Sunday 16 November, 2014

I intended to sleep longer but I woke up hungry, with several questions already on my mind, to a sunrise adamant to be watched. It has spread into the pale tentative sort of day that is the hallmark of winter light.

All is divine.  I have woken from another night, another experience, with more pieces to put in the puzzle; more choices to make; more questions to ask; more imagined avenues to explore; more hopes to fruit as indomitably and surprisingly as mushrooms after a rain.

Origin Story 2

I didn’t think I was going to die. It’s possible some of my family members did. It wasn’t that serious. It was just new, and never fully explained, and out of character for me to be incapacitated.

It was also just much too much to palpably feel my family worrying about me on top of the stress about work and my baseline angst about Christmas. So my second-happiest moment of last year’s holiday season was arriving back home at 1 PM on St. Stephen’s Day and fully committing to not acknowledging reality for the 19 hours before I had to return to work.

My plan was movies, a jigsaw puzzle, my favorite food and drink. I got a slow burning, frivolous, uncomfortable but ever-so-welcome, miracle.

“Miracle?” You say. To which I would tilt my head contemplatively until the smile crept irrepressibly to my lips, and I would nod and confirm. “Miracle.” The miracle was releasing my imagination to frolic unrestrained, something I had been starving for unnoticed for a long time. I didn’t know my imagination was straining at the leash like that. I didn’t know a few months of free mind play could heal two years (and more) or heartbreak, insecurity, and stress.

So my happiest moment of last year’s  holiday season was the liberation of all those dreams. And my fancy did come gushing out, like a fire hydrant with a cap too-long stuck. And I owe it all to…well, I owe it all to Sherlock. 

Ahem. Yes, that’s right. I am chalking up a year-long epiphany, opening to love, and a voracious current of creative juices, to the viewing of a television program so popular it is almost its own cliché.

And I stand by that attribution because it is a totem -something to look at when I feel dismayed or that  I have lost my inspiration. It is a comfort -as any favorite book, or sweatshirt, or cup of hot chocolate is when faith flags, and life pinches. It is a standard-bearer easily kept in sight, as my lonely regiment of one marches a journey though hostile territory to unknown lands. It is an effective, and completely unaffected muse. It will never change, nor will its (non-existent) affections ever be changeable.

I remind myself every day that after hard times, in deep silence, Sherlock taught my mind to wander again. I am grateful. And I hope -and work- every day, to someday, somehow best my standard-bearer.


Origin Story 1

Free association cacophony jumble of what began when, what is now -and how- and tangents upon tangents. Superstitions and silence and prayers and gratitude and a giddy, foolishly earnest hope, sticky as honey.

Everyone begins somewhere. I began almost forty years ago.  I have vivid, and faded (and intentionally blurred) memories of the slates which paved my path from then to now. With the exception of holding very dear some friends whose knowledge of me is longer than any of my other histories, I do not usually dwell over those stones and steps. I’m here, now, grateful.  That is more than good enough.

But this year! This whirling, freaking blueshift of an amazing incalculable year. This year I recant my new origin story (to myself) almost every day. Incredulous, I guess, at my satisfying present? Anxious not to forget where I came from? Trying to learn the route by heart, should I need to walk it again. Entertained by its twists and turns.

I don’t know, but I will tell it again -as silly as it sounds. And again, and again until it is all true.

The fall of 2011 was the beginning of a two-year descent into a sad, worried, scary place: a heartbreak; a job lost; big professional hopes brutally dashed; a terrible new job -abandoned at the cost of  a small chunk of my pride; an equivalently bad new job -maintained at the cost of a small chunk of my faith in humanity; unemployed…And then in the fall of 2013 a sudden end-of-Act-I turnaround. Full ensemble on-stage, jazz hands and high kicks, the head-nodding ditty that everyone will be singing as they leave this “instant classic.” The new job that set me on the road to this current paradise.

