Ahhh, and up she rises with seaweed entangled around her ankles after three weeks of bronchitis. The wonderful thing about having had something like that is you have a renewed appreciation - for breathing in clear and slow with no jagged edges. Of not coughing up phlegm. Of feeling the return of creativity and a lessening of fatigue (it's extra weird having CFS and something like bronchitis because the boundaries blur, but my fatigue levels had lifted enough before getting the bronchitis that having it made me feel like I wanted to stab myself with kitchen knives in abject frustration).
I have finally set myself up a writer website, my professional shingle which details my published bits and bobs to date and contact details. It feels quite good to do this, being something that I've been meaning to do for ages (like my tax - oops, just remembered again!)
I'm wondering - do I wish to blog over there? I'm in two minds about it. If I do, it will be more writing-focussed than here, where I just spurt whatever (and the last few years that's been rather black squiddy depressed ink-type spurting). It's set up as a static site at the moment but I'm wondering about whether to start blogging there because (a) I'm barely blogging here and (b) there are so many writers blogging about writing that do we really need another one?
To be honest, I feel a bit disappointed by a lot of writers-blogging-about-writing websites. I think because there's so much emphasis on the marketing maxim of give them something to takeaway, make yourself useful or else the eyeballs will flick elsewhere that that translates out into how-to articles. Now, I'm a fan of how-to articles. I read them regularly. But a lot of them are kind of ... well, depersonalised. They are all lovely and shiny and you presume the person on the other end of them never has any writing hassles at all with anything. Because they are set up on a writer's own site, where they're getting clients appraising their shingle and asking them to write for them, sometimes the excess gloss of professionalism tends to feel a little too thick, especially on content marketing-type websites.
I'm really not interested in writing how-to query articles (I'm so bad at querying that at the moment I could only write how-to-query-badly articles - which, now I think of it, could be kind of interesting). I'm not interested in writing how-to-write-short-stories articles because I don't think I'll get my head around that mysterious space until I'm about 75. That kind of blogging is not for me; it makes me feel about as deflated as an octogenarian whose Viagra script has run out.
So I've been thinking - if I do blog there, I would like to blog about the inside moves that go with writing. How it feels. But not a purgative dwelling on the feels, the sort that feels kind of self-indulgent, just like a big vomit for the benefit of the person who's heaving. Not like that, but still coming from the inside. What I'm interested in is the subjective experience of writing. Of the emotional issues that go along with it and how to manage those in an emotionally intelligent way. Or something.
I like the idea too of writing a blog that is about what I do to fill my creative well so that I have a lot to dip into when I write. Using creativity as a means of expression. I get out of the loop regularly on extracurricular creativity, though, because it takes up so much energy that it goes on the backburner, and I'm scared that if I set something like that up it would become a millstone if my health goes worse. Plus I'm an amateur at lots of creative practices, but still, that could be an asset, I guess. And it would encourage me to sculpt again, which I miss terribly, and which I feel a natural aptitude and talent for which I want to explore further. But even now I realise that in trying to describe a well-filling-type blog, I haven't even begun to describe what I'm trying to get at, at all.
So much of what I wish to write about these days is hazy, blurry on the edges to myself. I feel like I get a glimpse of it, of the container I could put everything I'm thinking of in so that it becomes more conscious, less fuzzy. But then just as I feel I've got a grasp of it, it dissipates and falls through my fingers until two hours later or the next day or whatever I'll be thinking about something and it will ping and I will go, "That. That's it." I think it's the same thing that I would like to achieve with Liminal if I ever end up getting it off the ground, with a weekly writing meditation group that I would like to run some day, maybe. If I was to categorise it into philosophy it would be in the realm of phenomenology. It's something about living in our bodies and our subjective experiences of them being important, giving us meaning, in an age where the subjective is viewed with abject suspicion.
Something like that.
Ultimately, I feel like what I try to do when I write is pan out to the big picture, to connect things together in an interdisciplinary approach in a world that is fragmented and so super-specialised. I feel in some ways that that's all I've ever been doing here.
It is very odd to keep feeling like you're stumbling forward with something you can't articulate. Does any of this make sense to you (if you've read this far)? Does what I'm trying to do feel more cohesive to you, make sense, than it does to me? If so, I would certainly like your feedback!
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
A couple of days ago I met up with the most lovely Vicki from Home in a Heartbeat. We hung out in Sassafras drinking coffee and tea and eating cake and rambling in a three-hour wide-ranging discussion over many hills and down many dales.
Yea, it was very, very good, and we shall do it again hopefully soon.
Blogging, I have found, is a wonderful way to meet new people. I have met several people from my blogroll, and without exception they are all rather wonderful people.
Yea, it was very, very good, and we shall do it again hopefully soon.
Blogging, I have found, is a wonderful way to meet new people. I have met several people from my blogroll, and without exception they are all rather wonderful people.
Apparently blogging is going the way of the analogue phone, the mangle, the iron. It is not the uber coolest in school any more the way it was in 1995. Its allure is fading like bell bottom jeans, snaking the line from must-have-item back to what-the-hell-was-I-thinking? irrelevance and derision.
Well, okay, maybe things are not that bad. But it certainly does feel like there is not the warm fuzziness that there once was with blogging, where there seemed to be more of a community spirit. But maybe that's just my personal perception. Blogging has changed for me, too.
I partly blame professionalisation. With every new article about 10 Ways to Bring Traffic to Your Blog and tips on smartening it up with SEO, the lustre has gone down a notch and the self-consciousness has risen. Who am I to say these things? Is this not self-indulgent twaddle? With every company that's started up a blog, a Facebook page and a Twitter account, the blogosphere gets a new pimple on its arse and a little bit of fun goes out of everything. Blogging has gone from something that people do to express themselves, to something people do to be seen, to display their brand, to Get Ahead.
Yawn.
The word "brand" is not only dirty to me, it's boring, tedious and soul-diminishing. I'm not at all immune to the whole "your blog is your persona to the world. What if an editor somehow clicks through to your blog and the post they come upon is some hastily scrabbled-together mess, and then you lose out?" dictums for a professionalised blogspace. And I'm also not immune to thinking, "Oh, that post didn't get as much reaction as the one before. Maybe I should take it down. How is the world going to see me if I have this post up here?" But then again, even though I do grapple with those things, it's all ultimately - yawn. Are there not enough things to hang my anxiety hat on throughout the day without worrying about things like that? Do I really want to Get Ahead that much? (Yes. When it comes to writing, yes, I do. Unfortunately.) Do I want to do it in a straightjacket? (No. Or at least not one that comes from excessive worrying about my "platform", or turning my platform from something that's fun to something that's Furthering My Career.)
UPDATE
And one more thing - I feel disturbed transcribing court cases as I do which involve family breakups and divorce how much focus there is on having professionals give evidence over non-professionals, the dweebs, the losers who don't know anything because they haven't got bits of papers and accreditations under their belts. So the focus is on psychologists and family report writers, professionals who may only see these people for relatively short periods of time considering the seriousness of what is at stake, but their evidence is given uber weight simply because they are professional and understand the court system. There is something very out of balance there, to me.
Well, okay, maybe things are not that bad. But it certainly does feel like there is not the warm fuzziness that there once was with blogging, where there seemed to be more of a community spirit. But maybe that's just my personal perception. Blogging has changed for me, too.
I partly blame professionalisation. With every new article about 10 Ways to Bring Traffic to Your Blog and tips on smartening it up with SEO, the lustre has gone down a notch and the self-consciousness has risen. Who am I to say these things? Is this not self-indulgent twaddle? With every company that's started up a blog, a Facebook page and a Twitter account, the blogosphere gets a new pimple on its arse and a little bit of fun goes out of everything. Blogging has gone from something that people do to express themselves, to something people do to be seen, to display their brand, to Get Ahead.
Yawn.
