Are you a believer in the reading of tarot cards? The power of mediums? What has led you to believe or not believe?
In truth, I find it fun, though I’ve never visited a medium, nor do I have the desire. But the couple times I did visit a tarot card reader, it was freakishly dead on. I know. I know. And I say it too. Of course we are going to make sense of what the reader says, as it’s so general, we can find ourselves in it. Who doesn’t have some problems they want to fix? Or goals they wish they had reached? Or dreams? Or love lost and lost won? But this weekend, when, on a whim, I decided to play along again, I found her words hauntingly true. So many before me had talked about her readings and how she didn’t hold back, that what she said was too specific not to be real…so I went in with an open mind, while others were too fearful. Why the heck not? I don’t fear these things. Maybe I should. I guess, deep down, I don’t believe it for a second…and yet, maybe that’s just it. I WANT to believe. I want to believe that there is a way to see things that my limited mind won’t allow me to see. Maybe that’s all it is…that we desire to believe in things we really don’t. Or maybe, it’s that we DO believe and pretend we don’t, too scared to admit there are just so many things in life that have no explanations, that we can never fully grasp. I’m certain there are a whole host of parts of the brain we don’t use. In fact, we know this to be true. Science has told us this. So, as she was about to pack up, she allowed for a one-card reading and when she flipped it, she said (and I paraphrase), only knowing my first name and nothing more, “Wow. You work tirelessly, don’t you? Every day. You work and work toward your goals. And you wonder why some days, you want to give up. Don’t give up on your dreams. Keep doing what you’re doing. It will pay off. It doesn't seem so right now, but it will.” And I jokingly said: “Is it the bags under my eyes that have given it away?” And then she flipped another card. “I see people in your life that don’t support you in these dreams. This is a patience card. You need to have it. And so do these other people in your life who demand too much of your attention.” Of course I related to this. Like 100%. But who reading that doesn’t it? I think it’s true for me; and yet, I can see how it could apply to anyone. She left me with her card and a stone. And I look at it now, pondering her words. And somehow, regardless of its truth or not, it is a little voice telling me that I need to stay the course regarding certain dreams and goals, even if there are days I am certain the course is too difficult. So thank you, tarot card reader. Whether you know it or not, you’ve given me the courage to believe, not so much in the power of the cards, but in myself.
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Saying goodbye to someone or something you love is never easy. But it happens all the time in life. It doesn’t mean the love is gone. It just means it has changed or morphed or outgrown a heart’s size for myriad reasons. And for now, I am saying goodbye to something I love. It is with a heavy heart that I am closing The Nu Romantics’ Facebook group. It doesn’t mean The Nu Romantics are completely disappearing. Not now. Maybe not ever. But there are reasons why I no longer could put all my time into supporting a group at the expense of myself. It sounds selfish saying that out loud, but if there’s one thing I’ve been taught from writing—writing of ANY kind-- is that when we stop being honest, we have nothing to say that’s meaningful. I put my heart and soul into creating a group for writers and readers to come to explore and grow in a safe place. It was a place I got to fulfill so many of my creative urges. For anyone who knows me, they’ll tell you, my mind rarely shuts down. There is a creative side to me that’s almost a monster, gnawing at me, sometimes so voraciously, I completely lose myself. I’m constantly stopping to takes notes of ideas, writing, creating…and sadly, second guessing. I think a lot of us are like that. I’m not the exception. Without getting into too many details, I don’t think people realize the extent of work that goes into making a really successful group, and I’m not a half-assed person, about anything, a curse and a blessing. Some do realize it. Some joined us on the administration staff, only to realize how much work and dedication was required. At the expense of my own work and projects, I continuously put NuR first. Trying new things. Inventing new posts to engage people in an almost 1000-person group by its end. But I found when it came time for reciprocation, it just wasn’t there in the way I always dreamed. We, and our incredibly industrious PAs, were sharing and making graphics for people across all social platforms and commenting and encouraging people’s writing daily. We published two anthologies with no monetary compensation up front—collecting, editing, creating covers, editing, making graphics, editing (have I said editing?), and promoting and promoting and promoting. But The NuR family often remained silent during these times and the support only seemed to consist of a handful of people who really seemed to care or support those endeavors or understand the time and effort that goes into such things. To those people who were always there supporting the people in the group, and there are many, you are always a part of me and my growth and everyone else. And I thank you. You have marked me in the best possible way for life. That may sound bitter. It’s not. Please don’t take it that way. It’s a reality. NO ONE HAS MORE THAN 24 hours a day, that includes me and other admins. It’s not that people didn’t want to support (at least I hope so), it’s that none of us has that kind of time. We have lives. We have friends. We have families. We have lovers. We have full-time jobs. We write full-time too. A third full-time job? How? And yet, we admins were often expected to find time to support everyone all the time and when we didn’t, our inboxes would sometimes let us know.
