Back in the Saddle

It's been months since my last post. The main reason I started this blog was to start writing regularly again; hence the fact that the number one item on my imaginary Manifesto is that I was going to write at least one post every week. That was before two months ago. Before my Mac battery finally decided to go belly-up. Before I bought a new battery and took my laptop apart to replace the old one. Before I realized that it wasn't that the battery had given up on itself, but that my charger was no longer willing to live. Before I realized that a replacement cable would cost at least $70. Which all occurred before I remembered-- I'm poor. I'm determined to resurrect the thing at some point because the first few chapters of my unfinished novel are still on the hard-drive, along with some patterns for my old lady pastimes. 

Meanwhile, as Lazarus keeps, it is nigh impossible to get the use of a laptop around here. Though, now that my brother is home from his mission, my mother doesn't need to monopolize the Dell writing him an e-mail every Sunday night so he'll have something to read on his P-day.

During the past couple of months, I have continued to jot down my thoughts as I always do; thoughts that I might be able to turn into entire blog posts. These are the rejects-- not because of their not being compelling, thought-provoking ideas; but because they are perfectly pithy and I would be hard-pressed to milk an entire post out of them singly. So here they are compiled into a delightful list, for your perusing pleasure.


1. Everything that has ever purported to be red velvet has invariably ended up being a farce. You know what I'm talkin' about: doughnuts, pancakes, milkshakes, Rice Krispies™ treats, soap--it all ends in heartbreak. Why do I keep getting reeled in?!

2. I have a hard time laughing out loud at something when I'm alone. In my mind, you laugh to let other people know you're amused.



3. I've heard Style at least three times today. Also, there's all this buzz about Taylor Swift's newest album and how it's such a departure from her flavor heretofore. I just want to state, for the record, that Taylor Swift was never country. Ever. When she first started out, the music she sang to was slightly more country-esque in that it had twangy guitars; now her music is more pop-y, dancing-at-the-club sounding. The music in her songs is really just a background to a narrative of her latest failed relationship anyways. But you know I crank that biz up when it comes on the radio, just like any normal person.



4. I like Peggy Carter; she's smart, capable, strong, and she doesn't need to burn her bra to be good at her job. But the harsh reality of the matter is that Steve Rogers would've been friend-zoned forever if he hadn't gotten hot as a result of the super soldier serum. A kind, decent 5'1" man is still a 5'1" man. Call me shallow if you like, but physical appearance does play a fairly prominent role in attractiveness.

5. I love the smell of new leather and how it spreads itself ubiquitously throughout whatever space it finds itself in.


6.Those friends you follow on Facebook and Instagram who instantaneously have a bazillion likes right after they post ANYTHING-- my like is insignificant. I refuse. Would you even notice? This is obviously at least somewhat rooted in my latent inferiority complex.


7. Baths make me feel dirty. Like, grimy, disgusting, hanging-out-in-my-own-filth-liquified.



8. I thought Sam Smith was black for the longest time. 

      

   He's just so soulful. Then again, so is Michael Bolton...

9. As a frequent (read "compulsive") online shopper, this scenario plays out dozens of times a month for me: UPS tracking says my package has been in Orlando since 6:30 AM; but won't be delivered to me until tomorrow. Is there any legal  issue preventing me from driving to the company's distribution center, a mere hour away, to get my package? I mean, technically, it is my property. I feel that the law would be on my side in this instance. You know, if I decided to do it.



10. I am a lover of orange Tic Tacs. They do absolutely nothing to freshen your breath, but are quite tasty.



11. To wear a bow tie without looking like Peewee Herman presents a high degree of difficulty.

Can you imagine being a hipster and getting that chestnut in your fortune cookie? Debilitating.

12. When I eat waffles, each square must be filled with syrup, especially if they are Belgian.


13. Mounted weapons are never loaded, and very hard to remove from their mountings. Murders/defenses with mounted swords or guns are just a whimsical farce promulgated and perpetuated by movies and television at least as far back as the 1930's.

14. Bangers and mash sounds like the names of a couple of Bond girl villains (in the tradition of Bambi and Thumper); but could also, possibly, be the names of  a tag-team wrestling duo.

15. Unnecessary things: Ovaltine hot instructions; complicated e-mail addresses (I'm lookin' at you, ckriystallelipz4871@sky.net (she says her name is pronounced "Crystal")); Obama in the public sphere. Or making decisions that affect anybody at all. If, in the name of protecting children, CPA can take someone's kids just because they let them play outside, they should've already confiscated that man's kids. Just sayin'.

16. I forget that New Hampshire is a state. Until a SNHU commercial comes on t.v.

I Would Get the Death Penalty For Sure

As a writer, there are very few things that don't spark my imagination. If I happen to hear something on a t.v. show or in a movie or in a class I'm taking or just in the course of normal conversation that gets my gears turning, I'll make a note of it on my phone and make plans to delve a little deeper later when I have internet access.

As a result, my computer's internet search history ranges from the innocuous to the alarming.