The word "brand" is not only dirty to me, it's boring, tedious and soul-diminishing. I'm not at all immune to the whole "your blog is your persona to the world. What if an editor somehow clicks through to your blog and the post they come upon is some hastily scrabbled-together mess, and then you lose out?" dictums for a professionalised blogspace. And I'm also not immune to thinking, "Oh, that post didn't get as much reaction as the one before. Maybe I should take it down. How is the world going to see me if I have this post up here?" But then again, even though I do grapple with those things, it's all ultimately - yawn. Are there not enough things to hang my anxiety hat on throughout the day without worrying about things like that? Do I really want to Get Ahead that much? (Yes. When it comes to writing, yes, I do. Unfortunately.) Do I want to do it in a straightjacket? (No. Or at least not one that comes from excessive worrying about my "platform", or turning my platform from something that's fun to something that's Furthering My Career.)
UPDATE
And one more thing - I feel disturbed transcribing court cases as I do which involve family breakups and divorce how much focus there is on having professionals give evidence over non-professionals, the dweebs, the losers who don't know anything because they haven't got bits of papers and accreditations under their belts. So the focus is on psychologists and family report writers, professionals who may only see these people for relatively short periods of time considering the seriousness of what is at stake, but their evidence is given uber weight simply because they are professional and understand the court system. There is something very out of balance there, to me.
UPDATE: So it was a case of a bad workwoman blaming her tools. Not only did I not read the instructions before installing Disqus, but I also failed to properly read them after. All of my comments have been retained and retrived, so I'm very happy about that :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So you've bought the wall unit from Ikea. And now you're home in the middle of the lounge room, and you've opened the impossibly flat flatpacked boxes and taken all the bits out. You've made a space so you can spread out the 152 different bits that no way on earth are ever, ever, EVER going to blend into becoming anything like the wall unit you see in the picture on the box. And what the hell is THAT bit???
There are two types of people in this scenario - the instruction-readers and the non-instruction-readers. The "go ahead and do it without reading the instructions" person holds that piece of paper with diagrams and accompanying Engrish in contempt. Bah. Don't insult my intelligence. I don't need to be told how to do this. The instruction-reader thinks the non-instruction reader is too cocky for her own good. You want to spend your entire afternoon putting this wall unit together, with an ad break in the third hour for your dummy spit, when you pick up a handful of the 152 pieces and throw them in rage, and then spend ages trying to find them? Well, I don't, thanks very much. I will learn from the people who manufactured this so I can get the hell out of here and do something more interesting with the rest of my Saturday afternoon.
Me, I'm both. Some days I understand the wisdom of the second path. Other days, it is a folly to be so anal. I wish to work it out by myself, thank you very much.
When it comes to installing different platforms and softwares and doodads on your computer, it's easy to get complacent about stuff. Everything works better these days. After all, I can't even remember the last time I had a blue screen, or my computer locked up through driver or software incompatibilities.
And so stability has led to complacency. Therefore when I signed up for Disqus last night, I didn't think anything of it. Didn't even really know exactly what it was or how it worked, but what the hell, why not? And so I blithely signed up, linked up my blog to it ... and now I come here this morning and it seems all of my pre-Disqus comments have gone, kaputted into the voluminous ether void, possibly never to be seen again. And so now Erin, you have the dubious distinction of being the only commenter on this blog :) And, a wonderful and superb comment though it be, I feel sad for all of the other comments that have been lost, forever, never to return (insert dramatic forehead slap with outward-facing hand).
Every time I type Disqus I keep going to type Disgus instead. Which is far closer to how I'm feeling. Disqus, after all, is a word with positive connotations for me, being the only first I ever won at Little Athletics. I still remember that blue ribbon. Whereas this morning I feel rather more disgusted that some platform would come along in its arrogance like the Western Empire and cut everything down before it. And also a little disgusted that I didn't read before I clicked.
And so the pendulum swings back into anality once again :) So, anyone know how to get those old comments back?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So you've bought the wall unit from Ikea. And now you're home in the middle of the lounge room, and you've opened the impossibly flat flatpacked boxes and taken all the bits out. You've made a space so you can spread out the 152 different bits that no way on earth are ever, ever, EVER going to blend into becoming anything like the wall unit you see in the picture on the box. And what the hell is THAT bit???
There are two types of people in this scenario - the instruction-readers and the non-instruction-readers. The "go ahead and do it without reading the instructions" person holds that piece of paper with diagrams and accompanying Engrish in contempt. Bah. Don't insult my intelligence. I don't need to be told how to do this. The instruction-reader thinks the non-instruction reader is too cocky for her own good. You want to spend your entire afternoon putting this wall unit together, with an ad break in the third hour for your dummy spit, when you pick up a handful of the 152 pieces and throw them in rage, and then spend ages trying to find them? Well, I don't, thanks very much. I will learn from the people who manufactured this so I can get the hell out of here and do something more interesting with the rest of my Saturday afternoon.
Me, I'm both. Some days I understand the wisdom of the second path. Other days, it is a folly to be so anal. I wish to work it out by myself, thank you very much.
When it comes to installing different platforms and softwares and doodads on your computer, it's easy to get complacent about stuff. Everything works better these days. After all, I can't even remember the last time I had a blue screen, or my computer locked up through driver or software incompatibilities.
And so stability has led to complacency. Therefore when I signed up for Disqus last night, I didn't think anything of it. Didn't even really know exactly what it was or how it worked, but what the hell, why not? And so I blithely signed up, linked up my blog to it ... and now I come here this morning and it seems all of my pre-Disqus comments have gone, kaputted into the voluminous ether void, possibly never to be seen again. And so now Erin, you have the dubious distinction of being the only commenter on this blog :) And, a wonderful and superb comment though it be, I feel sad for all of the other comments that have been lost, forever, never to return (insert dramatic forehead slap with outward-facing hand).
Every time I type Disqus I keep going to type Disgus instead. Which is far closer to how I'm feeling. Disqus, after all, is a word with positive connotations for me, being the only first I ever won at Little Athletics. I still remember that blue ribbon. Whereas this morning I feel rather more disgusted that some platform would come along in its arrogance like the Western Empire and cut everything down before it. And also a little disgusted that I didn't read before I clicked.
And so the pendulum swings back into anality once again :) So, anyone know how to get those old comments back?
I admire strong, discovering-themselves, go-where-you-need-to-even-if-it-hurts women who will not settle for the status quo despite the pain. Kimber is one of those and her blog is well worth the visit.
As part of this award, I am to list ten things that I love. So here goes, in no particular order:
This Blog Like I said just before, I've been rather tardy in my discombobulations lately. To be honest, I've not been much minded to spend any more time on the computer than I already do. I've ramped up my working hours several months ago, and as I am a typing slave, I can notice the extra hours I'm spending in my aching shoulders. Sitting down and writing a blog post is sometimes the last thing I feel like doing. Added to the extra working hours a new relationship, and this near-hermit of the past several years is finding it a challenge at times to fit everything in :) But I haven't forgotten this blog. I love writing here, I love the people who read here. I only hope that they keep me in their feedreaders for when I do find my way back here more regularly :)
Tea I come from a family of tea drinkers. I love drinking tea. Even in the height of summer I have to get at least a cup or two in. I love English Breakfast, Lady Grey, Earl Grey, peppermint, neem, Yorkshire tea.
I discovered yesterday the most disgusting tea that ever did be. It is called lapsang souchong. Tea leaves are smoked over pinewood, creating something that smells and tastes like tobacco. An abhorrent abomination that does not deserve to be called tea. Drink this horror at your tastebudderly peril.
Music Nothing has the ability to transport or delight with the intensity that music does. Can throw me back 20 years ago in an instant. Like yesterday. I played a best-of Pat Benatar CD to my boyfriend who hadn't heard some of these tunes since he played them himself on cassette a quarter of a century ago. Music picks up a time, a place, with its smells, its fears and its loves and carries it in a song. Hear it, and suddenly you're 15 again.