So after months of debating and fighting with myself, it was time to take a break. I want to be creative. I want time to write. I want to support others. I, too, want support. And so starts a new chapter of how to balance the idea of success with that of support, especially when I have new releases or takeovers, how to balance creativity and time, and how to balance expectations with reality. The state of affairs in the world right now, especially in the US, won’t allow me to live on some cloud in the sky anymore. There is shit to be done. Work to do. And until someone devises a way to make more than 24-hours in a day, the reallocation of priorities is mandatory. Goodbye isn’t a word. It’s a feeling. And sometimes, goodbye feels right, but it’s never without sadness. I haven’t written a blog post in a long time! Writing a novel, editing the crap out of it, and publishing it is exhausting. And truth be told? I don’t know when/if I’ll be doing it again. I decided this summer I’m going to do what I love for the sheer joy of it, not to try to sell things. I’m going to write and read…and yes, even PAINT. And I’m not an artist that way, not at all. The few classes I’ve taken at the MFA have gone virtual for now, and I’m not doing that. But I discovered someone old to many but very new to me. Mr. Bob Ross. Now I know. I KNOW, “real” artists say he’s no good. No depth in his paintings. No real meaning or artistic value, except maybe in his sky or clouds. But you know what? I’m throwing my middle finger up at those people. The same things are often said about certain styles of poetry or erotic writing. There are all levels of all things, and Bob Ross did something magical. He painted for the sheer joy of it. He shared simple techniques and color combinations and brush strokes for the everyday man who never in his wildest dreams thought of painting. Just watching and listening to him is a meditation. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my breathing deepen, and watch the world disappear into this 30-minute blissful surrender. Writing these blogs make me feel the same way. It’s a mental therapy of sorts. Whether anyone reads them or not makes little difference to me. His style, though poo-poo’d generally speaking, puts one right into the landscape, takes the watcher along his journey into the mountains or oceans or trails or high into the sky or trees or deep into the brooks. And it’s no wonder his voice has become synonymous with the phenomenon known as ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response).( You can learn more ASMR by clicking this link if you’re unfamiliar.) I find myself lost in his voice as he makes “happy” trees and tells us it’s our paintings and to do whatever we want with them… The saddest part, for me was learning how young Bob Ross died, and further, that he didn’t make one damn dime off his paintings. Now? They go for 8,000 to 10,000 US dollars at auction houses. Not too bad for such a shitty painter, huh? Of course the art elite will say it’s because of his celebrity not his talent. I say? Thank you, Bob Ross. You’ve inspired me to try your technique. You’ve inspired me to buy some supplies, sit out in the sun this summer, and just…paint. Not for accolades. Not for money. Not to impress people with statements. But for pure joy.
