever ask yourself why you can’t open up fully to someone, even after a very long time? We usually say: “Oh, that’s just how I am. I don’t open easily. It takes me a long time to trust.” But those are excuses we use. We know damn well why we don’t. Whether we’ve been burned before or not, those of us who do take our time, discover just why we didn’t open to that person. The truth eventually presents itself. I’m slowly coming to that realization. Maybe it’s that the person shows brief moments of the person they really are early on but quickly put the mask back up, and we accept that. We see what we want. We see what we hope is there oftentimes, not what is really there. So my advice you didn’t ask for: Never make excuses for the way you behave or feel. There is a reason. And that reason is usually, if not always, correct. Question: In light of what happened, sadly, to Notre Dame, my question today asks:
Should writers use real places and things in their novels or will it date it? In wake of the tragedy of Notre Dame. My book "Edge of Torment" takes place partially there, on the banks of the Seine...and I'm reminded of a passage: "We found a spot on the south side of the river, with a spectacular view of Notre Dame. I couldn’t help but notice the ominous look of it with the gray color and gargoyles. Still, something about it, the stained-glass windows and overall grandeur of the building and its architecture, perhaps, put into perspective my life. I needed to be in the moment. Embrace why I had come to Paris in the first place. That my problems were pretty mundane and insignificant juxtaposed next to the history surrounding me. I was but a speck, and I laughed, thinking about Dr. Seuss. “A person’s a person no matter how small.” This couldn't be more true today. :( But should I remove it from the story? It is mentioned a total of four times in the novel, which some of you may have already read, and it is a romantic element in the story. I could write a little foreword and update the novel, take it out altogether, or just leave things the way there are. What say you? I'm inclined to say: Some things are meant to simply stay preserved, like a memory, exactly as we want it to be. The story of Annabelle and Michael will change...and so, too, does history. But our fiction doesn't have to. Because, after all, isn't that what reading is for? Edge of Torment https://buff.ly/2Uk0ql8 I was asked a question yesterday that I thought would be so easy to answer: If I woke up as the opposite sex, what would be the first thing I would want to do? For a moment, traditional ideas of careers and roles popped into my head. And I shook my head. "No. No. No." That is no longer true! I exclaimed to myself. Then the even more obvious answers jumped into my head: run around with no shirt, grow a beard, pee standing up, kiss a girl, make a girl climax perfectly, sing baritone, and on and on. But besides growing a beard (which frankly, I wouldn’t really care to), there is absolutely NOTHING I cannot do as a woman if I want to. And that was a revelation. Gender roles are no longer stuffed into tight, tiny boxes like pointe shoes. And I’m proud of the progress humanity is making. Being the opposite sex, however, for a day, would certainly enlighten us and give us more empathy towards one another. We still hear how unequal our world is when it comes to gender equality. But frankly, I, personally, don’t feel that way. I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that way, even with a mother who wished it so. I not only enjoy being a woman, but further, there is absolutely nothing I can’t do if I want to work at it. I truly believe that. And in a society now being open more and more to sexual identity and gender reversals, I can kiss a girl any damn time I want! (I should probably get on that! 😊 ). But seriously, I can do any of those things I listed above if I wanted to. It may be that I’m older and really don’t give a fuck what people think much anymore. But those days of “I’m just a girl” are long gone. Even science doesn’t hold us back physically from doing anything we have a desire to do. And I’m happy for it. Both men and women have societal pressures: Women to be pretty; men to be masculine and stoic, for example. But it’s ever-changing and hardly anyone is blinking an eye anymore, at least in the world in which I live. Do I pretend there isn’t a whole country out there where pockets exist of absolute closed-minded, traditional and unsubstantiated thought? Of course I don’t. But we are changing it. Televisions shows, like Billionaires or example, have characters we adore and fight for, who identify as “they”; more and more women are running in races for politics; sports have opened up for women in anything they choose to do; and no more are the days where “Anon” or “George” must be signed to any writing we women do. I like my femininity. I love my career. I love being with a man who knows how. And frankly, if I could wake up and be the other gender, I’d say, okay, maybe for a day, just to put the shoe on the other foot. In fact, a man would learn a great deal about what it’s like to be a woman as well. It would be a lesson in understanding and tolerance and it could benefit all of us tremendously. The outcome would be that we might finally understand that we are all just human beings. We could all benefit from is a healthy dose of empathy. But I don’t need a penis to understand that.
