a grief ago, i decided that it would be best to braid myself with a sort of unconnected, and consequently isolated, sensation of detachment from people, places, things. basically all nouns, perhaps even some verbs. an eastern perfect emptiness. the cosmic voice of alan watts soothing me back to sedation. it was more suited to my personality type to become this way. maybe i was too feral. i’ve been told that i was a very willful child. i still am.
here lies a tired blahblahblah.
again and again, life has demonstrated its necessity to be chaotic for me, for everyone. everyones life is a saga, just ask them. i devour any calm i can to collect myself in. my favorite is the silence of nighttime.
i do not find anything mystical in chaos. i do not believe there is a reason for events or things. perhaps in the past i did, but i no longer do. there are too many senseless and horrifying occurrences in the world to convince me otherwise. and if someday i’m proven wrong by being guided to the static pool that all supposed ghosts, gods, and monsters use to peer into the human world and decide what happens… well, i guess some of you will still be here wondering if i was right, even tho i was wrong.
i have these objectives that are burning to get done in 2017. i want to toss together a poetry and prose book of my work for my kids. i think i’ll put it up at smashwords for free afterword. poetry and prose are not my deepest urges. they keep me afloat. they’re a raft i need to keep from sinking into the depression which sets in when i am being idle and not creating. sometimes i can let go, cage myself, sink or swim, but i end up snapping out. i end up being willful all over again. i can’t be alan watts. i can’t be the smoke on a mountain or the water in the cup, becoming the cup. not yet.
my urge is to finish one of those many half-written novels i’ve got laying around begging to be out of my imagination. stories my heart’s told a hundred times, just waiting to finish leaping out of me. my problem is i want them all done in a day. i want to sit for hours and hours and feel complete with hard work. i want to work until my eyes are dry and my face is hot with insomnia and weariness. yet, i can’t. not yet.
with a big move coming up, twins i must be 100% for, and life… this evades me nearly every day. i chip away slowly at what i want to get done, so slowly in fact that the consequence is that sometimes i forget what i’m creating. but it feels so, so good when i remember that it’s worth the wait. sometimes. and it’s worth not giving up. it’s worth not being perfectly empty. not yet.
it’s gotten to the point that the merest interruption is the largest obstacle to me. even fills me with rage. my poor husband innocently eating ice cream and watching a movie, headphones even out of courtesy, the sound of his spoon is distracting. heating my food even seems to take too long. but what the fuck else is there to do? my moments are falling through and tugged this way and that. and when i’m free in that silence, finally, i am exhausted. not always, but mostly. and i have to give in again to the fact that i have to wait longer until what i want done, what i need done, can be done.
i wear earplugs more often than i used to. i’m on a time limit. it might sound melancholic, but i need to finish these things before i have a brain bleed or brain surgery. two things “they” say are in the future and not likely soon, but when have “they” ever been right, and when have i ever trusted them? i am that afraid that i won’t be me anymore after either of those. or that i won’t be here. and i need these things done for my kids. the only evidence that i have that here will be here when i’m not, is that i’m here after others aren’t.
tonight, i’m finishing editing a chapter of my book even if it isn’t perfect. perfecting a book comes with editing; when it’s finished. one of my few aforementioned half-written frankenstein-orphans will come to life this year instead of just be pieces and parts. i also have a prose i’ve written and half a poem. sudden denouement will get the prose. that hive of great minds and wordsmiths. and i want that poem done this weekend with some wine.
wish me luck.