When I write—my poetry in particular—if I inspire one person to try free-verse poetry, which I’ve been told I have successfully done--then that is enough for me. I don’t need to sell it. There is something to be said for doing the things we love just because…they bring us some semblance of joy, or release, or surrender in the magic of the imagination. Do what makes your soul buoyant. Whether pen or paintbrush, tune out the static chatter of naysayers, and remember: “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.” ~Bob Ross 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 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. -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. ~Robert Frost We talk of New Year resolutions this time of year, something we use for fresh starts, new outlooks, and perhaps ways to organize our lives, reflect on what is working and what isn’t. No life is perfect, and sometimes it can feel as if it’s spinning out of control. The start of a new year gives us hope. Hope to right the rails, hope to plod through the storm, hope that we will take our lives back. I’m fortunate that I get a long vacation this time of year after the madness peaks and explodes. I am never a rash person. And I never make decisions under duress. Ever. When things settle, so do I, and I think. And this year will be a particularly pensive one, especially when it comes to writing. This year I will rethink my journey. I’ve traveled near and far all at the same time. I’ve written my dark fantasies far removed from my world and I’ve written my autobiographical truths into them. I’ve written sweet romance in distant tales and turbulent ones that mirrored my own past. I’ve taken leaps I never thought I would into new writing territory, some long, some short, and I’ve stayed in the same place with dear friends and goals, honing my skills to be better. And I’ve bled my soul into verse, reaching new depths, publishing a collection, and continually doing so every day, challenging myself to grow, steady on the course. I write because I have to. Make no mistake there. And I’ve said it a million times. But what got me publishing? That. That is what I need to ponder. And I need to ponder it deeply. With Amazon as seemingly the only real avenue these days (yes there are others, less lucrative ways), I must ask myself: Do I want to continue to support a company that puts everyone else out of business? That has arbitrary whims that can destroy years of work in one fell swoop of a sword? That hasn’t just slashed the little man but has slashed large corporations, toy stores and craft stores, leaving only one option: them. We live in a world of greed and instant gratification. Of a I-want-it-now-or-at-least-no-later-than-tomorrow world, and I want it at the cheapest price. And we indies rarely can make it, not truly, not the way we hoped, not the way we need to make it a dream realized. Is it worth it anymore? As many of you know, a tale I’ve cultivated for a couple years now come to fruition, and it was arbitrarily and swiftly torn down. There was a time when I shared my writing for free, where it was read copiously, where I didn’t worry about my “rank” or if it sold, where I actually placed my head on my pillow at night and slept, and where the only reason I wrote was to exorcise my demons, to cut open wounds to bleed to heal. The wounds now almost never stop bleeding. The Band-Aids I’ve used no longer work. So I end this year with some questions to answer, ones only I can do. It’s true. We can only travel one path at a time; we are but one traveler. If I choose to take the one less traveled this time, I, like Frost, doubt I should I ever come back to the other. But as I write this, I ponder that, perhaps, there are more than only two roads, that I just need to see them in the yellow wood. And maybe, just maybe, knowing that, will make all the difference. You’d think summer would be my favorite season, having months off to write and swim and sleep late and eat the best of garden veggies, and it is, but there is something about fall that brings waves of nostalgia like I can’t describe. Fall makes me feel, as does each season, but fall is in a class all its own. It might be that it always makes me feel like I’m still young. I’m still the teenager Rosemary. School starting. Back-to-school shopping and tights and sweaters and UGGs. Halloween afoot. The colors and smells of pies and apple picking and pumpkins and cool, brisk air that lets you know you’re alive. Maybe it brings me back to days of first loves and leaf fights and innocence and innocence lost. Bonfires and football games and cheerleading and back-to-school dances. Maybe it’s because I teach and those things haven’t changed all that much. I really don’t know why, because it’s this strange feeling I get when fall is on the horizon. It’s such a strange emotion, I can’t even describe it. It’s an anxious excitement. It’s not all good, and yet, I clutch at its strength, its power. It’s like every sense is reawakened somehow and every emotion on the spectrum. Maybe that’s why. Maybe summer is too ‘easy.’ Maybe there isn’t as much meaning in easy. Maybe it reminds that I don’t like standing still. Maybe it reminds me of how easily I get bored. But often, and probably as long as I live, it will remind of my mother and the difficult relationship we had. (CLICK HERE to see a former BLOG about my mother.) It’s not only because of the anniversary of her death, but it’s remembering our “fall” fights. We fought the strongest during those early fall months. We couldn’t agree on clothes or hair or make-up. Dance classes would start up again, and the insecurities blossomed bigger, the pressure ever heavy, even as I needed to dance just as I needed to breathe. We loved each other under the most complicated of terms right up until her death. But it was love. Maybe falls reminds me that some days, I wish I could do a redo. And maybe every fall reminds me that I can’t. I CAN, however, do right now…and I better start figuring out what RIGHT NOW looks like. Maybe I need to let go of what others think I should be, and instead, let all my worries and inhibitions fall, a leaf from a tree that realizes when it's time to let go. Maybe “to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose” is true. And maybe, I need to start living as I was meant. Me. My season. The purpose I divine. We all have personal and professional goals, aka, dreams, we’re trying to achieve in this go-around. What are yours? And at what point is a dream just wishful thinking? In short, when is it time to give up? We see all kinds of positive thinking and memes on social media about not giving up, about following our dreams, about staying the course, and on and on…but are some dreams absurd? Does the boy who wants to be a professional soccer player, for instance, who works tirelessly and hard to achieve that goal foolish when, say, he just doesn’t have the strength for it? Or the talent? Or that young girl who wants to become a veterinarian but who can’t pass a science class or understand the concepts as hard as she tries? Could the same be said for writers? Or any other goals and dreams? In short, are some dreams simply unreasonable and causing us more angst and depression? In an article in Psychology Today last year, the old adages of "Follow Your Dreams" and "Never Give Up" and "At First You Don't Succeed, Try, Try Again!" were debunked and a new study by Klaus Rothermund and Katharina Koppe actually said that such maxims as "Anything Is Possible" are harmful and even exacerbate or cause depression in people. "As we all know from our childhood experiences, the maxim “If at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again!” is drummed into our heads from a very young age. These type of pep talks may backfire if the goal is unachievable regardless of how much effort someone pours into his or her futile struggle to succeed.... Rothermund and Koppe found that people often develop clinical depression as a result of making a Herculean effort to achieve an unattainable goal only to realize that their efforts were pointless. No matter how hard the person tries, his or her goals will always be out of reach. This experience can lead to colossal disappointment along with hopelessness, a loss of feeling in control, and helplessness." Further, the research went on to say that "giving up," once such a negative phrase, can actually save someone from depression and instead can create "a sense of liberty and freedom" that "learning to let go of an unrealistic goal can...help to avoid the demoralization of hitting endless roadblocks and dead ends," and embraces a new adage: "The one, who gives up, wins." It's hard to give up on a dream. We've been taught that it somehow makes us a failure. We're used to looking to blame other people for the obstacles to our success, calling them "naysayers" and spending an awful lot of time proving those said naysayers wrong, telling ourselves things like: ~The only “yes” you need to follow your dreams is yours. ~You’ll regret it later in life, and if you’re delaying it, you’ll question yourself why didn’t you do it sooner. ~Not following your dreams makes you feel unaccomplished. Eventually, this will stop you from dreaming altogether. (GLOBOTREKS.com) And certainly, in some cases, that is very true, especially for we writers. Someone puts us down. Criticizes us. Tells us our stuff is shit. What's worse is when someone we respect or admire or who we think supports us tells us this. That's a hard blow. And any person who is self reflective takes these things to heart. But we hearken to the words of the best writers who were also told the same things, who leave us with advice, and it soothes our inner demons...for a time.