(PS: Goodness me, though, Pat Benatar's lyrics are rather shabby at times. "Anxiety, got me on the run, anxiety, destroys all the fun. Anxiety, can't get nothing done, Anxiety, I just need someone." Really and truly, Patricia, but I don't think finding a man is going to cure your anxiety).
Reading The books I love best are the ones I keep putting down because I'm drifting irresistibly on a thought cloud. Right now, I'm rereading Stephen Nachmanovitch's Free Play and drifting off just as much as I did the first time I read it. It's a luxurious delight, even after all of these years of reading, to crack one open and sink in to someone else's thoughtful construction.
Drifting Off It doesn't matter how busy I may get, there has to be time for daydreaming. It flows through and over my life like fluffy clouds. If I don't allow the space, it just smokes itself in under the door anyway and I find myself drifting off at my computer. Intellect is a beautiful thing. There's nothing like some strenuous challenging thinking and reasoning to get me excited. Daydreaming is the flipside of that, underrated only by those who do not understand its value. Smooth and flowing, it gives me space in a culture that is insanely constricted. And it's free.
The Big Round Ball Thang Let's face it: living in the current cultural climate that tries to drain, bore and lethargise at every turn, sometimes I am amazed that we could ever fall into those things when, folks, we are living on a giant round ball that is sitting suspended in the middle of fucking nowhere!!! I mean, how crazy is that! Who needs drugs?
I am enjoying the seasonal changes so much that come from living on the big round ball thang. It's mid-July and Winter, and yeah, I'm feeling a bit fatigued, and yeah, I'm feeling a little more anxious, and yeah, I'm struggling to go to bed early as usual but oh, the sun is sitting slanted in the sky all sexy, and meanwhile all you Northern Hemisphereans are sweating into your bum cracks and gee, I love the variety that this 365-day spinfest conjures up each year. I really do.
The Golden Thread The golden thread tends to follow on the heels of meditating on the great round ball thang. The longer I go on, the more the preoccupations and arguments and doctrines of religion fade into the background because it's a pointless enterprise when there's the golden thread, the golden thread, the golden thread. The more I go on with the golden thread, which is very old and ancient and recovering, the more I see myself in other people, other people in me, the interconnectedness of all things. It is a saving grace, and I am becoming more whole with the experience.
(Well, with notable frequent lapsings. I mean, how Zen are you really when all it takes is one stupid bloody inconsiderate bastard on the road in Sassafras yesterday and you lose your cool. But hey, these things take time :)
Good Food Still inclined to turn into the Macca's drive-thru at weak moments, but I guess really ultimately I'm a bit of a foodie. Can't get enough of fresh, good ingredients cooked by my own hand rather than the pretend unfood row upon row in the supermarket. Just as quick to cook one as the other. I love cooking; I love flying by the seat of my pants, a drip of this, a dollop of that, the enjoyment when it turns out well. It's sort of like writing a poem that you get to eat at the end :) The only thing better than cooking good food yourself is having someone else cook it and I can still taste in my mouth the delicious Thai coconut soup from the other evening. Love that combo of creaminess and sourness. Yummo.
My People I'm still in the swimming-in-each-other bliss of a new relationship. We are spending copious amounts of time together, me and my love. And I'm ... well, loving it. I'm also loving the fact that I am seeing my darling cousin Andrea tomorrow and my darling friend Jane on Thursday and who needs heaps of money when you as rich as that, honey?
Thinking Of course, there's thinking and then there's thinking. There's thoughts and then there's ideas. The first ones can damn near drive you mad, the ones that ride the ruts in your mind, tediously, like a million times before. Not those.
But ideas. Good ideas. Connecting ideas. Composed of myriad thoughts that make up something new, at least in your own head. Forming a new synapse of sorts, a connection made and understood with a golden sort of a snap. A new way of seeing things, a turning on your ear of your previous conceptions is born. I can ride for hours on one good idea.
I hate rules. The last rule of this award is to pass this on 10 bloggers . Never forget, however, that rules are made to be broken and so if you don't want to play, feel free not to. But I pass this award on the following blogs I love long time: Harry, at The Business of Isness, Kel at The X-Facta, Barbara at Barefoot Toward the Light, Tess at Anchors and Masts, Lucy at Diamonds in the Sky With Lucy, Andrea at Cloudbusting, Mike at The Mercy Blog, Kent at Faithfully Dangerous, Barbara from Writing From the Inside Out and Anth from BlackAnth.
... to stuff up a blog?
Just one. It was always a stupid idea, with a blog called Discombobula, to split it up into "creative blog" and "the rest of the stuff." And now, reintegrating it all back into one blog once more, I have inadvertently deleted all of the comments that have found their way here over the past couple of years.
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's no biggie, not really. And my word for this year is, after all, impermanence.
But it really pisses me off how pressing a few buttons and it's all kaput. Or else it's all duplicated.
Oh well :)
Just one. It was always a stupid idea, with a blog called Discombobula, to split it up into "creative blog" and "the rest of the stuff." And now, reintegrating it all back into one blog once more, I have inadvertently deleted all of the comments that have found their way here over the past couple of years.
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's no biggie, not really. And my word for this year is, after all, impermanence.
But it really pisses me off how pressing a few buttons and it's all kaput. Or else it's all duplicated.
Oh well :)
Hi, everyone!
I do miss writing here. Before I know it, it's been 10 days.
I feel like the creative cogs are beginning to spin oiled again. They are always seemingly necessarily accompanied by more meditation and yoga. I have learned over the years to sit up in the ivory tower of my mind. Before I know it, my body is trailing out behind me like a pair of jeans flapping on the clothesline, and I wonder why I feel flighty, anxious. I cannot still my mind enough, nor be centred in my body enough, to write from any kind of interesting/interested space without those two beautiful, beautiful practices.
It is entirely unsurprising to me that when I do practice yoga and meditation that I remember my dreams more. It is a never-ending source of amazement to me how different life looks when it is centred from within my body. All the good stuff happens from this space. The world regains some of its mystery and beauty from here, too. I feel earthed, I feel whole, I feel slightly less loopy :)
I feel like the creative cogs are beginning to spin oiled again. They are always seemingly necessarily accompanied by more meditation and yoga. I have learned over the years to sit up in the ivory tower of my mind. Before I know it, my body is trailing out behind me like a pair of jeans flapping on the clothesline, and I wonder why I feel flighty, anxious. I cannot still my mind enough, nor be centred in my body enough, to write from any kind of interesting/interested space without those two beautiful, beautiful practices.
It is entirely unsurprising to me that when I do practice yoga and meditation that I remember my dreams more. It is a never-ending source of amazement to me how different life looks when it is centred from within my body. All the good stuff happens from this space. The world regains some of its mystery and beauty from here, too. I feel earthed, I feel whole, I feel slightly less loopy :)
Although the cogs are becoming oiled, the thought of actually sitting down to write here has been a bit unappealing now I've started working more hours from home and therefore typing more. On top of that, I have also been chatting a whole lot online to a certain person, and so the last thing I have felt like doing the past 10 days or so is sitting down and ... typing more in front of the computer!
But I shall return. Last week was my first week of working from home and I actually put in an extra 12 hours of typing time that were due to glitches and ironings out and stuff-ups that saw me transcribing without a foot pedal for a few days. I plan on using some of those extra 12 hours on more edifying things like blogging and smoothing clay over the next few weeks :)
I do miss this space so! Someone commented to me a few weeks ago how so many blogs across the board have slowed or halted completely in favour of Facebook. I admit, I am particularly guilty of Facebooking myself into a frenzy. But Facebook can never replace the likemindedness of blogging, for me.
I love this time of year. It is a time of rebalance, after the heat of the Summertime and the relaxing of every sort of timetable possible. Now, as the earth balances herself, with the Northern and Southern hemispheres experiencing the same beautiful sweet sort of weather, and the earth approaches the equinox, where day and night are equal, I find myself returning slowly to greater balance also. How about you, peeps? Wots up wif you?