I’m looking at a nest precariously sitting in a tall tree, and the birds look like floating leaves in the clear, blue spaces between the branches. And hear them, even with my windows shut. Spring is coming! And it demands to be noticed. It feels…different. It’s as if your whole body reacts to the change, and something shifts. That heavy winter, the one that made you drag your feet every morning in the dark cold, where coffee wasn’t hot enough, now shifts to hope, like those floating leaves, and something says, deep inside you—Clean up. Get it together. Shake that baggage. Simplify. Become lighter! It makes me want to strap on my Converse and walk and notice and breathe. That’s what spring is. BREATH. It’s the conscious inhaling and exhaling of breath. And that does more for our psyche than any drug or substance. It is a physical and mental warmth. It’s a meditation, if you let it be. You put your head to the sun and let it warm you, and FEEL it, not superficially. You feel less harried. Less stressed. You don’t want to rush the way you do in winter. There is no longer a need to rush from house to car to car to building to car again to get anywhere but the cold, running to get out of the pelts of snow or wind. Instead, you feel your neck removing itself from your ears. You let your arms hang in a natural rhythm by your side. You’re no longer freezing. It’s quite fascinating when you stop and really think about it. That tension of pulling coats close and tucking scarves into necks so they don’t move as you walk is gone. You don’t even mind standing in one place. You feel each muscle unfurling, the tension and aches--gone. You can…think. That blue is brighter than any color you’ve ever seen. So what will you do to stop and breathe? What baggage will you leave behind? Sit for a bit. Watch the birds-- for they are "the secrets of living”—and hear them, even if it’s the first time.
3/21/2019 Head-Hopping. What Say You? What Is the Difference Between Omniscient POV and Head-Hopping?Read NowI'm having a dang time with my latest novel, which I love, let me tell you! It's my first foray into Third Person, Omniscient (I've done limited before), and I fear the dreaded swear word: "Head-Hopping." How does an author get into the heads of her characters without jarring the reader out of the groove? I've come across two blog articles I share with you here, and there seems to be no definitive answers! I'll share them with you here: WHAT MAKES OMNISCIENT POV DIFFERENT FROM HEAD-HOPPING and THE OFFICIAL RULES ON HEAD-HOPPING. So because this argument runs the gamut, I'd like to ask you to read a short excerpt and provide your opinion. Can I head-hop within the same scene? Or is that a big no-no? Do I need to only switch perspectives from chapter to chapter? (Oh. That will really fuck things up!). Did you even notice? If Nora Roberts can do it, why can't I? (Don't answer that. I realize the obvious answer. LOL!) I welcome your comments. Please! Constructive. Brutal. Honest. Just Feedback PLEASE! I'm so close to finishing this story...Thank you for your help! UNEDITED EXCERPT:
“Okay.” She started to comb her hair and realized how snarled it was, as she hadn’t left the conditioner in long enough, fretting over Colton in her dorm room, alone, doing who knows what. “You can come sit on the bed with me. I don’t bite, Princess,” Colton offered. She was petrified. Petrified that he would see how affected she was by his presence. She had this wet discomforting ache between her thighs just by being in the room with him, so close, and yet she didn’t want to let on. “I know that.” She walked over and sat down. “So…we left off pretty early. I think we have seven questions to go.” He looked for the handout in his book bag as she tried to yank the comb out of her hair, realizing it was stuck. “Fuck,” she grumbled. Colton started laughing. “Need help?” “No. I’m fine.” She pulled the comb in vain. “Come here.” He scooted over to her, leaving little to no room between them. She held her breath as Colton tangled his fingers in her hair, trying to free the rogue comb. His hand accidentally brushed her breast and she gasped, not knowing if he even realized it. She thought she might actually hyperventilate. “Do you have it?” she asked, barely audible. “You have so much hair, Lauren,” he spoke softly back to her, and she felt her body trembling. He was rarely kind to her. Her face was only inches from his. She could smell a mixture of chocolate and something else, something she was dying to taste on his breath. He looked into her eyes, smoldering her, igniting her in such a way that she had to suppress every urge, every instinct, every desire not to beg him to kiss her. She almost just blurted it out. It felt like they were frozen like that, stuck in the moment, both desiring one another and not being able to act or move. He got closer, if that was even possible, trying to remove the tangled hair from the comb. He didn’t let go of her eyes. “Why were you crying today, Lauren?” His voice was husky, low. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to wreck whatever moment they were having. “Tell me,” he whispered. She shut her eyes. Squeezed them tight. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to admit that he had affected her, was affecting her. She didn’t want to tell him her whole, horrible past. His fingers danced in her hair and she stifled a moan. It felt so good. He grabbed her face in his hands. “Look at me.” He spoke so tenderly. She didn’t understand him, what he was doing with her. One minute cold. The next, hot. “Please,” he said. “Look at me.” She opened her eyes as he held her face in place. He wanted to kiss her, desperately. He knew she wanted him to, at least in that moment. He knew she did. Her eyes told him everything. And right then, they were a brilliant blue. “Colton.” Her tone was greedy, begging for something. “I don’t want you to cry.” And what he said next was not what he had planned. “I want to make it better.” She couldn’t breathe. It was all-consuming. He was all consuming. It was a pleasurable suffocation, but it would kill her if he didn’t do something, kiss her, tell her he cared, something, anything. Her whole body pulsed. Her lower belly tightened into something she had never felt as warmth spread out between her thighs. She felt like she'd never be able to catch her breath. “What the…” Beth froze upon opening the door. Colton let go and Lauren pushed herself away from him as quickly as she could, letting all the air escape her lungs that she had been holding in, as he left her there, wobbling, unsure of what had just happened. Lauren tried to find composure, embarrassed, searching Colton’s eyes again, but he was gone, distant, holding the questionnaire, as if they hadn’t just shared a tender, close moment. “What’s going on Masters?” Beth probed. “Are you okay, Lauren?” “Yeah of course…I…we…” “She’s fine, Beth. We were just catching up on some homework. I was just leaving.” “Homework? Really, Colton? You must think I’m stupid or blind or something.” “I got my comb stuck in my hair,” Lauren explained, pointing to the virtual bird’s nest stuck in her hair. “Colton was helping me to get it out.” “Oh shit.” Beth couldn’t help but start laughing. “Let me.” Beth sat next to them on the bed, taking up the space between them that had appeared the moment she opened the door and ruined the moment. Colton stood up. “Later,” he said as he made his way to the door. His white t-shirt was dripping wet from Lauren’s hair. She couldn’t believe how close he had been to her. She didn’t want him to leave. “I’ll walk you out,” Lauren offered and got up as Colton was already exiting the room. “No need, Lauren. I’ve got stuff to do.” Have you ever tried to shut down for just 24 hours? No technology whatsoever? No phone. No internet. Just quietude? Or what about just Social Media? Staying away from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the myriad other places you might frequent. How did it make you feel? I want to try to go at least one day without checking into my accounts, just one day of not going onto Messenger. Just one day of not checking book sales. As I sat down to write this, and opened my computer, the screen saver was a universe of blue and purple and teal and bright and light stars. Beautiful really. Like a Van Gogh painting of space. But the longer I sat behind my laptop, the more I saw myself blending into it. The longer I stared, the more I could see myself in its reflection, just a shadow, and the stars became blurred and universe, so pretty when I opened it, faded into the background as I became more prominent in the picture. It was the exact reverse of when I first opened my computer and stared at the screensaver image, full of color and wonder, now it was just me, faceless, a black outline. Sounds like a bad acid trip, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid, it’s who we’re all becoming, extensions of technology. The very first thing I do when I wake in the morning is search for my phone. It lights up in my face like someone with a flashlight, and I draw my legs into a comfortable position, tucking myself on my side, and lounge and search and drift and write, perfectly content to lazily stretch and roll about, making my already messy sheets messier. It relaxes me. It’s much like the days of old, reading a newspaper slowly, pouring coffee, and then sipping it alongside the Arts and Entertainment section. Though I still do that on Sundays (less and less it seems), this is similar. I open my news apps first, then I surf Pinterest, get caught up on some blogs, and then begin the Social Media frenzy. No coffee, just me, my bed, and my pal, my phone. The mere thought of not waking to my phone produces a bit of panic and anxiety in me. Usually waiting for me under my pillow, my hands search blindly for the rectangular handheld gold, and when it’s not there, I feel my heartbeat rise, my eyes pop open, my feet already on the cold floor, searching desperately like the most important part of me has