Yep it was all honey and roses for a few months except for the adjusting to my new job, a process that isn’t over more than a year later. A process that was stressful when I first started, so much so that when I (metaphorically) bent over to pick up a paper clip, the cheeky universe  put a foot on my bum for a lark and sent me stumbling into the Emergency Ward for an 8 hour Christmas Day visit. And it was that crucible which birthed this delicious year.

Sunday November 2, 2014

I read my play. And it’s terrible.

My best boots have gone missing.

The date was broken.

Anger welled up.

I drank the last of the marigold tea. Two out of three little red Scottish tea tins are empty now.

I saved the rest of the ice cream from freezer burn after I ran in the freezing cold.

I endured the mall. Spoils were won.

Another dream I had is sidling back into the queue deflated and unrealized.

When I made the apple crisp I remembered the frozen blackberries.

I put on mascara for nothing. It ran when I did. Now, I have to get it off.

The wind is still moaning. Winter is here for its audition. It’s killing it. I suspect it will get the part.

I’m feeling a little sadder today than I have felt on some other days. And when that changes again, I will also enjoy that contrast.

It may be problematic

that at the end of the day I feel that I deserve to spend the same amount of effort on my love-job as I spent on my paid-job. When I had a very productive day at paid-work this starts to cut down on sleep like a mother trucker.

i thank You God for most this amazing

is the title of a poem by e.e. cummings which sprang to mind when I sat down here to write tonight. Looking at the carefully-chosen-grey blank of the Word Press composition platform, I wondered where to start and the words that came to me first were “Thank You.”

Thank who? I’m not entirely sure and I’m not going to think too hard about it. I’m just grateful for the joy-life that parallels my work life, which has grown into a bravely beating heart of what I have long wanted to spend my life doing. And it feels quite natural at the same time that it is constantly exciting.

Artist: leaping hopeful excitement jitterbugs with abject terror to a band fueled by the drums of persistent craving determination.

Have a listen to Edward reading this very poem. Find your artist tonight:

Introvert’s Lament

My life continues in a vein of glitter, show girls, and bright lights. I am happy with that which concerns and affects me most days. Though I confess that I do not always show my appreciation with maximum productivity. Still I am enjoying my winking, blinking perpetual joy train. I don’t want to obscure my gratitude with the fleeting clouds of a frivolous discontent, but this day -vixen that she is- was so laden with the barbarisms of America’s ‘look at me’ culture that I can’t just shake my head and move on. So for a moment, I am going to uselessly complain about things that won’t stop happening.

Please stop apologizing for interrupting me. Instead, stop interrupting me. You do not have the right of way in this discourse. No amount of being older or younger or male-er or whiter or blacker or thinking you’re right or being tired of listening to me gives you the right to cut off my thought. You don’t actually know what I’m going to say yet. And I’m plenty tired of listening to you and I never cut you off. So just check yourself.

I’m not 25 anymore, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that your peers have led you to believe that you’re funny, and you don’t actually mean anything that you say. Because how could you? When you’re stealing headlines from the internet and inserting them out-of-context into unrelated conversations. Upon further probing it’s clear that you have no depth of interest or real knowledge of the topic, you just wanted to say something startlingly random and make everyone laugh so you could feel like the big man for a moment. I will call you Chuckles. That is not an affectionate

And you. You’re older than me, so I was thinking you knew better. But actually your corny, entitled, lowbrow, self-aggrandizing, bullshit windbagging is so constant and thoroughgoing I find myself in a state of unwilling awe. Buried under your avalanches of grating, stale, extraneous verbiage, I’m going blue from all the oxygen you have sucked out of the room. Your forked silver tongue gouts rivers pure with modern evil: self-promoting individual-brand sloganized soul and content-free marketing. You are a breathing, eating, shitting tagline. You so quickly taint and dismay my heart I sometimes wonder  if you are the devil.  But I am certain he does not talk as much.