I have to say, I am very pleased with my result. Which makes me particularly childish :)
Created by OnePlusYou - Free Dating Site
Created by OnePlusYou - Free Dating Site
I was put onto this blog by a workmate today. It's written by a woman who has started documenting the nocturnal chatterings of her husband. He regularly comes out with such doozies as:
"I want to be a cowboy. I don't want to be a panda. Pandas are boring, stupid and boring. Bad panda!"
"Can you hold... can you hold my starfish? It doesn't like it when I'm getting excited. Oh look, it likes you! Its legs are all cree-py cree-py."
"Hey, don't... don't say anything. Why don't you put it in an email, then I can ignore it at my pleasure."
"I feel all rolley polley rolley polley. rolley pony PONY.... Splat!"
"If I wanted to see a long nose and a big ass, I'd look at a horse."
"Butt cheeks ahoy! There she blows!"
"You can't be a pirate if you don't have a beard. I said so. MY boat, MY rules."
"We haven't got a plank. Just fucking jump."
"Yes I'm sad, but if you stood further away, I'd be happier. No, further away. Well, let's face it, just fucking C*^% OFF! Thank you, I appreciate it."
And that's just from the past couple of days. Lovely and mild-mannered during the day, a foul-talkin' pirate at nighttime. You gotta love that.
Sleep Talkin' Man
"I want to be a cowboy. I don't want to be a panda. Pandas are boring, stupid and boring. Bad panda!"
"Can you hold... can you hold my starfish? It doesn't like it when I'm getting excited. Oh look, it likes you! Its legs are all cree-py cree-py."
"Hey, don't... don't say anything. Why don't you put it in an email, then I can ignore it at my pleasure."
"I feel all rolley polley rolley polley. rolley pony PONY.... Splat!"
"If I wanted to see a long nose and a big ass, I'd look at a horse."
"Butt cheeks ahoy! There she blows!"
"You can't be a pirate if you don't have a beard. I said so. MY boat, MY rules."
"We haven't got a plank. Just fucking jump."
"Yes I'm sad, but if you stood further away, I'd be happier. No, further away. Well, let's face it, just fucking C*^% OFF! Thank you, I appreciate it."
And that's just from the past couple of days. Lovely and mild-mannered during the day, a foul-talkin' pirate at nighttime. You gotta love that.
Sleep Talkin' Man
Okay, so maybe I was wrong. I have had enough people asking me otherwise over the past 24 hours that I have needed to ask myself whether what I was just doing was really in the end just going to produce the effect of cutting off my nose to spite my face.
And in all humility - it's been a really crap weekend so far - I must say from my perspective here today after being washed over by a giant tsunami yesterday, that I do think that perhaps it was that. I could have dragged the process out to a week, but the horridness of brutal self honesty is that once I concede something to myself ... well, I can't shove it away and pretend I didn't concede it. I have to act on it.
You must think I am so ridiculously emotional, a crazy woman. I have always prided myself on being stoic, you know. I needed to be. My childhood was not a particularly safe one. It was not safe for me to express everything I felt.
I am beginning to do that. Sometimes the force of it overwhelms me.
It is embarrassing to me to think that people will find me emotional, even worse that they will think I am being manipulative. I hate to think that yesterday may seem an underhanded attempt to get some sympathy, that I never really intended to shut down this blog. I hate underhandedness, and I hate games. I do not have time for them and it is such an issue of ethical concern to me that I would rather not have what I want, than try to get it in a manner which manipulates other people.
I really did think yesterday that it was time to close down this blog. Now ... well, now I think that what I was thinking was not healthy. Or that what I was thinking was being shaped by this massive mound of emotion I was feeling. It's been a long 24 hours, folks.
I am mindful that tsunamis of emotion are things that need dealing with. I do not know exactly where these things are coming from. I know that I have been facing lots of things that have happened to me in the past, along with the lies that go with it. How easy it is to see the lies that others believe. How hard it is to see your own. And even so, even when you do know that you are believing a lie - for instance, this belief that people do not care for me, that I am defective, that there is something totally wrong with me, that my life stretches out ahead of me exactly the same, that I will always be forever destined to never accomplish the things I desire to - well, even when you can see those things, there are greater steps towards healing that need to come.
I remember once meditating on how lonely I felt as a child when at mealtimes we would sit in front of the TV, needing to be quiet because Dad was home and Dad wanted to watch the news and everything revolved around bloody Dad and his ridiculous inability to be anything but an emotional leper with a drinking problem. And I was meditating on that and thinking about how lonely I felt and asking Jesus to be there with me. And so then he was. Then I saw a picture of myself in that lounge room with Jesus saying to me, "Let's dance." And I was scared because I would get in the way of the telly while Dad was trying to watch the news and I would get into trouble. And Jesus said that no, they couldn't see us, we were invisible. And so I got up and waltzed around the lounge room with Jesus while my famiy went on unawares, watching the television.
It is like a memory within me now. It healed something within me. There is plenty more of that which needs to be healed.
But I guess, doing a complete 180 from the emotional tsunami of yesterday and feeling like a moronic emotional twit in the process, that closing down my blog is really not gonna fix anything at all, is it? It's not going to stop me feeling raw and vulnerable and exposed. But God will. Somehow.
And in all humility - it's been a really crap weekend so far - I must say from my perspective here today after being washed over by a giant tsunami yesterday, that I do think that perhaps it was that. I could have dragged the process out to a week, but the horridness of brutal self honesty is that once I concede something to myself ... well, I can't shove it away and pretend I didn't concede it. I have to act on it.
You must think I am so ridiculously emotional, a crazy woman. I have always prided myself on being stoic, you know. I needed to be. My childhood was not a particularly safe one. It was not safe for me to express everything I felt.
I am beginning to do that. Sometimes the force of it overwhelms me.
It is embarrassing to me to think that people will find me emotional, even worse that they will think I am being manipulative. I hate to think that yesterday may seem an underhanded attempt to get some sympathy, that I never really intended to shut down this blog. I hate underhandedness, and I hate games. I do not have time for them and it is such an issue of ethical concern to me that I would rather not have what I want, than try to get it in a manner which manipulates other people.
I really did think yesterday that it was time to close down this blog. Now ... well, now I think that what I was thinking was not healthy. Or that what I was thinking was being shaped by this massive mound of emotion I was feeling. It's been a long 24 hours, folks.
I am mindful that tsunamis of emotion are things that need dealing with. I do not know exactly where these things are coming from. I know that I have been facing lots of things that have happened to me in the past, along with the lies that go with it. How easy it is to see the lies that others believe. How hard it is to see your own. And even so, even when you do know that you are believing a lie - for instance, this belief that people do not care for me, that I am defective, that there is something totally wrong with me, that my life stretches out ahead of me exactly the same, that I will always be forever destined to never accomplish the things I desire to - well, even when you can see those things, there are greater steps towards healing that need to come.
I remember once meditating on how lonely I felt as a child when at mealtimes we would sit in front of the TV, needing to be quiet because Dad was home and Dad wanted to watch the news and everything revolved around bloody Dad and his ridiculous inability to be anything but an emotional leper with a drinking problem. And I was meditating on that and thinking about how lonely I felt and asking Jesus to be there with me. And so then he was. Then I saw a picture of myself in that lounge room with Jesus saying to me, "Let's dance." And I was scared because I would get in the way of the telly while Dad was trying to watch the news and I would get into trouble. And Jesus said that no, they couldn't see us, we were invisible. And so I got up and waltzed around the lounge room with Jesus while my famiy went on unawares, watching the television.
It is like a memory within me now. It healed something within me. There is plenty more of that which needs to be healed.
But I guess, doing a complete 180 from the emotional tsunami of yesterday and feeling like a moronic emotional twit in the process, that closing down my blog is really not gonna fix anything at all, is it? It's not going to stop me feeling raw and vulnerable and exposed. But God will. Somehow.