bee stolen, before I realize it’s on the nightstand. And then, I can climb back in, roll about in the wee hours of morning, like a lazy semi-conscious slumber: calm, languid, as long as I can scroll my phone and hold it close like a teddy bear. Its soothing...And it’s dangerous. Because as much as I tell myself it’s bad and I must put it down and I must shut it off and that the time is getting away from me, and I’ll be throwing my hair into another messy bun because I’m late, I’m finding it harder and harder to stop it. And even as I’m telling myself I need to put it down, I can’t. It’s addiction, I’m afraid. Plain and simple. So, next week, I’m going to give it a go. Shut down for at least 24 hours. Like anything else in life, baby steps. I’ll try just one day. But with any addiction, it takes more than one day, and perhaps, that is why I know I can do it. Because I’ll be back, right there with my favorite blanket to comfort me. Will anyone notice? Or miss me? Highly doubtful. And that is the saddest part of addiction. The addiction doesn't need you. It will find its next victim. But you? You'll go into serious withdrawals, because you need IT, and if you don't? Perhaps you don't. Need. It. At. All... I’m becoming
the screen, the glare all I see-- mesmerizing addictive vapid-- a black hole of light, swirling with impermanent nothingness. I fade Into the background of its rectangle. Everything blurs. Everything’s lukewarm. Everything’s grey. I’m bored to tears, the plop of them, hard and heavy, echoing in my ears of sleep and wake, my thumb, my brain, the click click tap tap of another digital number turning its red face. And I am a constant blue. R.B. O'Brien Author Some things are meant to be messy. Hair. Chocolate. Watercolors. But life? It shouldn't be a complete mess. I realized recently that my closet was a bit of a metaphor for my life. I needed to streamline some things; lose things that were weighing me down; get organized; prioritize in what order things should be; in short, I needed to pay attention to my mental health. So…I got myself a new closet, quite literally, and slowly, I’m finding my frenetic, rat-race kind of existence beginning to change. I’m learning those changes are not just about where I can find my favorite shoes or t-shirt or jeans, but it’s about finding what makes me thrive and happy and what people I want to keep around me in order to do that (and what people I don’t.) My closet woes were really just a manifestation of my real-life woes. And I don’t need to be loyal to a pair of shoes, who frankly, are too expensive. Holding onto “people” who no longer belong, who take me granted, or trying to fit too many things into such a small window of time, is taking a toll; they’re too expensive. And I don’t have to pay for them. Or feel guilty about it. I can get a new closet. Rearrange a few things. Finally get rid of the things that no longer work. And so I did. And so, I am. Friends laugh and say: “First-world problems,” and yes, it does seem a bit trite to spend money on a closet. But everything is relative, isn't it? The mess, the chaos, the last-minute searches for things was spilling over into everything else. Always late as it is, it only further agitated me, furthered my anxieties, furthered everything into a panic. I don’t need to live that way. The closet is the first step. I’ve decluttered, created a new work space, put on a new coat of paint, eliminated furniture, sorted boxes of junk, bought new artwork…and that’s just the outside. Next? The inside.
So if you don’t see me around as much, well..it’s because I’m cleaning out my closet. Not everything deserves to stay. Not everything belongs. Some things just simply don’t match anymore. I've had a few strange things happen to me lately, regarding my health. And of course, WedMD and the like don't help with hysteria. After some blood tests, I'm perfectly fine. Chalk it up to some sleepless nights and stress, and our bodies and mind are quite in tune with one another. Sometimes, we need to put ourselves first. And while many people have no problem doing that, many of us do not. I'm not sure exactly what molds a person that way. I think mine comes from my childhood, something I've written about before, so forgive me if I sound like a broken recording. Growing up with a brother whose intelligence was way beyond mine, perhaps I overcompensated in other areas. That my accolades often came from "doing" rather than "being." The good daughter. The good dancer. The good student. It took me a very long time to get to a place where I understood myself. I'm still on that journey. Perhaps I will go to the grave that way. Maybe it's not about childhood at all, but just how we're born, wired. Maybe my work ethic, the way I like to stretch my body till it hurts, work until I see blurry lines in front of my face, stay up way past reasonable hours thinking and perfecting and sighing when I feel I'm not there, is just who I am. Maybe a little pain lets me know I'm alive. When a colleague told me, "We