Dear University:
If you expect me to give a profound and in-depth reflection on the interaction between the theories discussed in class and a personal relationship, that's just ducky. If you expect me to do so in less than 500 words, you're off your fucking rocker.
Regards,
DDB
Monday, March 28, 2011
Monday, February 07, 2011
Piss and Vinegar, Sugar and Spice: What Girls Are Made Of
Ah, the joys of procrastination. This time, it's entirely justified. The girl who lives upstairs is shouting at someone, I assume the boyfriend. Moments ago, I could hear what they were saying very clearly. So I turned up my music, something with some bass, to drown them out. Unfortunately, in spite of being able to sleep in a brightly-lit room while someone is listening to metal and atrocious volumes, I can't read academic journals while listening to anything sufficiently loud to drown out an argument in the next apartment. So instead, I'm writing.
I keep thinking that I should write more. A long time ago, I wrote off writing as a profession (pun intended). However, twice in the past week, separate people who know me have suggested that I should give it a try. Both times I immediately laughed, shuddered, and said not a chance. Both times the person who suggested it asked why I'd responded so vehemently in the negative. Then I actually had to think about the reasons why, which I hadn't done since I'd decided it.
The major reasons include that I didn't think I was good enough at it or disciplined enough to make a career out of writing. The other major factor, which I'll get to in a moment, is that I doubted I had anything to write about that anybody except those close to me would want to read.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think I'm an okay writer. Actually, I think I'm a pretty good writer. That said, I've seen and heard people ripping pieces of creative work (some of which I thought were pretty good) to shreds. The idea of having to listen to someone ripping my creative work to shreds absolutely terrifies me. That is a huge part of the reason that this blog started out, and to a great extent remains, anonymous. If nobody could connect this blog and the ideas I write about to me, nobody had to know I actually thought them. Because that could be unseemly. Perhaps as a result of that anonymity, the blog wound up containing a lot more whiny childish drivel than I originally strove for. I don't begrudge myself this, considering that the whining child who wrote the drivel is still in there somewhere, and by golly, she does come out from time to time. In order to make any money off writing, the childish drivel will have to go. This goes with the third major factor.
What I have never done, and have never even made a concerted effort towards, is posting on any sort of schedule, indeed, writing on any sort of schedule. I never applied that level of discipline to writing when I was writing for myself. Writing academic papers: sure, cover letters for job applications: absolutely, my own personal form of catharsis and processing: no freaking way. I write for myself, and to a huge extent, that allows me to write whatever I bloody well like. All the writing I've done for myself has followed that pattern, and it's a decidedly different feeling than writing a script for something I'll perform for a class, or an academic paper someone with a doctorate will critique. The things I write for myself are only partially meant to be read.
Like I said, twice in the past week, people who know of my impending panic regarding what the heck I'm going to do in six months have suggested that I write. This is far from a declaration of intention, but it's definitely something I'm giving some thought to.
Writing as a profession would mean writing for other people. So I'm curious, what do you want to read? I've given some thought to topics, but I'd love to hear thoughts from outside the little glass house.
I keep thinking that I should write more. A long time ago, I wrote off writing as a profession (pun intended). However, twice in the past week, separate people who know me have suggested that I should give it a try. Both times I immediately laughed, shuddered, and said not a chance. Both times the person who suggested it asked why I'd responded so vehemently in the negative. Then I actually had to think about the reasons why, which I hadn't done since I'd decided it.
The major reasons include that I didn't think I was good enough at it or disciplined enough to make a career out of writing. The other major factor, which I'll get to in a moment, is that I doubted I had anything to write about that anybody except those close to me would want to read.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think I'm an okay writer. Actually, I think I'm a pretty good writer. That said, I've seen and heard people ripping pieces of creative work (some of which I thought were pretty good) to shreds. The idea of having to listen to someone ripping my creative work to shreds absolutely terrifies me. That is a huge part of the reason that this blog started out, and to a great extent remains, anonymous. If nobody could connect this blog and the ideas I write about to me, nobody had to know I actually thought them. Because that could be unseemly. Perhaps as a result of that anonymity, the blog wound up containing a lot more whiny childish drivel than I originally strove for. I don't begrudge myself this, considering that the whining child who wrote the drivel is still in there somewhere, and by golly, she does come out from time to time. In order to make any money off writing, the childish drivel will have to go. This goes with the third major factor.