When I was younger, I went about for years and years stuffing my feet into shoes that were too small for me. I do not remember now how I came to realise that the real size of my feet was one whole size larger than what I had been wearing, but now it baffles my brain and saddens my heart. Four of my toes had developed lumps on the top of each from the friction of cramping and shoving my feet into shoes that were too small for me and yet I wore size eight and a halfs for years and years, somehow blind to what was right in front of my eyes and right at the end of my legs, cramping my comfort.
I feel dissatisfied with the last blog post I wrote. Not because of its content, but because I tried to fit so much into one post. Some people write posts and realise that what they are looking at has enough breadth to call it a series and write four posts. I try to stuff everything I am thinking into one and do people's heads in in the process.
I do not want to have to wait. After I have begun writing, and the thoughts keep coming, and I add another paragraph and another paragraph until I have 47 of them, the only thing that stops me from saying, "Right then, this is actually four blog posts then, isn't it" is the desire for the instant gratification when I Pavlovianly press "publish post," and the disinclination to have to put in the effort of writing four posts because suddenly it feels like work and not like fun.
But things are their own shape and size and space and length and breadth. The only time they begin feeling like work and like a chore are when I have expectations other than the size and length that they are showing me that they actually are, and the desire to move onto the next thing instead of staying right here.
Ultimately, what it comes down to is a deep and unconscious belief that what is right here in front of my nose is not worthy enough to breathe and focus on it. This leads to all sorts of creepinesses, like treating the person in front of you like something in your way, like treating yourself as less than you actually are. Sort of like psychological and spiritual leprosy .
I am redrafting the first short story I have managed to finish for several years. It's all over the shop at this early stage. I hardly even know what it's about. I keep reminding myself that it takes time, that it's sitting bubbling away on about four stove backburners and that the work knows its own shape. I must let it be as big or as small as it wishes to be.
I feel dissatisfied with the last blog post I wrote. Not because of its content, but because I tried to fit so much into one post. Some people write posts and realise that what they are looking at has enough breadth to call it a series and write four posts. I try to stuff everything I am thinking into one and do people's heads in in the process.
I do not want to have to wait. After I have begun writing, and the thoughts keep coming, and I add another paragraph and another paragraph until I have 47 of them, the only thing that stops me from saying, "Right then, this is actually four blog posts then, isn't it" is the desire for the instant gratification when I Pavlovianly press "publish post," and the disinclination to have to put in the effort of writing four posts because suddenly it feels like work and not like fun.
But things are their own shape and size and space and length and breadth. The only time they begin feeling like work and like a chore are when I have expectations other than the size and length that they are showing me that they actually are, and the desire to move onto the next thing instead of staying right here.
Ultimately, what it comes down to is a deep and unconscious belief that what is right here in front of my nose is not worthy enough to breathe and focus on it. This leads to all sorts of creepinesses, like treating the person in front of you like something in your way, like treating yourself as less than you actually are. Sort of like psychological and spiritual leprosy .
I am redrafting the first short story I have managed to finish for several years. It's all over the shop at this early stage. I hardly even know what it's about. I keep reminding myself that it takes time, that it's sitting bubbling away on about four stove backburners and that the work knows its own shape. I must let it be as big or as small as it wishes to be.
I hate the way some people have comments enabled on their blogs and yet don't respond when other people leave comments. I always try to respond to the comments people leave on my blog. I love getting them, and I figure if someone goes to the effort to write something in response to what I have posted, it's only polite to at least acknowledge their comment. I know I like to have responses to the comments I leave for other people.
But maybe that just seems like excessive politeness to some people. Who would know? I mean, of course sometimes you forget to respond or sometimes you're having a bad couple of days or you're really busy or whatever and it doesn't always happen. It's not like you have to respond to people's comments. That sort of thing reminds me of parents prodding you to say, robotlike, "Thanks for letting me stay over at your house!"
But still, with some blogs I really wonder why the owners bother having comments enabled on them, you know? If they are not interested in dialogue, why do they just not have comments enabled at all and save themselves the annoyance of reply? And if they do, why don't they respond when people comment?
It seems rude to me.
But maybe that just seems like excessive politeness to some people. Who would know? I mean, of course sometimes you forget to respond or sometimes you're having a bad couple of days or you're really busy or whatever and it doesn't always happen. It's not like you have to respond to people's comments. That sort of thing reminds me of parents prodding you to say, robotlike, "Thanks for letting me stay over at your house!"
But still, with some blogs I really wonder why the owners bother having comments enabled on them, you know? If they are not interested in dialogue, why do they just not have comments enabled at all and save themselves the annoyance of reply? And if they do, why don't they respond when people comment?
It seems rude to me.
Had an interesting conversation with two friends the other night, both whom I have invited to read my blog in the past and neither who do, from what I can see. I asked them about it, about why they don't read my blog. Both of them basically said that in one way it feels strange to them to read something I have written on my blog if I haven't been speaking to them about it personally. Sort of like it feels like they are invading my privacy, in some way.
I do understand what they mean. It kinda makes sense to me. Especially because I am so personal on here. It is just my style; I cannot seem to change it (although I have been considering going out and actually finding some things to write about that aren't about me. Just for something different and rather more interesting :) I think of Helen Garner's finely wrought observations on morgues and such places. She's a bit of a hero of mine. I do wish to turn my gaze outward and get out there, rather than just blubbing about my inner landscape, as patently fascinating to me as it is, heh :)
But for someone who considers herself a writer, who still harbours a desire to write for publication in some way, shape or form, I'm interested too in the perception differences between a blog and, say, if I had an article published in The Age. I would imagine both of those people would most likely go out and buy a copy of the newspaper if I had an opinion piece published in it (I hope so, anyway :) And from a writer's point of view I guess I kind of don't understand the discrepancy, in a way. It's like one form is socially sanctioned, and blogging is seen very differently. I totally understand where my friends are coming from when they say what they say. And yet, for me, the position I come from is totally different once again. I guess for me, blogging and writing in other formats are much more closely linked. I guess I sort of presumed that everyone else thought the same way, too.
(Unless of course I am going on assumptions that aren't there and neither of those friends would bother buying the newspaper to read my article in it. Hopefully one day I shall get to see whether that is the reality :)
It's funny when it comes to blogging. Even though I do love the community aspect - I love the conversation that sparks up sometimes cross-blog, with different people talking about the same things. I love the whole comments aspect of blogging too. And yet for all of that, the basic urge to write and express myself is what sends me back for another post.
Having said that, I am struggling to find inspiration to write the last week or so. It's not a particularly common thing with me; I do not like it when it happens. I have three half written poems; they sit there waiting. Which is okay. I'm more confident in the process these days - it is tidal and sometimes percolative and slow-burning. Anyway, I talk far too much as it is. Good to put a sock in it every now and then :)
I have such a love-hate relationship with the internet sometimes. It feels like it gives on one hand and takes away on the other. Depending on the particular situation, sometimes it can make for outright paranoia if you take it too seriously. What does that person mean by that statement, etc. Why did they say that particular thing? What were they talking about? How can you tell, just from flat words on screens what people are really thinking or saying, in the end? So many avatars, smoke and mirrors if you take it anything but lightly.
Conversely, the opportunity for good conversation is there too and I have made a lot of good blog friends. But honestly, sometimes it just creeps me out so much I feel almost revolted by it.
____
Okay. Let's take 2 in going to sleep. I am exhausted with my standard winterly circadian discombobulations. Most people sleep more in Winter - I sleep less. I'm cactus. Plus, my cousin died yesterday. She was only 49 years old. We weren't really ultra close so in all honesty I'm not grieving horribly in a personal sense. But even though we weren't close, it is always a shock to lose someone you have known all your life. And I grieve for her husband, for her two sons. She was a lovely lady and they were a lovely family. They must be reeling right about now. If you are of the praying persuasion, then please feel free to go right ahead for them.
