I spent this week struggling with getting all my work done while still fitting in my goal of steady writing in this online JOURNAL (expect nothing!) and by the end of last night instead of running out and seeing a bunch of shows while drinking a bunch of alcohol I got hives from something (wool sweater I dug out of a box to keep warm in?) and took a Benadryl. And I sat thinking about how soon I would be asleep and what I wanted to do with my Saturday and I wanted to write. I wanted to open up the novel and get back to work, find the next step of the story.
I started thinking about the film, trying to find the pivot event. I am looking for something and I’m not sure what.
I did find my appletv remote so I am sitting in my rocking chair, tv speakers playing my itunes, screensaver of the photos I take, some friends, many the scenes of new york city.
And I feel excited to be here. I am going to write and create all day without guilt. My work and junks and the rest of the stuff is where it is. I get this. My day. (Though I will take one moment after I finish babbling on my blog to pay the con-ed bill now that I am remembering it AGAIN.) Tomorrow I will throw myself back into it and clean up all the bits and pieces still needing attention.
Today I write.
Tonight I drink a bit.
Tomorrow I work.
Had an early morning appointment and I was only awake enough to remember to make coffee and spill it all over everything before I had to leave.
Now I’m sitting at a Starbucks watching auto fill screw my attempt at cell phone entry all over the place.
But I am not a quitter. Slow? yes. Fail a lot? You betcha. Quit? Fuck you. Stubborn unyielding determination takes people a lot of places talent and intelligence can’t get off their ass to get to.
So I type. On my sideways phone. Watching where my thumbs go more than crafting clever sentences in my head.
No insights today. Simply one more step forward.
Another morning, another page.
this voice talking about writing.
art is stupid. art is about finding a place that you can trust your internal world to everyone else’s critiques and relations.
I have grand posts in my head, one about my son, one about my sex life. I want to do a show again, Bad Mormon, at a bar near by, they have a back room with a small stage. I want to write a movie script and a novel. Both begun, novel more developed.
Now I can plead that I do not get these things done due to busy-ness. No one can argue different. I run a currently, the past few months, successful business and am on the tail end of raising a child, which requires a strange amout of attention, distance, abandonment and worry for him to find some life skills of his own.
Truth is I am scared. I may be an arrogant, narcissistic artist (who isn’t these days) but I’m at the point in my life that I feel if I put my effort in to these things they would go somewhere. Grow.
And i am old and weary and understand that this has repercussions. I’ve served celebrities snacks, I’ve helped them with their computers, I’ve waited on them in stores. I’ve watched how they do things. Most seem tense. Not happy. (Except Samuel L Jackson, nicest funest guy ever.)
I’ve had my writings cause ripples with my social spheres. I have my mother paying attention to my Facebook. No matter what I say and do, unless it’s confined to a small black box theater under the promise of secrecy I’m not sure how to survive putting the internal out and having it be received.
For now i will just keep doing this blog. Boringly wrestle with my own stupid voices in my head for the ten people who read and the 30 hits for “bad girls mormon” that show up regularly. (I promise I’m not what you’re looking for. )
i should put my thoughts down in whatever way i see fit,
I have to remember it just helps. No matter what. Sometimes it’s a little action accomplishment to get the day started. sometimes it works out something eating at me. Sometimes it’s just fun to see if my disjointed thoughts make any sense as i type them out
I’m writing this right now with the spanish channel VMe on. It’s a pbs affiliate I think? And considering my new apt has eaten all the digital channels and that I’ve always tried to learn this language over the years, in various schooling and haphazard ways, and so I’m doing it again. I keep the closed captions going, and i find I listen too slowly. I no understanding of what sounds to pick out of the rapid fire dialogues of the dramas. But I know an awful lot of foods words in the cooking shows.
I don’t truly believe that this will teach me the language. But I’m hoping to at least adjust my ear somehow. Learn to hear faster.
about nothing at all
i’m just opening a window and typing some words because i have convinced myself that the only way to do the things in my head is to make myself write every day.
there isn’t much in my head right now.
have to dash to work. call back a prospective client. find a way to get the dead bug off my floor without paying any attention to it or going close to it at all.
when i ask for help i usually ask very loudly. often the people who are my male friends think it’s hilarious to make jokes. the women usually try to find a way to help.
even if they can’t help they understand.
I bulldoze my way through a lot of things. I’ve come to terms that bugs with legs and etc, ew, ew ew ew ew, are where they are in my phobia scale.
It’s so easy to belittle someone else’s limitations, especially when they are invisible, to wonder why they just can’t do something when it’s so obviously easy.
lucky for us humanity is complicated. woo hoo.
Crazy! Look at me! Doing morning pages!
What the hell?
I was reading facebook and said fuck it. go babble. go write. go do that thing again that you do.
I have so many memories of writing.