I'm not sure where I fall on this spectrum. I would ask you to ask yourself the same questions I've been asking myself before giving up on a dream: How do I feel when I hit an obstacle or failure, perceived or otherwise? Do I feel myself spiraling into a depression when things don't go as planned? Am I following the dream I get satisfaction from? Or is there no longer satisfaction in following that dream? Am I following someone else's dream for me? Am I happy following my dream? Have I set my expectations too high? Do I feel good until someone knocks me down a peg? Is my dream keeping me awake at night? Making me anxious? Insecure? Is my self esteem dwindling? Am I depressed because of it? The answers to those questions will give us the answer to whether or not our dream is worth following. We must remember: We are NOT one dream. We should have many dreams, many goals, and many pursuits. As a girl who once thought being a professinal dancer was the only dream worth pursuing, I know this. Mediocre at much; master of none was something I often heard. It's bullshit. Being well-rounded is NOT a flaw. This much I do know and HAVE learned. So set up a life with MANY goals and dreams, and take them one day at a time. Do what makes your soul feel alive, pumping with energy and spirit, not one drowned and suffocated. And for me, today, my goal will be to sit on a beach, under the sun, think about all the things I have to be grateful for and let life live through me. And that will be enough, for now.... Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t tried? Too scared? Or is it that you have no talent in it? Is it too risky? People always say silly idioms like: You only live once; or take a chance; or you’ll never know if you don’t try. Someone once wrote: What if I fail? Oh, but darling, what if you fly? 😊 This morning, when I woke, I lamented that I couldn’t take an adequate picture of what I saw. I wished for much longer than the briefest of moments that I could paint my view with brush and stoke in maybe watercolors or acrylic. To write it is almost impossible for me. The snow is falling as if feathers were let go out of a pillow and the pines…Oh the pines! It’s as if an artist took her paintbrush, dipped it in the purest of white, a white that doesn't exist, and meticulously placed its color just so. I swear. It felt like I was dreaming. I’ve always wanted to be an artist. In my mind’s eye, I see things so vividly. Sadly, those that “BE” decided I would have a recessive gene, and the skill of“art” was not bestowed on me. I’ve always been drawn to art in all kinds of forms. I loved the Degas ballerinas at my studio. In fact, I'd sit and get so lost in the detail that I often entered my class late. (Ha! Being late. It's my forte!). The renaissance painters. A beautiful photograph that no painter could depict. Odd, surreal stuff, like Dali. Depictions of Satan or Hell or fallen angels. I remember bringing one to college with me, I admired it so much. My roommate looked at me like she had just been put in hell herself. I didn't care. Art fascinated me. But I, myself, couldn't draw well. Or paint well. And taking the perfect picture happened once-in-a-blue-moon while. A picture of a sunflower I took graces my bathroom, but ends there. And my watercolors still remain two: A flower and oranges. Perhaps that is why I started to write so young. I had this creative energy inside of me that needed its voice. It was loud and strong and really, I can’t remember a time it was silent. I remember the first time I shared a bit of it I wrote. It was some silly contest in 4th grade. It was a simple bit of verse about nature, something assigned and something that just seemed to flow out of me. I remember thinking I’d probably be laughed at and almost didn’t share it. But I’m glad I did. It landed in the school “newspaper” and it validated, even that young, that it was okay that I had a voice of my own. And that it was okay to share it…sometimes. That idea of sharing work with others still doesn’t feel all that comfortable and sometimes, that’s okay. Some audiences are meant to be one. You’d think I’d be a bit more skilled at it by now, but it still makes my belly a bit too uneasy. Sometimes what resonates profoundly with me, the things I'm most proud of, don't seem to be the ones most people like. I do grow each day. Learn new things. And try to wake and put something down every morning, whether it’s poetry, this mumbo jumbo I share with you some mornings, or fiction, where I let my subconscious reign and roam free with little restriction. And so, I try something I’ve always wanted to try this summer, something I’ve long said I would do but haven’t. I have signed up for an introductory art course. One of the instructors where I work convinced me after we argued vehemently about those “step by step” studios that produce “paint by numbers art which is anti-art by its very nature.” (I still don't entirely agree with her!) Part of the course is photography and it’s the first I’ve seen where I don’t need a fancy camera. That is the next class. Perhaps, just perhaps, it’s never too late to try. What, really, do I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Oh, but what I might gain!
I’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT? While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone. And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous; or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets. The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html). You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother? But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem. The tick tock is deafening. Muscles ache from strain. Rising sun. Feet on cold oak. Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists of move over and fuck yellow lights. Undress. Dress. Leotard. Bun just right. Spray in place. Grab an apple. Keys? Don't forget the milk for Mom. Dash to the express checkout and curse and hiss Into the back head of the too-chatty, blue hair, fumbling in her too-big purse, fingers not quick enough. Pour a quick glass of red to match cursory letters on black and white Times New Roman font In teacher's ink. Speed-dial family. Snapchat friends and try to breathe. It's what you've waited for. Except now, the silenced whirring rush tramples the solace because you realize that the only way to stop is to admit: Not anymore. And you look to see Irony holding Time's hand with a grim grin. Every year. One fewer thing to do. One minute. One second. Closer to death. It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole. |
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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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