I do understand what they mean. It kinda makes sense to me. Especially because I am so personal on here. It is just my style; I cannot seem to change it (although I have been considering going out and actually finding some things to write about that aren't about me. Just for something different and rather more interesting :) I think of Helen Garner's finely wrought observations on morgues and such places. She's a bit of a hero of mine. I do wish to turn my gaze outward and get out there, rather than just blubbing about my inner landscape, as patently fascinating to me as it is, heh :)
But for someone who considers herself a writer, who still harbours a desire to write for publication in some way, shape or form, I'm interested too in the perception differences between a blog and, say, if I had an article published in The Age. I would imagine both of those people would most likely go out and buy a copy of the newspaper if I had an opinion piece published in it (I hope so, anyway :) And from a writer's point of view I guess I kind of don't understand the discrepancy, in a way. It's like one form is socially sanctioned, and blogging is seen very differently. I totally understand where my friends are coming from when they say what they say. And yet, for me, the position I come from is totally different once again. I guess for me, blogging and writing in other formats are much more closely linked. I guess I sort of presumed that everyone else thought the same way, too.
(Unless of course I am going on assumptions that aren't there and neither of those friends would bother buying the newspaper to read my article in it. Hopefully one day I shall get to see whether that is the reality :)
It's funny when it comes to blogging. Even though I do love the community aspect - I love the conversation that sparks up sometimes cross-blog, with different people talking about the same things. I love the whole comments aspect of blogging too. And yet for all of that, the basic urge to write and express myself is what sends me back for another post.
Having said that, I am struggling to find inspiration to write the last week or so. It's not a particularly common thing with me; I do not like it when it happens. I have three half written poems; they sit there waiting. Which is okay. I'm more confident in the process these days - it is tidal and sometimes percolative and slow-burning. Anyway, I talk far too much as it is. Good to put a sock in it every now and then :)
I have such a love-hate relationship with the internet sometimes. It feels like it gives on one hand and takes away on the other. Depending on the particular situation, sometimes it can make for outright paranoia if you take it too seriously. What does that person mean by that statement, etc. Why did they say that particular thing? What were they talking about? How can you tell, just from flat words on screens what people are really thinking or saying, in the end? So many avatars, smoke and mirrors if you take it anything but lightly.
Conversely, the opportunity for good conversation is there too and I have made a lot of good blog friends. But honestly, sometimes it just creeps me out so much I feel almost revolted by it.
____
Okay. Let's take 2 in going to sleep. I am exhausted with my standard winterly circadian discombobulations. Most people sleep more in Winter - I sleep less. I'm cactus. Plus, my cousin died yesterday. She was only 49 years old. We weren't really ultra close so in all honesty I'm not grieving horribly in a personal sense. But even though we weren't close, it is always a shock to lose someone you have known all your life. And I grieve for her husband, for her two sons. She was a lovely lady and they were a lovely family. They must be reeling right about now. If you are of the praying persuasion, then please feel free to go right ahead for them.
How easy it is to splatter words into this little white box here, knowing that people are going to be reading it, and write for the wrong reasons. Writing not because there is something bubbling in me to share, whether good, bad or indifferent, negative or positive, black or white, but because I am trying to prove something. Trying to say, in some shape or other, "Love me, love me!" Writing out of my lack instead of out of something real.
I think people can spot the resulting difference from 20 paces away. I know I can. And yet I still do it. Writing out of loneliness, it just doesn't work.
As I waited for my mediterranean vegetables with feta on focaccia to be toasted today, I leant on the counter and chatted to the woman serving me. I speak to her at least twice a week every week and I don't know her name. And she was feeling monumentally underwhelmed by the boredom of everyday monotony. And I know past ages were as drugerous in other ways, but I said to her that at least other cultures have had built into them festivals and get-togethers where they are forced to come together and actually - concept - have fun and mingle and be with each other, instead of just being the dude in front of you on the road who has jumped out ahead only to bung his indicator on to turn right.
Ya knoh?
I am going to a poetry workshop next week. Going to a Christian meditation this Thursday night. Going to any bloody place that will get me out amongst some fellow earthlings for if not a general cultural festival, then a bit of a word festival, a silence festival.
I find it excessively difficult to admit to feeling lonely, even though it is probalby obvious to you, dear blogger, that I am. It is something that I drag out of myself, this admission. Because admitting I am lonely feels like I am admitting that I am somehow a failure, that it is because of the big "something wrong with me" part of me that am lonely, rather than because of circumstances that in some respects have been beyond my control.
And yet the world is full of lonely people. How difficult it is to identify long enough with the poor parts of yourself to be able to sit with them out in the world, instead of trying to project this "I am shiny shiny shiny love me have my babies look at me living an exciting life no flies on me jack" exterior. How deep that propensity runs.
So yeah, memo to self: blogging because you're feeling lonely just really produces turd-like posts that are dull and dreary. Sort of like this one :) And the 2 million other ones that lonely people are writing round the world right this second :)
*Sigh*. Looks like I'm just as much a turd as everybody else :)
I think people can spot the resulting difference from 20 paces away. I know I can. And yet I still do it. Writing out of loneliness, it just doesn't work.
As I waited for my mediterranean vegetables with feta on focaccia to be toasted today, I leant on the counter and chatted to the woman serving me. I speak to her at least twice a week every week and I don't know her name. And she was feeling monumentally underwhelmed by the boredom of everyday monotony. And I know past ages were as drugerous in other ways, but I said to her that at least other cultures have had built into them festivals and get-togethers where they are forced to come together and actually - concept - have fun and mingle and be with each other, instead of just being the dude in front of you on the road who has jumped out ahead only to bung his indicator on to turn right.
Ya knoh?
I am going to a poetry workshop next week. Going to a Christian meditation this Thursday night. Going to any bloody place that will get me out amongst some fellow earthlings for if not a general cultural festival, then a bit of a word festival, a silence festival.
I find it excessively difficult to admit to feeling lonely, even though it is probalby obvious to you, dear blogger, that I am. It is something that I drag out of myself, this admission. Because admitting I am lonely feels like I am admitting that I am somehow a failure, that it is because of the big "something wrong with me" part of me that am lonely, rather than because of circumstances that in some respects have been beyond my control.
And yet the world is full of lonely people. How difficult it is to identify long enough with the poor parts of yourself to be able to sit with them out in the world, instead of trying to project this "I am shiny shiny shiny love me have my babies look at me living an exciting life no flies on me jack" exterior. How deep that propensity runs.
So yeah, memo to self: blogging because you're feeling lonely just really produces turd-like posts that are dull and dreary. Sort of like this one :) And the 2 million other ones that lonely people are writing round the world right this second :)
*Sigh*. Looks like I'm just as much a turd as everybody else :)
I have begun blogging weekly over at Communitas Collective along with Erin the Word dude and Gary Means and other new bloggy people I haven't got to know just yet:
Communitas refers to “the sense of sharing and intimacy that develops among people who experience a transitional period.”Today there is an unprecedented exodus of people from institutional churches, yet a heightened awareness of spirituality. Many of us are weary of institutions, but hungry for community. There is a declining desire to be part of a system and a growing desire to be a part of something that is real - something that provides the opportunity for self expression and living out the life of Christ, rather than just talking about it.Communitas Collective exists to encourage people who are discovering new ways to be the church, and seeks to help people live out the good news of Jesus.
There are three blog sections, with three posts each week, so all up there will be nine different posts. Mine are at Sanctuary, and you can find the first waffly blather here.
I love blogging, I love the internet. But it gives and then it takes away on the other hand.