In my room when young making spell books and short stories that always ended as dreams. Oh lord would I start with an amazing premise and beginning, so many story lines to tie together, and lose all ability to focus and finalize structure. The dream ending always so perfect when one has lost interest. There was one story handed in about a melancholic space princess (star wars at 7 years old in nightgown and sleeping bag in the way back of the station wagon was incredibly formative.) My teacher marked melancholic in red. Marked it Not a Word. 20 years later I googled that shit and crowed a little to know I was right.
To be fair it probably was misspelled.
Books and notebooks became my friends as I tried to become comfortable with the world at large.
Crouched on my futon mattress in Sante Fe where I shared a house (rented a room mostly) with a woman and her son, (Hello future. I paid you no attention.) scribbling in my spiral notebook drivel and nothingness. Cries of pain: “why does no one love me, I want to fall in love with someone handsome, and funny, What’s wrong with me?” I started to reread them a few years ago, trying to type or dictate them in. So much is embarrassing and empty. But they listened those notebooks. They soaked up my childishness happily. Gave me something cool to do where ever I went so my innate shyness and anxiety (yep i am, it’s true) would be soothed. (I only have best friends because they talked to me first, they dragged me into it with interest, vivaciousness and phone calls. God I love them all.)
I have one clear afternoon in new york in my mind, sitting in Pheobe’s bar in a dark corner, the plate glass windows looking out onto a crystal clear summery day, beer in front of me and me alone, maybe someone else unobtrusive like me, and me writing. ”I have nothing to say really, but if I sit and write I will look like I have a reason to be here. Still shocked I can booze. When will I ever get used to being over 23.” – or something to that effect. Struggling with being alone in front of others, struggling to find a way to insert myself into this city adn to know what to do with the long (pre-internet, game system in every pocket) days.
And it’s what I’m doing now. Writing. As I learn to be ok with being alone again. Not that I haven’t ever NOT been alone. But there have been many people the past few years, many events, a lot of talking on stage etc. A lot of real life investments in yolo.
Now it’s time to go back to my original love. My own voice. And i’m not feeling an ounce of self pity in it this time.
I have 13 people who have returned to this blog. Probably not consistently. I’m not writing passionately to gain a following.
So much creation of art is a noodling around. Noodling around can also lead to not creating art as you get lost in thinking up the next thing, or scheming about how to get famous.
Luckily I’ve gone beyond those sorts of thoughts, mostly due to completely not achieving anything by 35 I thought I should have. I’m not interested in fame anymore. Oh I dreamed of it when young, of being at the top of my field, a beautiful swan of an actress thanking everyone for the beautiful award in her hands.
Then I started living and choices led me to a life of parenting and scrambling for rent and building my own business in a ratrace broken economy NYC and reaching a point where being approved of for my looks and beauty, ability to be a translator of someone else’s ideas, seems sort of hollow. I like being in charge, and older. I like no longer caring if I’m sexy. Sexy is such a random idea to me anymore. I’ve been around so many different sexual tastes, fetishes, distastes. EVERYONE has a different internal version of sexy as far as I can tell. How can I be sexy for everyone? ew, nope. How can I base my personal worth on that measure then? Nope buying dumb kmart pants and going back to work. That is approval I can take credit for, that means something to me. I work hard to research, remember, learn, have tools, wrestle the stubborn bit to where it belongs. (I fix computers for money.) I’m PROUD of where I am now, though it is not a top of a heap, or oodles of money made off of other’s efforts. It is me, sorta my son and when needed some friends for backup. I run around NYC and help people all while not being a dick about it and I am assured constantly I am appreciated. That is where I get my self-esteem.
OR at least part of this. This same metric can be applied to other areas of my life and when wrapped together I have a basis for living. You can’t crush me by calling me fat or ugly or dyke or whatever because your version of sexy has nothing to do with me.
It goes the other way too. I understand that I’m a pretty person. It has been told to me enough I believe it. I’ve also been called ugly and hideous and how I need super better pics if I want a date – also are you really a guy? (not born one but maybe yes, not that I internally identify male, I’m me to me, female at heart, but so much of me is classic dude behavior. so yeah, whatever that tangent is.)
Anyway – I understand I look good to many people. And recently I’ve grown my hair, given it a brightening dye job and found the right shower conditioning routine for normal girly hairdo. Men can not stop commenting. Assuring me how much they like the look now. One, a friend’s husband, with no flirtation intended at all, did a whole drunken listing of trying to remember all my past hairstyles and colors and then assured me he liked it now.
I’ve been not giving a crap for years now. I cut my own hair, it does what it wants, most of my clothes are hand-me -downs or freebies or recently bought by running into kmart, grabbing the size I think I am and dashing for home.
