Category Quick Jump
Can a lady write when she’s not driven? Can a lady write when she’s just looking for meaning? Do you want to read the words of a lady just looking for meaning?
Why does writing make me happy? (And why is that such a hard statement to type?)
Happiness, happiness, happiness. Happiness. This is me daring the gods to strike me down with depression.
Damn – interruption by the bf. Lost my flow.
This is me blocking out all the emotional, mental, spiritual debris of a day, a week, a life. This is me just joining the flow of life. I think.
Time for a writin’! Been wantin’ 2 write 4 3 days now, always puttin’ it off 4 paid work$! Which r necessary, but u know, so is emotional health.
What’s the diff btw emotional health and mental health? When I started writin’ the FSB agin, a couple weeks ago, I realized that all the work I was doing was not really healthy: I might have been pullin’ in the Cashes, but my heart – it fucking hurt like hell! I realized that I had neglected my emotional health and that if I did that, all the Money in the world was not going to make my life what I wanted it to be: secure, free, happy and valuable. And I finally understood Andy Warhol’s comment that he was most thankful for his health – he actually wasn’t being sardonic!
I am in a weird place. I’ve been here before. I think, several times: once, when I left my bf of seven years and once, last February when I lost my last job. It’s a place of holding. It’s a Wait and See place – a place where I cannot see into the future. A place of anticipation – a place where I know that I must remain calm at because if I don’t, the dragonflies/people will leave. And the people are necessary for this place to turn into a new home.
What will this home look like? I think there will be more dragonflies/people in it, but I won’t care about them the way I have in the past. In comparison, I’ll be indifferent. That is to say, they’ll have more freedom to be idiosyncratic, irrational and well, human. Maybe they will be louder in my life and maybe they will leave messes in my living room.
They won’t have to be Christian, they won’t have to follow the same political parties or causes, they won’t have to dress the same as me or work in the same field; hell, they won’t even have to speak the same language as me.
The Sickness returns. Inertia. Do I go for a jog or bike to Donald’s at Hastings and Nanaimo, buy groceries and come back? Or just start working: attempt to get the last 4 hours in – scratch that – work on my client’s site so he’s happy with me?
I don’t want to work. Nor jog. Maybe I would have went to my friend’s media event, or even to a yoga class… Blaaaaaaaah. I wish I could stop existing. Yesterday was a perfect day; today, in contrast, is evil.
I can’t get off when I have sex. As I said to my bf, I don’t have the energy anymore, to go there. The neurons play around each other, but they don’t actually connect. Blaaaaaaaah. Old, worn out parts – a dying sexual self… Blunted, constant itch that won’t go away.
Can I create what I need? Can I manufacture it out of thin air?
Here is what I need:
Someone whom I admire, trust and respect puts hers or his arms around me. I resist but they hold firmly but gently, allowing me to calm down. Maybe they pat my head.
They rock me, let me cry. With a flick of their hand, they motion to a servant who disappears and reappears with a glass of cold, clear water. I drink. They address me, filled with faith in me. Love, respect, the offer of help, assurance that I will always be nurtured, aided and ultimately free, assurance that there is a safety net; that I can never really hurt myself, because not only will they teach me to live, they won’t let me die.
Here’s the best part: I believe them.
Image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/arihahn
I have a Facebook friend who posts tons of photos of people. He’s in “issue-based” politics, as he says, which means that though his day job is a campaign coordinator for the Wilderness Committee, he’s also active in the Stop the Gateway Project, Save UBC Farm, the Green Party and a host of other activities. He’s also a filmmaker and an awesome and engaging speaker.
Along with his steady stream of newspaper stories, invites to demos and actions and personal commentary on issues and events, Ben posts pictures – lots of them. Often, they are just of people he is hanging around with and his cats. He uses his cellphone and uploads them on the spot to his Facebook page.
It’s an ingenious, simple use of technology and resources. You can buy an expensive fancy camera or spend money on a data plan for your cellphone, take pics as you go about your life and share ‘em. I bet you will get more fun out of the phone camera and data plan than from an additional, heavier unit you’d have to carry around, unpack and deploy whenever you wanted to use it.
There’s only been one thing I’ve ever been good at: failure. Oh sure, I’m good at “graphic design” and “writing” and “organizing” – but really, it always comes down to the same fucking thing: I have no staying power. Scratch that. It always comes down to the same fucking thing: programming.
“Do not challenge.”
“Be good, but not too good.”
“Your reward is in the afterlife.”
So I fail over and over and over again. And other people look good. I, on the other hand, look… less and less like the wild horse everyone wants to tame.
So many plans, so little accomplishment. (God will save you.) So little will power. (God will save you.) Scratch that.
“Make yourself good, but not so good that others look bad.” (Whoops, you’re getting too good, better change focus.”)
I’m unhappy because I have no will power. I get up in the morning, read my email, check Facebook, check my three Twitter accounts – post a notice for the conference I’m organizing - check my email again…
I think about all I have to do…
Work out, the dishes, bit of work for one client, bit of work for another…
Brush my teeth…
The brushing of the teeth is the killer, each morning and night – do you believe that a 45 year old woman has trouble getting up in the morning and going to bed at night because she hates brushing her teeth? It’s true.
Brushing teeth is boring. My life is filled with boring and no – IT IS NOT MY FAULT!!
What is my fault is not standing up for what I need: abandoning writing, abandoning photography, abandoning video-making…
Abandoning my siblings... I should not have shut down when I was eighteen. I should not have let my Mother kill my spirit. I should have continued to fight her.. But I was on the edge of sanity!
I realize now that it is my destiny to be unhappy! Oh, what a release to accept this! I do not need to strive for happiness – it’s all bollocks anyway! Dyed, straightened hair, French tips, tanned perfection – tis not me. Not at all!
I’m imperfect: big gap between my front teeth, nose that is almost African in it’s roundness and lips that could definitely be African in origin!* No ass. Naturally inward pointing toes and the horrid bunions that my Mom had! Imperfection: a glorious, individual blight on the form of accepted (mostly white, upper class defined) female beauty. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and fair – so close - but for the unsightly gap, obscene feet and narrow hips, I’d be a Great Beauty. So close – yet so fucking gloriously far!
Oh, and let’s not get into the brains thing. Ewwww! A pet who’ll put you in your place. Women look shitty with glasses anyway.
The pain will soon pass because I will it to pass. That is, I recognize that a life without pain is more valuable than a livelihood that it hurts to pursue; therefore, I will pursue a livelihood that doesn’t hurt – a livelihood that increases my health, even. It’s one thing to have financially rewarding, somewhat socially and spiritually rewarding work, but another entirely to have financially, socially and spiritually rewarding work.
In the past, I’ve pursued spiritually and socially rewarding work - together and apart; however, it’s always been at the expense of Demon Money. It’s time to bring them all together. Demon, meet Saint; Saint, meet Demon.
Image from: forum.mmosite.com
Links of Fondness :
Machine Biscuits :