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.

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

Breathe In, Breathe Out

This is me not panicking. This is me not staring at my calendar, feeling hopelessly behind already and wondering why the hell I decided to do this in the first place. Honest. None of that's happening.

Hell, who am I kidding? I may have felt totally and completely in control this time yesterday, but this shit is intimidating. I have 3 major papers, a group presentation, 4 midterms, 6 practical assignments (3 of which involve using software I encountered for the first time today, let alone all the microphones and wires associated with getting the material I need to edit). All of this by Christmas. While keeping myself fed, watered, exercised, and in clean clothes and a clean house with not too many dirty dishes in the sink. Oh, and sane. Sane is good too.

I know, in my head, that I can do this. I've handled this kind of thing before, in fact, so far, I've done almost exactly this four times. And it has all worked out fine. And I did not feel like I did nothing but work. I will be okay, I know this.






You're waiting for the "but", aren't you? I know I am. There's no "but".





...however, (which is not "but") the fact that I know I can handle this does not stop me from looking at the calendar I've just finished updating and feeling like there cannot possibly be enough time in the next 11 weeks to do everything on my task list, let alone keep up with the readings and all the things associated with being a grown-up, independent, living-on-her-own woman. Like laundry and grocery shopping. Roommates do have their uses. There's something to be said for only having to do a third of the chores.

So I now have some meditation recordings, the stuff to pack my lunches and chill out on campus reading/writing/'rithmetic-ing(...?) in between classes. I stared down a psychologist today. Repeatedly. Apparently I'm ballsier than I thought. But I already knew that.

I'm going to fight down this silly panic monster. I'm going to drink hot chocolate, eat ice cream, lift weights, and sleep well. I'm going to kill my own bugs, set my own mousetraps, and slay my own dragons. This is going to be my year.

Whether it likes it or not.
Daydream Believer

A Smile On My Face

You learn new things every day. I'm going to keep learning things, even things I don't necessarily want to know. All knowledge is worth having.

I am getting stronger and braver after all. Life is a lot like lifting weights. The only way you get stronger is by doing things you're not strong enough for. You have to keep pushing, otherwise you stagnate. I refuse to stagnate. I will continue to do what I should, do what I have to, and do what I want to, even though sometimes when I do those things it doesn't work out the way I think it should. I'll worry about breaking down when it gets a little closer, and I won't shy away just because I've been burned.

Right now, I feel invincible. The sun is shining in this rainy old town and it seems like the world is falling back into place. I'm not walking into a wall anymore, there's a warren of routes ahead of me, rather than a single dead end. I made it this far. I found out what kind of stuff I'm made of, and it's pretty sturdy.

I won't be ashamed to laugh or cry, if that's what I feel like doing.
I'll learn from my mistakes, but not so much that I paint with a broad brush. Every situation is different, whatever parallels may exist.
I will face my past and future with hope and a pinch of realism.
I will jump off the bridge, not because everyone else is, but because nobody else has the guts to.
I won't be afraid to be alone, but I also won't be afraid to be in company.

If I let my hair down, would that be such a crime? It's not wrong to be young. I may just step off the edge again, worrying about the fall all the way, but to get up and walk off afterwards. I can strike the balance between feeling alive and staying alive. I can, I can... I can.

Oh yes, she's back.

Keep Dreaming,
Daydream Believer

Roots

I'm defined not by what I am, but by what I'm not. What I'm not is getting to be a much shorter list. One small step. A few old songs. It's a little less like war paint now, even though I'm still picking up that shield and sword. All things to everyone. What am I gonna be? I'm wound up too tight. I need to get rid of my guilt complex. Complexes. My subscriptions. The dirty old river keeps rolling into the nightmares. Water under the bridge. No fear, no doubt. Last call, you can't stay here. Oh what can it mean? Now you know how happy I can be. What's next? When you can't walk anymore, you keep on crawling. You keep moving because there's nothing else to do. My contradictions are my trouble. That's how you get to be your own enemy. With a self like this. I can't fight it. Face the music. That's what I'm doing, facing the music.
Dancing in the moonlight.