missed you at our meeting," I was reminded that I do love life but I'm not afraid to die. Why is it that people don't like to talk about that? Or mention it? I explained to her that I had to have some tests done. She was shocked. "I don't know anyone healthier than you." Yes. I am the picture of health on the outside. But our minds. Our minds have their own health issues. Show me any person alive, and I'll show you another world within them we don't get to see or hear the way they do. It's a whole universe in there. Alive and thriving some days; barely hanging on others. There are landscapes and dreams and color and black and white and roses and dirt; and sometimes, all at once. Maybe that's why writers must write. Or painters paint. Or dancers dance. Or singers sing. Or musicians play. We have two worlds, two lives. Maybe that's why we become exhausted, keeping up with both. I said: "Well...we all are going to die someday, right?" She was shocked and horrified and said: "Perhaps while you're at it, you might want to talk to a psychologist." I smiled, not offended in the least. "Perhaps I should. My mind certainly has a lot to say." But really. Besides being a notoriously rude person, she really didn't understand that I don't fear getting sick or fighting the inevitable. It's foolish. Haven't we read enough literature by now to know that fate cannot be avoided. As Shakespeare's Caesar's said: Of all the wonders that I have heard,/It seems to me most that men should fear;/Seeing death, a necessary end,/Will come when it will come." I'm not suicidal for goodness sake. But for all my romantic notions, there lives a pragmatist in me as well--sort of exactly like the two worlds that inhabit my mind within the same body. Maybe, I'm just an old soul with healthy, young eyes. I have always been creative, artsy, one might say. From fashion to dance to writing, my mind seems to see the world in images and art. It’s an odd thing, or at least I used to think so. What can you do for a career with that though? Being "artsy" isn't practical. I’d often hear. So when a certificate course of study was offered for high school students to finish with college credit in Interior Design, I jumped at the chance. Of course, nothing is as easy as picking out pictures and furniture or paint colors and style, and so it’s one of those things that never fully took hold. When I dated an older man from a bit of a wealthy background, I found myself dabbling for people, first for free, and then for small fees. I think he just wanted me to have a “career,” but I was only just in college then, finding myself, discovering who I was, making sense of my urges, and growing into the person and career I wanted. What I discovered is there wasn’t much that was creative about it. In fact, it stifled creativity. It wasn’t MY creativity. It was THEIR creativity. I’m sure that brings people much joy, to exact a plan to specifications, perfectly to someone’s expectations, to watch their joy about the completion and fruition of a vision. It can be. Do not get me wrong. But more often than not, it was just frustrating. My taste and style may not be someone else’s, and frankly, it didn’t matter. If someone wanted things I found repulsive, I followed through. After all, that was the job. And more and more, people would say they wanted a particular style or time period, but really what they wanted was a page out of Pottery Barn over and over. This wasn't about me feeling satisfied with art or beauty or creation; it was about basically doing what I was told. And I don't like doing what I'm told (unless maybe in the bedroom. :) But I digress!) This concept is no different when it comes to writing, especially poetry. A creative person needs to create. Not for pay. Not for someone else. But only for herself. There are people who write for others. Some prompts make me feel that way. Write about THIS. But I don’t want to write about THAT if it doesn’t inspire me or touch me or reach me. It’s artificial to me. Instead, I want to write about the sky or the weather or love or my dreams or my thoughts or my fears or my fantasies or my relationships or my experiences or my self-discovery or my stream-of-conscious rants; in short, I want to write about whatever I want to write about or feeling at that moment. It’s a burning urge that is almost impossible to extinguish. I have stopped trying. I create because I can’t do anything else. It comes out of me. It spills forth, whether I share it with someone or not. I write so much, so much of it I’m afraid to share, the darker moments of my psyche for instance, but I have yet to fall prey to writing for what I think an audience wants. Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps that is precisely what I’m doing wrong. But for now, I see the interior design of my mind, and I try to convey it with words. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don’t. But I never have to paint it orange when I want to paint it black. And perhaps that's not practical. But perhaps practical is overrated. Have you heard people use the term “love of my life”? Have you used it? And what is it really? What constitutes using that phrase? Can it happen more than once and therefore, an overused, trite phrase? Is it really “love of my life right now”? Or worse, do you only know that because it was someone you let get away? Someone you wish you hadn’t? Or have you yet to meet the “love of your life,” and are you still waiting? To me, this means someone you love wholly. Someone you don’t want to change, and someone who doesn’t want to change you in any way. It’s that someone who fulfills you--emotionally, sexually, intellectually. That person who makes you laugh. Who “gets” you. Who finds you beautiful even when you know you’re not. It’s acceptance. It’s that someone who makes you love yourself, even when it’s very hard to do. It’s someone who looks into you, at your scars, both figuratively and literally, and loves you anyway. And it’s symbiotic. To me, it doesn’t mean a perfect love or a love that is superficial. It is deep, fulfilling. It is a love that challenges you on occasion. A love that is passionate. A love that transcends anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s poetry really. It’s beauty but not in a physical sense. Not at all. It’s about souls connecting in another dimension of living. It makes you feel as if you weren’t living before. And it’s never jealous. Is this “love of my life” real? Fleeting? Just another romantic fantasy? For those of us who have been there, it’s the very reason for existence. i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) E.E. Cummings In my profession, I hear this a lot: “Everyone needs a bachelor’s degree. The bachelor’s degree is the new associate's degree. Most companies/professions don’t even care what the degree is, as long is there is a degree, that someone finished a program, can show they have work ethic and drive and some common set of skills." I’m not sure if this is true. Ironically, college enrollment is down everywhere where I live (myriad theories on that, including that most families are smaller than they used to be), and there are always those who find great success without finishing a bachelor’s degree, my brother being one, a computer guru who makes a helluva lot more than me. And I’m seeing a lot of the younger generation, not all that removed from me to be honest, coming up with all kinds of entrepreneurial things. But can they be successful? Truly? Are they really setting themselves up for failure? Or do MANY people do just fine without a degree? A lot of the jobs that people used to do without a degree seem to be morphing now as society changes. While some of the past are still present--factory jobs for instance, some pretty damn traditionally good paying ones--are being lost completely, plastics as an example or outsourcing as we know it. But plumbers and electricians aren’t going anyway; police officers and firemen too; and it’s interesting to see other things cropping up: uber drivers and others like them, grocery deliverers that didn’t exist, all kinds of food trucks, youtubers, online start-ups that never existed, writers (😊 ), poets, musicians, artists, and the list continues. People are different. People learn differently. But is a high school diploma enough to be well-rounded in things like the written and spoken word for most people? I teach in a field that doesn’t necessarily prepare anyone for a career, but instead, is supposed to prepare them to work hard, to think critically, to research, to discern credibility of information, to understand different cultures, to look at ideas and problems and issues from different perspectives and points of views, to be free thinkers, and so on. Isn't college supposed to be much more than the job it gets us? Shouldn't it be more? I think it’s important. Very. But how important is a college degree to getting us there, getting us to think? I, myself, don’t really know any different track personally. I didn’t stop my education until I became employed, and I’m still going! But wouldn’t traveling fulfill the same goals? But aaaah…that damn thing called money. How do you travel without that? Is college for everyone? Are we really doing so many people a disservice if we think this way? I think we are. Every day I see that it isn’t for everyone. And every day I wish I had answers. SHOULD it be for everyone? And is that just it? The way it’s set up, it isn't. And is that the crux of the problem? Are our educational institutions too traditional? My dad didn’t complete high school, and he managed to create a business that made him a wealthy man. Does it really just come down to drive? And work ethic? The desire to succeed? To have a dream and to follow it? I wish it were that easy. So many don’t have a dream, have no clue what they might find to feed their soul. In anything! Some days, I think I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. Do dreams always align with reality? And that is another issue in itself...
