Nothing's Shocking
So, I had a night from hell last night. Pardon my french. And so now, I'm thinking what kind of idiot, what kind of emotional cutter, what kind of loser, then writes about it and posts it on a public blog that anyone could google my name and find? Hah. The only person that would ever google my name is me :) But it is fun to see where your name comes up in the world...
Anyway.
Writer. I try to sound clever. I try to use words to connect people, to make them see something they would have otherwise missed. Sometimes I do a better job of that than other times. Sometimes I get good reviews. Sometimes it feels like someone kicked me in the stomach. I don't cry anymore though. I think everyone cries after their first critique because you're not prepared for how personal it feels. No one explains that at first. At how much, even if you hide behind the word "FICTION," is still YOU dripping off every single word, every single mispelling, every single grammatical error. I write so people can see right through me. I think transparency can be a good thing. An open and honest thing. I write because I don't know how not to. But life is personal. If you don't take it that way, then you are detached, and floating, and careless. Which sometimes, I wish I could be more like that... Is that an easier existence?
Writers are here to think of all the crap like this that non-writer people don't have time to or care to. Sometimes I envy that. I notice everything. I can perceive someone's disposition really well. I really truly usually can understand completely where someone is coming from.
I write about nonsense and waste time, trying to be meaningful. Trying to be revealing. With each passing day I learn something new about myself. As I guess we all do in this journey cliche.
I invoke the words, "Nothing's Shocking," today because last night, I had a realization that I have a SICK imagination. I don't even know where some of the thoughts come from. But I can remember back when I was about 11 or 12, and my mind just starting becoming this precipice of ongoing ideas and stories. Precipice is the word that came out, and after looking on webster.com I see that it also means, "a hazardous situation." Perfect. That is a perfect way to describe the toxcity that takes place behind my eyelids sometimes. These thoughts never become my reality, so no I'm not completely insane and pardon my insensitivity with that thought, but I don't think I can shock myself anymore with what I can come up with.
Usually they are the kind of stomach punching blows-stories, the emotional cutting stuff...leading my mind into a path of thoughts that end up controlling my emotions. Last night I was angry. Wanting to punch through the glass, angry. Yeah, and apparently I think I am important enough to write about it here.
I don't think I'm quite brave enough to talk about here exactly what stories my mind was playing last night. However, perhaps one day they will manifest themselves in a fiction piece, maybe. "Sick" usually sells well in this world. But then again, maybe now in this world nothing truly is shocking anymore. We spend our days revering a deceased pop star who had suspicions of child molestation, and people are fighting over tickets to gawk at this tragedy. We spend our days on computers tapping away getting carpal tunnel, hoping that someone will care enough to read our words, look at our pictures, add us as a "friend." And don't forget the importance of the moment when you change your relationship status on Facebook---whoa now. Oh the Drama. It's all about love and acceptance. Understanding and misunderstanding. Good timing and bad timing. Getting what you want?
What I want more than anything right now is understanding. Validation. And blahblahblah new age thinking I should validate myself. Christian thinking God gives me my validation. I know that to be true. I *know* so much in my head. How come it takes the rest of me so long to catch up?
My motivations sometimes are revealed in my Sick imaginations. Usually they are the reasons for the thoughts in the first place. Motives are tricky and 99% of the time self-serving because that's our fleshy nature. How can I pray to be better?
Intermission.
Last night, and some of you heard from me, sorry about that, I woke up every hour and woke up once to a bug crawling on me. I jumped up and in my sleepiness, hopefully killed the bug and I violently threw up my covers to see if there were any others. So, naturally, I am now afraid I have bed bugs or spider infestations or something disgusting and really I just wish I could burn that bed and get a new one anyway.
Act II.
Writers remember things other people forget. We tend to groom things and pick apart things, and milk things, and hold on to things. Do we horde things? Think we are entitled to things? Are we ridiculous? We make things important to the world, or just to ourselves. Some of my friends think I am nuts for what I hold onto as important. What I remember. Who I care about, even now.
A Christian says your worthiness comes from God, a heavenly Father. On earth, we get a lot of our worth from the men in our lives, our father figures. If he was there, if he wasn't. Your relationship with your dad will manifest itself in your relationships, most of the time. Mine's always been quick with making other people happy, sacrificing to placate others, when he was around. That's just part of it. But it's something I've been thinking a lot about, part of my "hellish" night, part of my anger-making visions of broken glass and tearing rooms like in a music video. It's too bad that most of the time, our earthly fathers, or lack there of, become how we see God. And these are not my ideas. Everything has already been written about.
So, why do I write?
Hah. Well, I could keep going on forever. Making myself feel important, validated, like I have something meaningful to say. Maybe I'll reach someone. Maybe I'll make someone think. Writing like I know about things, life, love, God, music. Even this little blog is a slice in my worthiness pie. (I think that stupid metaphor came from the same story-time-imagination place in my brain...)
What makes you feel worthit? You can't let any part of it come from how people have treated you. You can't. If you do, you'll have to become a writer and start a blog and have out-of-your mind pity parties, while your friends call you nutso and have absolutely no idea where you are coming from. :)
At this moment in time, I don't care how I look to you. I hope that lasts, because that actually is shocking.