Daydream Believer

Lucid

In order to grasp true lucidity, one must rely on their own perceptions, unfettered by the constraints of common thought. It is only once we go a little bit mad that we experience the clarity of sanity.

Maybe we all sound as crazy to him as he sounds to us.

One of the most beautiful, confident, self-assured women I have ever met felt threatened by my presence (read: hopeless girlish crush on her boyfriend) when I felt myself to be a socially and physically awkward 15 year old. Maybe there's something to this. I'm not sure whether her perception or mine was closer to the truth. Either I came off a lot better than I felt, or she was a lot less confident on the inside than on that cucumber-cool exterior.

Oh promised land, what a wicked ground.
Build a dream, watch it all come down.

People squirm when I smile at them on the bus. At first I was doing it to be friendly, now, I'll admit, I'm kinda doing it to see them squirm. And to see if I can find someone who doesn't.

Oh god, he looks exactly the same. He still won't talk to me, but now I can't hope to walk past him without knowing he's there. Hell in a handbasket.

If you want games, I'll play. Games are fun, but don't do me any favours. I don't want your pity.

Bloody hell if you'd just eat a few more vegetables! I know that it's more complicated than that, but part of me just wants my good old friend back. I want to be the more damaged one again, but it's only partially so you won't have to be. How silly a hat do I have to wear before you'll notice me again?

But the half-finished bottles of inspiration lie like ghosts in my room.

I don't know how it's so easy for them. These things don't come easily to me.

Today's what, the 14th? I miscounted, it's coming up on nine weeks now. Hell.

Hyenas laugh when they're agitated.

Maybe a little rampage is what I need...

Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody,
I got some money 'cause I just got paid.
How I wish I had someone to talk to, I'm in an awful way.

Why do I already know everything I read in Cosmo this month? Well, except for that trick with the... never mind. But how come I'm so much more sure of what I already know because now I've read it in Cosmo?

Poor brokenhearted baby. I'm having a hard time mustering sympathy and stifling I-told-you-so's. I'm lonely too, I've been lonely longer, and you weren't going to do a damn thing about it, so why should I?

Good night and good luck.
Don't worry, you can have mine. I'm sure not using it.
Daydream Believer

Beige

I have spent a lot of time being beige. Nondescript, goes with everything, nothing really flashy to it, you can't have too much or you'll die of ennui. I'm not a lot less beige now than I was then, I can name three different people in the last two years who have had to be introduced to me anywhere from four to nine times before it stuck. Not randoms, people I interacted with anywhere from once to five or six times a week for three months at a time, and it wasn't like they were drunk the first few times either.

The thing is, I'm not all that beige on the inside. Unfortunately on the outside, at first glance, I am. Even more unfortunately, our kindergarten teachers were lying to us, because it does matter what we look like, what we sound like, our appearances, the impressions we give. I suppose I should say me, since it is conceivable that nobody else got this crock from their kindergarten teachers, or that they simply didn't believe them. My disillusionment aside, I'm really not all that beige. There's all kinds of interesting stuff going on, but it's not on the surface, you have to be looking for it.

This is what I get for walking the lines. The line between extraversion and introspection. I take my energy from people, but I love to hide out somewhere inside myself and just think. The line between selling out and buying in. The line between being what and who I want to be and what and who I have to be. Instead of keeping to the razor-sharp edges of liminality, the boundaries all went blurry.

The problem with education is that it's about answers, even though learning is about questions.

I'm not as beige as I once was. Maybe I'm turning a little dusty rose, a touch of periwinkle. Maybe a lovely cafe latte shade.

I hope to get less beige in the future. Rather, I hope to appear less beige. To act less beige, to speak less beige.