I have not been given appearance approval on a regular basis for year. It is a weird feeling. Knowing that in the past I would have dimpled and giggled and delighted in my ability to get male attention.
yeah whatever. i’ve had their attention. PLENTY of their attention. i’m good. maybe not done but noticing me before I girlify (usually cause I need something from the world) based on my actions and who I am gets my heart beating faster, not liking my pretty hair. Though I will say thank you and smile. Men do what they can.
Once of the best lessons I still have to remind myself and habituate into my life is that just doing something over and over leads somewhere. Ok, maybe not if it’s checking to see if the stove is off before you leave the apartment, but in general if you sit down at the same time every day adn write in a blog it will lead to stories, a voice, a conversation with at least a few friends. Simply doing it.
I will probably never get that under my belt. My writing is haphazard and often stuck in my head. I tend to write as I walk, and shower and watch computers run repairs or install long ass software. It’s all in my head. still. constantly. until forgotten.
Some never go, just develop more and more of a feel, a structure. But to put it down. on a page. in a line. make it work. do the work. what about netflix and judgements? all. in. my. head.
but when one does not maintain a daily schedule of putting the words out then the other internal factor of worry about delays, of rightness, of feeling comfortable making the same random appearances, justifications and odd neediness for approval in the void. to beg forgiveness of nothing.
why structure at all?
I have learned the that more I do one thing, parent, listen, computers (100 million things in one) i have gained in my life. Skill, knowledge, ability, judgement, boundaries, forgiveness.
I started reading and writing at such a young age. I have loved the written word deeply, the ideas it feeds me, the dreamy living of so many other lives. The empathy, excitement and revelations of what all happened in the world transformed me, fed me, raised me.
And I have always written. I have boxes and crates and hard drives of writing. Onc of these days i expect something will come of it.
lesson is learned.
I’m trying to get my life in “order,” which is exactly what it sounds like, getting my money in order. 43 means 60 will be here tomorrow, considering how fast the last 18 have gone. I need some fat stacks of cash to survive that. Or at least something more than just making it (sort of) every month.
Making money means working, and I am, and years of hard work are paying off, I think, and I now have work. Lots of work. I can do it but to take care of myself I’m trying to set aside time to create and write as well, time to be my inner self. Not the outer me that is running around, thinking, learning and trying to fix things. The inner one that is wistful and playful. The me without worry. 2 hours a week, that’s all I’m trying to make myself do. Because it is hard to take it, the time, to make yourself sit and do the work of creative relaxing.
Today I’ve taken the hours and put them into the blog, which required some computer junk and some fiddling, and email checking and not ever really getting to the point where art begins to pay off while you make it. The trancified air of pushing your personal expression onto the world. The moments of “thought” that have no words but create images in text.
That takes time and usually a subject matter to be passionate about. Outrage works really well on the internet blog and thankful joy can work too. Of course there is always superior snark to reach the masses. But all need a subject.
Just one subject.
A thing, an idea, like one I am sure I had in the shower yesterday. Or the response to something in the meme arena was probably tickling my brain just before I started messing around in here, if I could just remember…
This is a sort of writers block. Not that severe. Probably more akin to stage fright than a lack of things to talk about but then again.
If I were on stage right now I would be asking for questions.
Fine brain, just for that you have to do a private post next time, buddy! (yes, I schoolmarm myself) Time to go back to your open mouth, exit shame POV.
Probably Next Sunday.
I’m a single woman of a certain age living in New York City. Magazine articles have been written about the likelihood of my marrying at my advanced age, my satisfaction in my job when single or married, the balance between career and life and can you have it all? or maybe how I’m not trying hard enough to avoid the man trap or how to make sure a man is supportive if you do marry, how maybe single people can be happy but they’re weird, and a million others, all themed around what a woman will do in this world as it stands and how it will affect her and her man. Really bored and tired of it.
I was raised in a religion and middle class life style that assumed I would be married and with children by 21, if I was on the right path.
I have carried a lot of emotional baggage around through the years in working out that programing.
There is a historical and worldwide atmosphere where women are discussed in the context of their marital status. It continues to this day, encompassing to the point of boyfriends and dates being statements and measuring sticks of worth, success, envy and pain.
I have been bathing in it. My. Whole. Life. In some form or another there is a message ongoing and constant that my status as a single to married woman matters. Who are you and where is your man? Are you doing men right? Did you behave correctly to keep one? Are you alone? Do you know it’s your fault? Do you hear the world? IT’S TALKING TO YOU!
On New Years Eve 2013 I left a group of friends and performers just before midnight and hit the streets. I didn’t ask anyone. I’m single, who to ask? I had gone alone, no date, BFF’s in other situations, general friends around but not one person that needed any conversation or notification of my whereabouts and whathaveyous. It was amazing. No one else’s plans were compromised because I had to go eat sushi by myself at right that moment, 6 min before midnight. No one else but me mattered and I wanted my city and my space. I started my 2014 by ordering tidbits and walking in the cold and deciding that I wanted MORE FOOD, pirogi and bigos, more than anything else in the world.