End Scene.
Anyway.
Writer. I try to sound clever. I try to use words to connect people, to make them see something they would have otherwise missed. Sometimes I do a better job of that than other times. Sometimes I get good reviews. Sometimes it feels like someone kicked me in the stomach. I don't cry anymore though. I think everyone cries after their first critique because you're not prepared for how personal it feels. No one explains that at first. At how much, even if you hide behind the word "FICTION," is still YOU dripping off every single word, every single mispelling, every single grammatical error. I write so people can see right through me. I think transparency can be a good thing. An open and honest thing. I write because I don't know how not to. But life is personal. If you don't take it that way, then you are detached, and floating, and careless. Which sometimes, I wish I could be more like that... Is that an easier existence?
Writers are here to think of all the crap like this that non-writer people don't have time to or care to. Sometimes I envy that. I notice everything. I can perceive someone's disposition really well. I really truly usually can understand completely where someone is coming from.
I write about nonsense and waste time, trying to be meaningful. Trying to be revealing. With each passing day I learn something new about myself. As I guess we all do in this journey cliche.
I invoke the words, "Nothing's Shocking," today because last night, I had a realization that I have a SICK imagination. I don't even know where some of the thoughts come from. But I can remember back when I was about 11 or 12, and my mind just starting becoming this precipice of ongoing ideas and stories. Precipice is the word that came out, and after looking on webster.com I see that it also means, "a hazardous situation." Perfect. That is a perfect way to describe the toxcity that takes place behind my eyelids sometimes. These thoughts never become my reality, so no I'm not completely insane and pardon my insensitivity with that thought, but I don't think I can shock myself anymore with what I can come up with.
Usually they are the kind of stomach punching blows-stories, the emotional cutting stuff...leading my mind into a path of thoughts that end up controlling my emotions. Last night I was angry. Wanting to punch through the glass, angry. Yeah, and apparently I think I am important enough to write about it here.
I don't think I'm quite brave enough to talk about here exactly what stories my mind was playing last night. However, perhaps one day they will manifest themselves in a fiction piece, maybe. "Sick" usually sells well in this world. But then again, maybe now in this world nothing truly is shocking anymore. We spend our days revering a deceased pop star who had suspicions of child molestation, and people are fighting over tickets to gawk at this tragedy. We spend our days on computers tapping away getting carpal tunnel, hoping that someone will care enough to read our words, look at our pictures, add us as a "friend." And don't forget the importance of the moment when you change your relationship status on Facebook---whoa now. Oh the Drama. It's all about love and acceptance. Understanding and misunderstanding. Good timing and bad timing. Getting what you want?
What I want more than anything right now is understanding. Validation. And blahblahblah new age thinking I should validate myself. Christian thinking God gives me my validation. I know that to be true. I *know* so much in my head. How come it takes the rest of me so long to catch up?
My motivations sometimes are revealed in my Sick imaginations. Usually they are the reasons for the thoughts in the first place. Motives are tricky and 99% of the time self-serving because that's our fleshy nature. How can I pray to be better?
Intermission.
Last night, and some of you heard from me, sorry about that, I woke up every hour and woke up once to a bug crawling on me. I jumped up and in my sleepiness, hopefully killed the bug and I violently threw up my covers to see if there were any others. So, naturally, I am now afraid I have bed bugs or spider infestations or something disgusting and really I just wish I could burn that bed and get a new one anyway.
Act II.
Writers remember things other people forget. We tend to groom things and pick apart things, and milk things, and hold on to things. Do we horde things? Think we are entitled to things? Are we ridiculous? We make things important to the world, or just to ourselves. Some of my friends think I am nuts for what I hold onto as important. What I remember. Who I care about, even now.
A Christian says your worthiness comes from God, a heavenly Father. On earth, we get a lot of our worth from the men in our lives, our father figures. If he was there, if he wasn't. Your relationship with your dad will manifest itself in your relationships, most of the time. Mine's always been quick with making other people happy, sacrificing to placate others, when he was around. That's just part of it. But it's something I've been thinking a lot about, part of my "hellish" night, part of my anger-making visions of broken glass and tearing rooms like in a music video. It's too bad that most of the time, our earthly fathers, or lack there of, become how we see God. And these are not my ideas. Everything has already been written about.
So, why do I write?
Hah. Well, I could keep going on forever. Making myself feel important, validated, like I have something meaningful to say. Maybe I'll reach someone. Maybe I'll make someone think. Writing like I know about things, life, love, God, music. Even this little blog is a slice in my worthiness pie. (I think that stupid metaphor came from the same story-time-imagination place in my brain...)
What makes you feel worthit? You can't let any part of it come from how people have treated you. You can't. If you do, you'll have to become a writer and start a blog and have out-of-your mind pity parties, while your friends call you nutso and have absolutely no idea where you are coming from. :)
At this moment in time, I don't care how I look to you. I hope that lasts, because that actually is shocking.
End Scene.
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