Still Dreaming
Daydream Believer

Ad Astra Per Aspera

I was talking to Ace the other day and without really meaning to, I kinda crystallized what I'm trying to do here. Here as in this particular blog, and here as in during my life and work. Kinda trippy stuff. All because I was defending myself from an in all likelihood imagined verbal assault on my value and worth. Because I blog... yeah... I'm still sorting it out myself. Anyhow, Ace said that he wouldn't want to have his thoughts on the internet, because someone might read them. I kinda see this kind of thing as a microcosm* of The Golden Record. In August and September 1977 respectively, NASA launched Voyager 2 and Voyager 1 (Yes, Voyager 2 was launched before Voyager 1). Each one has a 12-inch gold-plated copper disk with a greeting intended for any life form either Voyager might encounter. This (1977) state-of-the-art technology contains a number of sounds and images meant to portray earth and give anyone or anything that might find it an idea of where the machine containing it came from. Similarly purposed plaques were placed inside Pioneer 10 and 11, which were the first two human artifacts to escape the solar system. Each of these spacecraft had a scientific purpose, which throws off the allegory slightly. The idea behind the plaques and later The Golden Record, was to throw something of ourselves out as far as we can just in case maybe, someday, someone will find it and find something they can understand in it. Is it a little bit out there? Absolutely. But there isn't much that makes more sense to me than the drive to connect, to communicate, to reach out. Even if in forty thousand years by some strange turn of fate or physics, one of the Voyagers comes hurtling back to Earth in a twisted mass of flaming metal, there's still a time capsule in there that maybe someone will understand.

This is a present from a small, distant world,
a token of our sounds, our science, our images, our music,
our thoughts and our feelings.
We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours.

U.S. President Jimmy Carter

*for some reason, my favourite word lately

Sondheim, Uta, and Kurosawa
Sondheim- Stephen Sondheim, American composer and lyricist. Born March 22, 1930. Known for the lyrics to Leonard Bernstein's West Side Story, and composing the music for A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum. Also Sweeney Todd, Into The Woods, and A Little Night Music.
Uta- Uta Hagen, German-born American actor and acting teacher. June 12, 1919-January 14, 2004. Author of Respect for Acting and A Challenge for the Actor. Notable for training, among others: Matthew Broderick, Al Pacino, Whoopi Goldberg, Sigourney Weaver and Liza Minelli.
Kurosawa- Akira Kurosawa, Japanese filmmaker. March 23, 1910- September 6, 1998. Best-known works: Seven Samurai (七人の侍, Shichinin no samurai), Yojimbo (用心棒) aka The Bodyguard.

Keep Dreaming
Daydream Believer

'Festo

There are a lot of little things that make it up. It's nowhere near complete, but then again, neither am I. There'll be some additions along the way, and probably some subtractions as well.

Hopefully I'll get a chance to prove John Cougar Mellencamp wrong. The first time I remember hearing that song and noticing the lyrics, I think I was twelve or thirteen. I was singing along with the abandon of childhood, then I realized what words my mouth was unthinkingly forming, and I couldn't help but think:

If it's true that "life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone", then what's the point?

Since then, that's been the cornerstone of my many varied answers to the inevitable, often aggravating question of "So what are you planning to do with your life?" I figure it's less important to try to set the answers in stone than the reasons for them. This is one reason I doubt will change anytime soon. I never want to sit there looking back at my life and say, "Well, those were the best days, and there's nothing that good coming my way ever again." I never want the feeling of just waiting for the clock to run out, for the last grain to drop through the hourglass. I don't want to run out of adventures, things to look forward to, experiences I want to have. Which is why I keep the lovely list on your right, to help me remember the whims, the crazy ideas, help me have something to shoot for.

It's funny, I always had a hard time coming up with goals on those annoying sheets they gave me after every report card in high school. I always insisted that I didn't have goals. What I really meant was that I didn't have goals that had to do with high school, beyond "get the hell out". Once I was, I was suddenly full to bursting with goals, missions, aspirations, dreams.

Especially dreams.
Keep Dreaming.
Daydream Believer