I had to run from the people I know because 1. I was drunk. 2. My ex was there. 3. other people I am not fond of were also there. 4. I WAS DRUNK< MY EX WAS THERE AND IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT AND I HAD NO DATE WHAT THE HELL! I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHAT THAT IS A RECIPE FOR! (“Disaster” in case you are young and have never been in this position.)
It all happened in a minute. I was sitting in a chair, looked around, saw the shitheel in front of me, the ex over there supporting shitheel, the feeling of WHAT THE HELL HAVE I DONE WITH MY New years eve!? and then the solution. I can leave.
I can just go?
Ah hell yeah, besides my insides were starting to crave fresh air again so I stumbled out to the sidewalk.
And proceeded on a NYE date with myself.
The sushi place I love was closing and I barely got in for some last minute still available items. And as I sat with a smattering of couples and two other single people, men, my phone died. And the company of my BFF by text was gone.
I was alone, by myself, completely without book, pen, paper or internet. And it was good.
I left the japanese joint trying to figure out what I wanted to do next, at some point walked to some bars I knew, thought about how I wanted to start a new year, considered crashing back to whence I came and then remembered, I love food. Polish food is amazing and all the tidbits had done was appetize me into a need to taste more yummy things.
Arriving at the next restaurant I was more sober than drunk, plunging into the cold and then into the warm (I had stepped into a couple of familiar bars during decision making to see if I felt like joining a crowd but nothing took) and into the cold again and stepping into the 24 hour polish dinner that was gearing up for the drunken crowds. As a single person I was offered a counter seat, right next to the door, right next to two men who though they knew things, and right in front of where the food is made, the pastries a little menacing behind glass on my right.
I liked my waiter, a professional in the business, probably auditioning for Shakespeare in the park in his non-waiting table time, short, square, wavy haired brunette with a stache, maybe a soul patch and those twinkly eyes that recognize the types of people around him. He would be cast as a conniving, conspiring, courtier in my book.
I’m looking over the menu trying to decide which of my favorites I should have, the Bigos – a hunter stew of various meats and sauerkraut served with ice cream scoop of dense mashed potatoes – or the boiled Pirogi – sweet cheese filled potato dumpling served with sour cream, applesauce and hopefully butter onions. Although the Bigos has a potato pancake side.
Then I realized, I can have both. It’s not wrong. It’s not sad to sit at a diner counter alone on new years and order two meals.
I listened to the people around me as I waited for the waiter to get back to me. I also know that this job on this night is not an easy one so I did what I always do, I sat and I absorbed. I watched the fry chefs flip latke’s, burgers, keilbasa, pirogi around from burner to plate to garnish to counter and hopefully a waiters hands.
I remembered the summer I arrived here, in this stupid city, and how I would sit alone at counters and bars writing, listening, watching, trying to figure out what to do next. So much of my life really spent alone in crowds. Wallowing in it but being able to keep a distance of watchful silence. Solitary and observant. A writer.
I listened to the idiots next to me, the men caught up in their heads’ nyc nye movie story, one the hero of all he surveyed being cool and knowing things and talking a lot about it all (he was wrong more than once, of course) and the other wide eyed in his impressed psyche, all he was told seemed so much more than what he had ever known! I reminded my still tipsy self that I didn’t have to get into it.
My waiter returned, took the Bigos order and as he was about to grab the menu and dash away I held on, “AND…” he looked at me and I was probably adorable back because I knew how pathetic the sentence to describe this moment sounds but I was so just plainly sincerely happy about it. The whole thing was making me laugh. Not quite inappropriately. My rebellious nature also loved it, see if I’ll feel pathetic like other people would! ”…7 cheese pirogi boiled not fried sour cream and butter onions.” and then I grinned some more. Warmth, food, people and being the single chick in the corner, that was really what I wanted. And his eyes twinkled, his head nodded, his mouth smiled, “you got it,” and we shared a moment of knowing we were both nice people and nothing sad about either of us and our new years eve plans.
And then I ate. I took a lot of bigos home, which was the best thing to eat for brunch in my warm apartment the next day. And I stepped back outside into the frigid horrible very bad air, one second before the drunks started streaming in, and I walked up to the corner where I know all the cabs travel west to east crosstown. In mere moments one stops a few yards away to let someone out and I walk towards it, my boots cutting the snow authoritatively, my shoulders squared, this cab would be mine, and the gaggle of girl kids shrieking about the cold and slipping towards it turned away, not having enough authority on whose it was to dare fight.
“This year I had done it.” I basked in the thought. I really have finally washed away the feeling of lack the world programs into a woman. I have enough. I am enough. I am more than enough. I am me.
I sat in my comfortable seat staring at the cold city passing by and we zipped home, beating the crowds, to where my son was. So much more than enough.