What I have never done, and have never even made a concerted effort towards, is posting on any sort of schedule, indeed, writing on any sort of schedule. I never applied that level of discipline to writing when I was writing for myself. Writing academic papers: sure, cover letters for job applications: absolutely, my own personal form of catharsis and processing: no freaking way. I write for myself, and to a huge extent, that allows me to write whatever I bloody well like. All the writing I've done for myself has followed that pattern, and it's a decidedly different feeling than writing a script for something I'll perform for a class, or an academic paper someone with a doctorate will critique. The things I write for myself are only partially meant to be read.
Like I said, twice in the past week, people who know of my impending panic regarding what the heck I'm going to do in six months have suggested that I write. This is far from a declaration of intention, but it's definitely something I'm giving some thought to.
Writing as a profession would mean writing for other people. So I'm curious, what do you want to read? I've given some thought to topics, but I'd love to hear thoughts from outside the little glass house.
Monday, January 24, 2011
On Selling Yourself
Today I feel like myself again. My free-spirited, overthinking, big-dreaming, frustrated, open-minded, inspired, driven, joyous self. It's like flying on a rainy day, breaking through the cloud cover into the clear blue sky. It's what happened to Red just before she started laughing again. I alternate between "the world is my oyster" and "the world is an indiscriminate pile of shit" and today, it's all coming up oysters.
Again, today, I posit that dating and looking for a job are uncomfortably similar. Both involve me knowing that I am a fantastic girlfriend/significant other/employee, and trying to figure out how to convince dudes/ladies/employers of that. And trying really hard to ignore the fact that no matter how promising the beginning is, they're going to find out that I'm probably not what they signed on for, and eventually, I'm going to get bored.
Wish me luck.
Daydream Believer
P.S. Ever notice how when someone has two jobs in means they're driven, hardworking, motivated, self-sacrificing... Just a thought.
Again, today, I posit that dating and looking for a job are uncomfortably similar. Both involve me knowing that I am a fantastic girlfriend/significant other/employee, and trying to figure out how to convince dudes/ladies/employers of that. And trying really hard to ignore the fact that no matter how promising the beginning is, they're going to find out that I'm probably not what they signed on for, and eventually, I'm going to get bored.
Wish me luck.
Daydream Believer
P.S. Ever notice how when someone has two jobs in means they're driven, hardworking, motivated, self-sacrificing... Just a thought.
Monday, January 10, 2011
WTF Circles
I'm somewhere in limbo again. In a not-so-happy limbo I keep finding myself in between "Everything's going great" and "what the fuck?". Because I was thinking "Everything's going great" and he said "not so much" so now I'm "what the fuck?"
I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know if I did anything wrong. This happens to me all the time. I'm used to it. Or should be. Something about me triggers the "cut-and-run" impulse, and I don't know what it is. I seem to do it to the nicest guys. And the true jackasses, but that's another story. Maybe I turn nice guys into true jackasses.
I want to know why the light was on 5 hours later. It may seem a little creepy. It was very likely masochistic to walk by the house, just to see, I told myself, just to see. Entirely prepared and totally caught off guard by what I saw. In the absence of a truth, any truth, all lies seem cataclysmic. Like the reason the light was on. A question I'll never get an answer to, because to admit I noticed is to admit I walked past. A little torture never killed anyone, right? Most of all, I just want to know why. I've almost kicked the habit. It was a full two beats before I went to "I'm not pretty enough". There was enough time for a solid thought in there. The solid thoughts I've been working so hard to cultivate, which don't seem to come from the inside. At least not with any power.