It gives connection among people. It gives a medium for people to share things they may not often get to share out in the world. Imagine launching into a discussion the way you do online in your workplace. People look at you askance. Believe me, I've tried :)
Yet the internet takes away because dammit, you can't see me, you can't see the lightness or the weight of my words, you can't see my jesting, you can't see my cultural differences, you can't see me smirk because there is no symbol for that. I can :) and :D and :( and :\ and ROFL and ROFLLMAO but really, in the end, you can't see my context.
Sigh. Don't mind me. I am struggling with feeling misunderstood. Sometimes I get tired of feeling different. Maybe everyone feels that way, I'm not sure. And the internet fosters paranoia in me from time to time, usually when I say controversial things :) I do insist on being honest, and I'm sure it's too honest for some people! And sometimes it's too honest even for me. Some days I wake up and groan and think, "Did I really say that?" :)
How does one stop caring so much about the opinions of others, or whether you cause others offence or if you displease them or whatever? Some people, it just doesn't even really occur to them. Mocca is like that. I would talk about how I was worried about what so-and-so thought of me and he just wouldn't understand why I cared so much.
I don't really understand why. There is something here that needs to be sat with and examined and (hopefully) discarded.
How about you? Do you worry excessively about what other people think of you?
It gives connection among people. It gives a medium for people to share things they may not often get to share out in the world. Imagine launching into a discussion the way you do online in your workplace. People look at you askance. Believe me, I've tried :)
Yet the internet takes away because dammit, you can't see me, you can't see the lightness or the weight of my words, you can't see my jesting, you can't see my cultural differences, you can't see me smirk because there is no symbol for that. I can :) and :D and :( and :\ and ROFL and ROFLLMAO but really, in the end, you can't see my context.
Sigh. Don't mind me. I am struggling with feeling misunderstood. Sometimes I get tired of feeling different. Maybe everyone feels that way, I'm not sure. And the internet fosters paranoia in me from time to time, usually when I say controversial things :) I do insist on being honest, and I'm sure it's too honest for some people! And sometimes it's too honest even for me. Some days I wake up and groan and think, "Did I really say that?" :)
How does one stop caring so much about the opinions of others, or whether you cause others offence or if you displease them or whatever? Some people, it just doesn't even really occur to them. Mocca is like that. I would talk about how I was worried about what so-and-so thought of me and he just wouldn't understand why I cared so much.
I don't really understand why. There is something here that needs to be sat with and examined and (hopefully) discarded.
How about you? Do you worry excessively about what other people think of you?
9 comments
Thursday, 22 January 2009
This blog lasted on For-Susie's-Eyes-Only status for approximately nine hours. That's how long I survived before I began to miss it :)
Ahhh, the land of ambivalence. Its shores expand out for years, it seems. It is very exhausting holding two sometimes-opposing thoughts in your head at the one time. It's frowned upon in society. We are meant to always know where we are going. It seems to scare people, being ambivalent. Look at Thomas and the bad rap he got, and yet I don't think God is anywhere near as upset by our ambivalences as we are ourselves.
'Cause swinging backwards and forwards is especially bad for your ego. And it's painful feeling like a teetering twit, especially when you have been the sort of person who has been able to put on an outward show of strength much of the time. That seems to be the last thing I am these days. I went into the ladies toilets at work today and cried, in the way you do at work when you have makeup on, with toilet paper wadded up and stuck directly under your eyes so that nobody can see the streaks making their way back down your face. Later on, on a different visit to the loo, Jenny walked in and asked was I okay, that I looked upset, as if I might cry. If I hadn't learnt to hide my emotions so well, I probably would have let them fall again. But I didn't. Held on. Stoically. I have not learnt the art of crying in public. Neither have I learnt the art of being weak and broken in public, much as it might seem differently on here :)
Sometimes I wonder if God's plan is to just reduce me down to a pile of rubble. I don't like God much today.
Of course, on the plus side, ambivalence is indicative of growth and change. Much as we would like it, you can't really go from one state of being and thinking to another without bumbling somewhere in the middle of the two lands. I am trying to be kinder to myself in these instances. It's very difficult in these times when the self-talk voices are especially nasty. I don't like myself much today, either.
Anyway, I have deleted a few posts from here. Things about my family, mainly. Things that are really too out-there to be sharing here, even for me. Some things that are just too raw. I love being open, you know? I think it is one of my strengths. I understand what shame feels like, and I have closet skeletons I will never share with anybody. Nevertheless, I think openness comes from feeling forgiven, I have decided. And as much as I am disliking myself and God, I certainly don't have a trouble with the whole forgiveness bag. It is just not an issue for me anymore. I am more certain of God's love and provision for me than I am of any human's.
It is a strength to be openhearted. But oh, it's a vulnerability too, and once again I find myself feeling like I am going to collapse in a strong breeze. And so I go back, deleting posts that are detrimental to my health. Maybe I'll delete more as I go. I guess it's just one more boundary that needs to be built, huh. The privacy zone. Even I need one of those :)
Ahhh, the land of ambivalence. Its shores expand out for years, it seems. It is very exhausting holding two sometimes-opposing thoughts in your head at the one time. It's frowned upon in society. We are meant to always know where we are going. It seems to scare people, being ambivalent. Look at Thomas and the bad rap he got, and yet I don't think God is anywhere near as upset by our ambivalences as we are ourselves.
'Cause swinging backwards and forwards is especially bad for your ego. And it's painful feeling like a teetering twit, especially when you have been the sort of person who has been able to put on an outward show of strength much of the time. That seems to be the last thing I am these days. I went into the ladies toilets at work today and cried, in the way you do at work when you have makeup on, with toilet paper wadded up and stuck directly under your eyes so that nobody can see the streaks making their way back down your face. Later on, on a different visit to the loo, Jenny walked in and asked was I okay, that I looked upset, as if I might cry. If I hadn't learnt to hide my emotions so well, I probably would have let them fall again. But I didn't. Held on. Stoically. I have not learnt the art of crying in public. Neither have I learnt the art of being weak and broken in public, much as it might seem differently on here :)
Sometimes I wonder if God's plan is to just reduce me down to a pile of rubble. I don't like God much today.
Of course, on the plus side, ambivalence is indicative of growth and change. Much as we would like it, you can't really go from one state of being and thinking to another without bumbling somewhere in the middle of the two lands. I am trying to be kinder to myself in these instances. It's very difficult in these times when the self-talk voices are especially nasty. I don't like myself much today, either.
Anyway, I have deleted a few posts from here. Things about my family, mainly. Things that are really too out-there to be sharing here, even for me. Some things that are just too raw. I love being open, you know? I think it is one of my strengths. I understand what shame feels like, and I have closet skeletons I will never share with anybody. Nevertheless, I think openness comes from feeling forgiven, I have decided. And as much as I am disliking myself and God, I certainly don't have a trouble with the whole forgiveness bag. It is just not an issue for me anymore. I am more certain of God's love and provision for me than I am of any human's.
It is a strength to be openhearted. But oh, it's a vulnerability too, and once again I find myself feeling like I am going to collapse in a strong breeze. And so I go back, deleting posts that are detrimental to my health. Maybe I'll delete more as I go. I guess it's just one more boundary that needs to be built, huh. The privacy zone. Even I need one of those :)
Okay, whinge alert. I'm about to have a bit of a whinge and you, sweet blogger, are therefore about to read it. (But here's a shortcut: I'm about to whinge about going back to work tomorrow, so if you just skip to the comments and say "oh, poor susie, it's okay, who knows what will come up this year for you workwise?" I'll never know you didn't read the whole post :)
There's nothing for it tonight but to comfort eat. A large custard tart, which may possibly be all gone by the time I've finished this post. My holidays are over tonight. Rushing in swirling is a compacted combined feeling of all the Sunday nights of my childhood. O depressing night. The claustrophobia. The frustration at having no option but to get up in the morning and go back to skewel.
I could do comparisons, I suppose. Even though comparisons are oderous to me. They deflect you away from really acknowledging to yourself what you're feeling. But let's try.