And so I ask you? Where do you land on this spectrum? And are you happy with the exact path you have taken? Friendship, true friendship, is rare. Can you find it even with people you haven’t met in real life? Do you have friends online that you feel closer to than some in your physical world? And if so, do you think there’s something wrong with that? That there is something wrong with you? Must you be with someone in the flesh, in the real “touching” world to be close to them? To have a real relationship? I used to think I had the answers to those questions. But I don’t. I have a life outside of online social media. A full life. Sometimes too full to be honest. But this online life of mine feels every much as real. Am I fooling myself? Is this as fleeting as the online internet provider’s connection? Some days, I think yes. People I thought were my friends disappoint. Lie. Say they support but don’t. But that is no different than real life friends or co-workers, people who constantly let you down or don’t have the same work ethic as you. Self-absorbed people who talk and talk and talk about themselves but never ask how you are doing…who don't see the consequences of their actions and often play the victim. Those people, I’m sure, are the same in their everyday, flesh lives as well. That's just who they are. It doesn’t have anything to do with social media or being online. We can’t “fake” the essence of who we are. Everyone’s true self comes out eventually, especially when you’ve been in the game this long. I’d rather have 10 close friends I can count on than 1000 fake ones, only after self- preservation. So today, I want to dedicate this post to tried and true friends, and in particular, a very special group of friends, The Writers of NuR, as we just saw our first anthology, Beyond the Last Page, go live and with great success! You are my writing comrades, but it’s more for me. We are friends. I count on you. And I hope you can count on me. We worked through deadlines, edits, critiques, and publishing. We listened to each other. We encouraged each other. We supported each other and left our egos at the door. We cheered each other on, sometimes hearing things about our work we didn't want to. We grew together. And we produced something I’m quite proud of, and quite smoothly I might add, a group dedicated to something outside of themselves. Though some of you I haven’t met in the flesh, you are every bit as real to me, sometimes more so. I like waking up knowing there is someone there to say good morning and really mean it, who listens with sincerity, and who isn’t a fair-weather fan, but a tried and true friend. Congratulations to our first, and, hopefully, many more successes. Cheers! -I love to write blogs, and I still love to read them! It brings life into focus for me. I still peruse the internet looking for blogs that interest me on numerous topics. I enjoy it. I started writing my own blogs, because I needed a voice to record my thoughts as they were happening to me. Events of the day. Things people would say to me that made me want to scream or rejoice. Feelings. Relationships. Emotions. Basically in a word: Therapy. Or in another: Health. I found that writing down my feelings and thoughts, much like a journal, help me process. Lets me move on. Forces me to think, deal with my cauldron of demons, and exhale or heal or make sense of a world I sometimes can't. And maybe it helps someone else. I never thought to publish them here, like I have been regularly. Who cares? Who would read them? Most of the time, they're stream of conscious type rambles that I think will be about one thing and morph into another. It was friend of mine who said: "Publish these. And not just on your website." I'm still debating that. Probably not. But as I learned of a new feature here on my website, Categories, I started to update my posts into topics for people to find easier, and I realized, I've written about a lot of topics (see right-hand column), some more meaningful than others. From poetry and philosophy... ...to goals, religion, and sexuality... I've got shit to say! But who's reading them? Am I wasting my time sharing them with you, maybe a handful of people who might click over and see what I have to say? Again, I ask myself, "Who cares? Do people even read blogs anymore? Is blogging a silly thing of the past? Is blogging dead?" A co-writer recently said: No one reads blogs anymore. Stop spending your time of this crap. It's not like it's driving sales... No. It's probably not. But I guess it doesn't matter. I write these for me just as I do my poetry. I write them because I'm an emotional person. I write them, because if I don't, I might carry things with me far too long, and that's not who I am. I write them to forgive. I write them to love. I write them to discover who I am. Plainly, I write them, because I'm human, and if I didn't, I might implode. Does it matter if people read them or praise me or any other reason? I would love it if they did. But I've realized that's not IT for me like it might be for other people. It will NEVER be the reason I write ANYTHING. Fuck that.
I've written them because I don't have a choice. I've written them to improve. As a writer. As a person. And as a thinker. There are too many days I want to give up because of something someone else tells me. I didn't think I'd write a blog today, "too busy," I said to myself...and then, I found myself writing, without even a conscious decision to do so! And here I am, finding a way to process things on my mind. It's helped me work out my demons. And what I really discovered is that being a writer is happening all day long for me. It's a part of who I am. I can't shut it off even if I wanted to. I have a voice. We all do. And this is what I do. I write. So even if blogging is dead. This little ol' blogger is alive...the tree really does still make the noise, even if no one is there to hear it. When I lost my aunt in December, my cousins asked me to rifle through pictures to see what I had, and it reminded me of so many things. There is something lost now, isn’t there? With our phones and our i-pads and our video capacity. We seem to lose so much, and one would think it would be the opposite, but it really isn’t. There is something special about those old photographs, much like old letters or postcards we’ve kept over the years. There’s something about holding them in our hands, touching them, running our fingers across the front, flipping them over to read the back, see the year, maybe the place. My mother was forever marking up those photographs. And everything looks so…I don’t know, pretty and nostalgic, especially when in black and white, like some of my mom’s baby pictures or first communion I came across. They somehow feel alive. They feel as if they're breathing right there next to us. The same is true of old letters or writing. There really is nothing that can replace handwriting. I remember holding Emily Dickinson’s work once in the basement annex of Amherst College, wearing gloves, being watched as if I might steal them. Smart. I wanted to. I regret the love letters I tossed or the notes from friends during class. I had a best friend and she and I wrote old-fashioned letters to one another in middle school, professing our “friends forever” in black-ink promises, only to be tossed as I moved or aged. Not enough space. Oh, the regret! A new study I read recently stated that this generation (is that me?) is losing living in the moment. That everyone is so Instagram-ized, trying to take the best pictures possible – oh, look at me eating this; or oh, I just saw this magnificent sunset; or oh, look at my dog being silly—that we’re no longer really living in the moment, or even enjoying it, or even REMEMBERING IT at all later, but instead, living for the moment to take a damn picture. How sad if that’s true! What will become of our memories or experiences if we’re so hung up on taking the picture, not for ourselves, but instead for someone else to say: Oh, isn’t Rosemary the coolest cat ever?