Is this why Wednesday was too far away? I wonder if she gave the ultimatum. I wonder if that's why. If he's not as hardheaded as he seems. I wonder if he'll drift into obscurity just like the rest. Just friends. I wonder, sometimes, how many really mean it. God knows I meant "I'd rather never speak to you again, but that sounds so cruel" Who's tried to spare me the cruelty?
This time I'll do better. For myself. I won't run. I won't flinch. And he'll tell me why even if as soon as I leave I'm an emotional pile of mush, I'll listen to every goddamn word. I won't have to chase him down for clarification in a week, or a month. And for the love of the flying spaghetti monster and all that is good and holy, I will learn to let it go, if and when it needs to be let go.
May you know when to give the signale. And never give it early.
I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know if I did anything wrong. This happens to me all the time. I'm used to it. Or should be. Something about me triggers the "cut-and-run" impulse, and I don't know what it is. I seem to do it to the nicest guys. And the true jackasses, but that's another story. Maybe I turn nice guys into true jackasses.
I want to know why the light was on 5 hours later. It may seem a little creepy. It was very likely masochistic to walk by the house, just to see, I told myself, just to see. Entirely prepared and totally caught off guard by what I saw. In the absence of a truth, any truth, all lies seem cataclysmic. Like the reason the light was on. A question I'll never get an answer to, because to admit I noticed is to admit I walked past. A little torture never killed anyone, right? Most of all, I just want to know why. I've almost kicked the habit. It was a full two beats before I went to "I'm not pretty enough". There was enough time for a solid thought in there. The solid thoughts I've been working so hard to cultivate, which don't seem to come from the inside. At least not with any power.
Is this why Wednesday was too far away? I wonder if she gave the ultimatum. I wonder if that's why. If he's not as hardheaded as he seems. I wonder if he'll drift into obscurity just like the rest. Just friends. I wonder, sometimes, how many really mean it. God knows I meant "I'd rather never speak to you again, but that sounds so cruel" Who's tried to spare me the cruelty?
This time I'll do better. For myself. I won't run. I won't flinch. And he'll tell me why even if as soon as I leave I'm an emotional pile of mush, I'll listen to every goddamn word. I won't have to chase him down for clarification in a week, or a month. And for the love of the flying spaghetti monster and all that is good and holy, I will learn to let it go, if and when it needs to be let go.
May you know when to give the signale. And never give it early.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Happy 2011
Things have changed. Lots of things. My writing style, certainly. And my writing habits. I've discovered in a quasi-archaeological dig through my posting history, a number of near-complete posts which I didn't publish. This is a stark contrast to my earlier writing, when I posted any random thought I had, without much editing, as fast as I could pour it out into cyberspace. I'm choosier with publishing my thoughts now, I think. As a result, I'm not posting as often, or as much when I do. Perhaps it's time to give the filters a bit of a break and let the flotsam and jetsam flow into the sea.
I think both in terms of monetary value and physical volume of stuff I received this year, it was at least close to the smallest Christmas I can remember. And that's fantastic! I received a few things that I really wanted (books, mostly), something I wanted but didn't realize I wanted (a teapot for flowering tea), and a goat. Some chocolate and a tea infuser, little lovely things. And of course the tarot card from Gold.
I was concerned, I admit, that this holiday would be tough. I was concerned that I would have gigantic piles of guilt. That my family and I would start to hate one another. That I would get a whole bunch of awesome things and feel guilty about it. That I wouldn't get very much stuff, and I'd feel hard done by. Even though I didn't want a lot of stuff. I have gotten a lot less materialistic, and I was concerned that, in one way or another, I'd find the whole gift-related experience of this delightful season unsatisfying.
But it's okay. I spent time with friends and family. I enjoyed seeing people I don't see too often, I gritted my teeth and drank a little more wine when things got tense. I didn't run out of the room crying or stand, feet planted, hands on hips, shouting until anyone else ran out of the room crying. Maybe, just maybe, things are beginning to work out. Maybe, just maybe, Mom and Dad are beginning to realize that I'm, if not a grown woman, certainly closer to being one than I have been before.