I could be working 60 hours a week as a boilermaker, or a chicken sexer, or a prostitute, or a politician. Really, sitting on my bum to clear 30 bucks an hour for 25 hours a week is a pretty good wicket. Right? Well, that still does not deny the fact that cricket bores me.
I could be going back to school tomorrow instead of going back to work. I could be at home, crying, because six weeks of fun at Andrea's has come to an end and now I'm stuck at home, boredom central, feeling like the next holidays may as well never even exist, they're that far away.
Well, it's true, it could be all of those things, which would be worse, but that still doesn't change the fact that tomorrow I go back to the job that bores me. And I can't quite keep the sadness at bay tonight. It feels like the year is stretching away ahead of me, week after week of "Yes, Your Honour" and "Can you tell us what the tablets were doing located in your house, if they don't belong to you?" Sigh. Is there any chance, o great flying spaghetti monster, that this year my life could expand somewhat, maybe even in several different directions, so that I can possibly actually feel like I am a part of the human race? That would be dandy, thank ye.
Breathe Susie, breathe. Okay. Easter's coming up, right? And I am an optimist of sorts. I can say things to myself like, "Who knows what is around the corner? Maybe something else will come up." Well, maybe. Maybe maybe maybe.
My brother came over today, brought the last of the furniture and what-not that's been kept in a self-storage container in Clayton, brought it over to store in my garage. And now off he has gone, to the state forest beyond Bacchus Marsh, with an air mattress and a portable fridge in the back of his car. He is heading off on Friday, after a few days in the bush, wending his way to Geelong, and from there to Warrnambool to follow the coast into South Australia. He plans to stay with my auntie in Murray Bridge for a while, painting her house for her, and then to perhaps see if he can begin afresh, a new life.
I'm a bit jealous. Oh, I know it's easy to be jealous of someone taking off like that from the outside. But as it happens, he hasn't got the foggiest what the hell he is going to do. His work options are much more limited even than mine. And as it is he has been without a house for the past three months, and the gypsy lifestyle is beginning to wear thin. Still, off he drove, in high spirits, optimistic. And despite him not knowing what the hell he is doing, I remain jealous.
I want to be on the road, free, with no boring job to go to tomorrow. Living out of my campervan, driving around Australia, writing and selling articles and short stories that fund my trip. Picking up friends and family from local airports and bus stations to come along and have adventures with me.
Okay. So I'm fantasising :) It is an occupational hazard to fantasise about being out and free when tomorrow you are going back to work for the foreseeable future. Oh, fuckity fuck :(
Come on Sue. Focus on something. Okay. How about this: in a couple of weeks I am going to an information session about Kidslink, a small organisation that Heather is involved with, which digs wells in Mozambique and which is constructing a school building in the town of M'Batwe. It is a sort of surreal scary thing to consider doing something like this, but nevertheless I am going to go along and think about whether maybe, in July, it is possible that I could go to Mozambique for a couple of weeks. Do something for other people and maybe expand my small little life. Get it moving again. Maybe.
Speaking of Heather, I got together with her and Louisa last night. It was great to meet another fellow blogger. We chatted, ate Mexican food, drank a Pina Colada, got kicked out the restaurant because it was closing. We went to a pub down the road, drank coffee, chatted, and got kicked out because the pub was closing. We drove to the Espy (much cleaner than when I was last there), sat in the little side part next to the pub, chatted, drank bourbon, bacardi and champagne, got kicked out because it was closing. We went into the pub, in time to see the last song of the last band. We left before we could get kicked out and stood and chatted in the street about how, next time we get together, we're gonna try for a Saturday night next time so that things won't keep closing :) It was fun. But I'm not allowed to tell you about how Louisa walked up the aisle to a Hillsongs song, and Heather walked down the aisle to one. Don't tell anyone I told you.
There's nothing for it tonight but to comfort eat. A large custard tart, which may possibly be all gone by the time I've finished this post. My holidays are over tonight. Rushing in swirling is a compacted combined feeling of all the Sunday nights of my childhood. O depressing night. The claustrophobia. The frustration at having no option but to get up in the morning and go back to skewel.
I could do comparisons, I suppose. Even though comparisons are oderous to me. They deflect you away from really acknowledging to yourself what you're feeling. But let's try.
I could be working 60 hours a week as a boilermaker, or a chicken sexer, or a prostitute, or a politician. Really, sitting on my bum to clear 30 bucks an hour for 25 hours a week is a pretty good wicket. Right? Well, that still does not deny the fact that cricket bores me.
I could be going back to school tomorrow instead of going back to work. I could be at home, crying, because six weeks of fun at Andrea's has come to an end and now I'm stuck at home, boredom central, feeling like the next holidays may as well never even exist, they're that far away.
Well, it's true, it could be all of those things, which would be worse, but that still doesn't change the fact that tomorrow I go back to the job that bores me. And I can't quite keep the sadness at bay tonight. It feels like the year is stretching away ahead of me, week after week of "Yes, Your Honour" and "Can you tell us what the tablets were doing located in your house, if they don't belong to you?" Sigh. Is there any chance, o great flying spaghetti monster, that this year my life could expand somewhat, maybe even in several different directions, so that I can possibly actually feel like I am a part of the human race? That would be dandy, thank ye.
Breathe Susie, breathe. Okay. Easter's coming up, right? And I am an optimist of sorts. I can say things to myself like, "Who knows what is around the corner? Maybe something else will come up." Well, maybe. Maybe maybe maybe.
My brother came over today, brought the last of the furniture and what-not that's been kept in a self-storage container in Clayton, brought it over to store in my garage. And now off he has gone, to the state forest beyond Bacchus Marsh, with an air mattress and a portable fridge in the back of his car. He is heading off on Friday, after a few days in the bush, wending his way to Geelong, and from there to Warrnambool to follow the coast into South Australia. He plans to stay with my auntie in Murray Bridge for a while, painting her house for her, and then to perhaps see if he can begin afresh, a new life.
I'm a bit jealous. Oh, I know it's easy to be jealous of someone taking off like that from the outside. But as it happens, he hasn't got the foggiest what the hell he is going to do. His work options are much more limited even than mine. And as it is he has been without a house for the past three months, and the gypsy lifestyle is beginning to wear thin. Still, off he drove, in high spirits, optimistic. And despite him not knowing what the hell he is doing, I remain jealous.
I want to be on the road, free, with no boring job to go to tomorrow. Living out of my campervan, driving around Australia, writing and selling articles and short stories that fund my trip. Picking up friends and family from local airports and bus stations to come along and have adventures with me.
Okay. So I'm fantasising :) It is an occupational hazard to fantasise about being out and free when tomorrow you are going back to work for the foreseeable future. Oh, fuckity fuck :(
Come on Sue. Focus on something. Okay. How about this: in a couple of weeks I am going to an information session about Kidslink, a small organisation that Heather is involved with, which digs wells in Mozambique and which is constructing a school building in the town of M'Batwe. It is a sort of surreal scary thing to consider doing something like this, but nevertheless I am going to go along and think about whether maybe, in July, it is possible that I could go to Mozambique for a couple of weeks. Do something for other people and maybe expand my small little life. Get it moving again. Maybe.
Speaking of Heather, I got together with her and Louisa last night. It was great to meet another fellow blogger. We chatted, ate Mexican food, drank a Pina Colada, got kicked out the restaurant because it was closing. We went to a pub down the road, drank coffee, chatted, and got kicked out because the pub was closing. We drove to the Espy (much cleaner than when I was last there), sat in the little side part next to the pub, chatted, drank bourbon, bacardi and champagne, got kicked out because it was closing. We went into the pub, in time to see the last song of the last band. We left before we could get kicked out and stood and chatted in the street about how, next time we get together, we're gonna try for a Saturday night next time so that things won't keep closing :) It was fun. But I'm not allowed to tell you about how Louisa walked up the aisle to a Hillsongs song, and Heather walked down the aisle to one. Don't tell anyone I told you.
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