When I came across some of the pictures, it reminded, too, of my childhood and a scene in Edge of Torment I took from my own life, where Patricia, Annabelle’s best friend, has displayed a photograph of the two of them at Patricia's brother Billy’s wedding. It’s two best friends in a pool wearing funky glasses, and I remember exactly the moment I stole the idea from. It was with my cousin, my favorite cousin still to this day, and at the service, I asked her if she too remembered those days in the back yard at 4 or 5 or if the memory was only because of that picture. She remembered it just as I had and, though sad at where we were presently, we smiled and laughed and hugged, poured some wine afterwards, and sat down to reminiscence. That’s what photographs do for us. And I’m grateful I still have boxes upon boxes of them even if I’ve lost so many of the people in them. They are engraved somewhere inside my heart’s mind, far from being lost. And that brought me comfort. Today I am admitting something: I am not perfect. Not. Even. Close. Ha! Not so much a revelation, huh? Feel cheated? Tricked? Well, I have another confession. And I hope we’re still friends after it. I’m about to do something I thought I’d never do, that I thought was silly and trivial and narcissistic. And here I am. About to do it. “What?” you may be asking? You sitting down? I’m about to bite the bullet and go to a salon with one of my besties to get…No. Not fake boobs. Not Botox. Or something similarly appalling. But something else unspeakable...fake eyelashes! Why? Good question. And I’ll try to answer without seeming like…a boob myself! As a Christmas gift, I got a gift card to my favorite salon, filled with all kinds of goodies from facials to massages and to now, it seems, fake eyelashes! I’ve secretly always wanted to try them. But thought: I am not that superficial. Who does something like this? And here I am, about to take the plunge. Tress up my eyes. Ditch mascara, maybe for an eternity! We all have our insecurities. Right? Who among us REALLY likes the way we look. There are certain things I will just never like about myself—the length of my legs, the way I overthink things, the way my two front teeth seem to come out maybe a little too far, how much smarter my brother is than me…and… I could go on, but you get the idea. But my eyes have never been one of them. I don’t mind them. I like the way they change color. I like that I have 20/20 vision (even though I occasionally wear fake glasses. Dear god. I’m a mess!). So why the eyelashes? Well, why the hell not? That’s the best answer I can give! I've got nothing profound here. I work hard for a living. I earn my own money. And as I age, I find it harder and harder to find anything that doesn’t irritate my skin, mascara or eye liner often one of them. So why the hell not? It might be fun. I might have more confidence. Maybe I’ll become less shy. Maybe I’ll feel, for just a moment, that I am glamorous, that maybe, I’ll blink my eyes and feel the weight of luxurious eye lashes against my skin, and for once, become comfortable in my own skin. Highly unlikely. But at the very least, it will remind me never to judge why people might do what they do, cosmetically or otherwise. It’s not my business or for me to decide. Sometimes, we just feel the need to try something new, have an adventure, crawl out of our comfort zones to find the comfort and acceptance we all crave. And this 2019, I’m no longer going to worry about what other people think of me or my choices, or question why I have the urges I do, but instead, sit back, and say: Damn it. That was fun. And then maybe wink with the best damn eyelashes a girl could ask for! ;) |
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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November 2022
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