I spent New Years with Loud, Gold, and Sphinx once again. It's become something of a tradition, even if we missed it last year. I may have overdone it a little, but I maintain that a hangover is my body's way of reminding me what a great time I had the night before.
Among the people I count as close friends, I have few boundaries. Every now and then, I remember why those boundaries are there. I remember why every single solitary detail of my new love interest shouldn't be divulged in excruciating, mind-numbing clarity. Largely, it's because someone is going to tell me that what I'm doing isn't right, that it's not safe or healthy or fair. I can grit my teeth and take those judgments. Have to, really, since I've been known to dole them out rather generously, when required.
But I'm not going to put much stock in "Well then that's not really a relationship, is it?" It's not your place to define me any more than it's my place to define you. I could come up with one heck of a dictionary, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't like it.
I'm on a new road. One that I'd been mapping long before I got a car, so to speak. Who knows where the speed bumps are? But if I did, what would the fun be? I've never been conventional.
One thing I didn't bother much with this year was resolutions. I've been trying to work out the specifics and logistics of my goals for several months now and as expected did not come to a blazing epiphany hours before the clock struck midnight. I suppose the only coherent thing you could put into a simple phrase in terms of my goals would be keep on keepin' on. Which is what I'll be doing for the foreseeable future.
Happy New Year
Keep Dreaming
I think both in terms of monetary value and physical volume of stuff I received this year, it was at least close to the smallest Christmas I can remember. And that's fantastic! I received a few things that I really wanted (books, mostly), something I wanted but didn't realize I wanted (a teapot for flowering tea), and a goat. Some chocolate and a tea infuser, little lovely things. And of course the tarot card from Gold.
I was concerned, I admit, that this holiday would be tough. I was concerned that I would have gigantic piles of guilt. That my family and I would start to hate one another. That I would get a whole bunch of awesome things and feel guilty about it. That I wouldn't get very much stuff, and I'd feel hard done by. Even though I didn't want a lot of stuff. I have gotten a lot less materialistic, and I was concerned that, in one way or another, I'd find the whole gift-related experience of this delightful season unsatisfying.
But it's okay. I spent time with friends and family. I enjoyed seeing people I don't see too often, I gritted my teeth and drank a little more wine when things got tense. I didn't run out of the room crying or stand, feet planted, hands on hips, shouting until anyone else ran out of the room crying. Maybe, just maybe, things are beginning to work out. Maybe, just maybe, Mom and Dad are beginning to realize that I'm, if not a grown woman, certainly closer to being one than I have been before.
I spent New Years with Loud, Gold, and Sphinx once again. It's become something of a tradition, even if we missed it last year. I may have overdone it a little, but I maintain that a hangover is my body's way of reminding me what a great time I had the night before.
Among the people I count as close friends, I have few boundaries. Every now and then, I remember why those boundaries are there. I remember why every single solitary detail of my new love interest shouldn't be divulged in excruciating, mind-numbing clarity. Largely, it's because someone is going to tell me that what I'm doing isn't right, that it's not safe or healthy or fair. I can grit my teeth and take those judgments. Have to, really, since I've been known to dole them out rather generously, when required.
But I'm not going to put much stock in "Well then that's not really a relationship, is it?" It's not your place to define me any more than it's my place to define you. I could come up with one heck of a dictionary, and I'm pretty sure you wouldn't like it.
I'm on a new road. One that I'd been mapping long before I got a car, so to speak. Who knows where the speed bumps are? But if I did, what would the fun be? I've never been conventional.
One thing I didn't bother much with this year was resolutions. I've been trying to work out the specifics and logistics of my goals for several months now and as expected did not come to a blazing epiphany hours before the clock struck midnight. I suppose the only coherent thing you could put into a simple phrase in terms of my goals would be keep on keepin' on. Which is what I'll be doing for the foreseeable future.
Happy New Year
Keep Dreaming
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