If I were ever suspected of murder a la The Fugitive (because of course it would be nothing more than a very convincing frame-up, probably masterminded by a pharmaceutical company and someone I had previously thought to be my friend) and my computer's search records were subpoenaed as evidence, I would get the death penalty for sure. Which is ironic because one of the offending searches is about which drugs go into a lethal injection.

I've also done a reasonable amount of research on living off the grid, guns and ammunition, body-snatching, and Leon Trotsky. Also, Doris Day. If the Unabomber hadn't already been apprehended, just based on my internet searches, I would be a primary suspect, I'm almost positive. Never mind that the first Unabomber attack happened a couple of decades before I was even born. Never mind that the authorities should be looking for a one-armed man.

I would be on death row.

Which would be a shame because then the world would be deprived of the genius of my debut novel, a work of historical fiction which revolves around body-snatching Communists who employ Doris Day to give lethal injections to all who oppose their lifestyle of living off the grid and exhibition shooting. And body-snatching.

Last Night

I had a hard time falling asleep last night. First of all, I got the '90's revival of my favorite vampire soap opera from the '60's in the mail yesterday (I just don't think we're on the level in our relationship where I can tell you what it is; it's kind of a guilty pleasure that I'm currently still ashamed of); so of course I had to watch it. I'm a compulsive online shopper, you see. Just one episode, I told myself as I climbed the stairs to the loft at 10:00 last night. 

Bad idea. 

I thought each episode was only 25 minutes or so, like the original show. Or at least that there would be an obvious break and theme song between each one. Oh no-- eventually I heard the eleven o'clock news going strong downstairs and I still hadn't seen a clear ending/beginning sequence. I finally just forced myself to pause it and headed downstairs to sleep, for I had to come into work this morning. According to the collectable cover, there is 660 hours of footage in the collection, and 12 episodes. A little simple math reveals that that means each episode is 55 minutes. I still don't know where the first episode ended and, apparently, I went about halfway into the next one. 

I regret nothing.

Then I just couldn't fall asleep. It was like when you're really excited about something that's happening the next day and you want it to hurry up and be tomorrow already. Except nothing fantastic is happening today (aside from me watching more supernatural drama tonight when I get home). I was just really, really happy--inexplicably-- and my mind kept racing at approximately 200 mph from subject to subject to subject. This happens sometimes, though I've also had it the other way-- where I am in a panic and dreading tomorrow; so you can just slow down now, Time.

I thought of some really great new aspects of the book I've been working on since I was a junior in high school. 

Of course, I thought, as soon as I wake up I won't remember any of this brilliance. Remember the last time you had a particularly clever book idea and you couldn't think of what it was the next morning? I do! I still can't remember what it was. So I must write it all down. Rats, I have nothing to write on. I could use my phone to write myself a note. But then I would be blinded by its radiant glow, which in the blackness of the night rivals the intensity of a thousand white hot suns. My retinas will be burned and then I'll have to wait for the skin to grow back on my eyeballs.Then I for sure won't be able to fall asleep, which is really what needs to happen. What to do...

At length I decided to go for it. I turned down the brightness of my phone (which was still almost too much to handle) and typed away until I was satisfied I had captured all my thoughts on the subject. It was about 1:30 when I finished and there's a time stamp on that note on my phone to prove it. 

So, that's what it's like to have a chemical imbalance.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, Baby

During my sophomore year of college I was taking an online Lit class in which I had to do a lot of writing. One of the papers I wrote was about a piece we had just finished reading titled The Coquette. I was pretty happy with what I had done and it's pretty rare that I get lower than an A on a written assignment because I am an English major.

That being the case, when I get my graded papers back, I usually just look at the grade and skim the teacher's comments to make sure I didn't make any silly mistakes. I got an A on this particular paper, so I proceeded to the comments when my eyes fell on one.

I had made a comment about In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, because what other parallel can you draw to a short novel about the imperialism of Great Britain still prevalent in Americans' lives in the 18th century?

The comment read: "The correct title of the song is "In the Garden of Eden".

I was shocked. Also disgusted.

I wasn't referring to some lame cover, or even talking about the stories about how the song came by it's name. I was talkin' original, Iron Butterfly version. I couldn't believe then, and have a hard time fathoming now, that my professor wasn't familiar enough with this song to know the difference.

In my mind's eye (because, being an online course, any encounter we had happened in my mind), my professor had at least been old enough in the late '60's to know about such things; that was her generation! Or should have been, had she really been what I imagined.

Still, come on! I was born in the '90's and I know about it. It was only rated the 24th greatest rock song of all time by VH1 in 2009. Between that and the wicked drum solo, how can you not know about it?

But I guess some people are just raised differently. And by differently, I mean wrong. My professor should be ashamed of herself. And her family.

For those of you who are interested and/or familiar with both The Coquette and In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida--i.e., those who were raised right-- I've posted my paper here.

Who's Afraid of a Rorschach Test?

I returned a few books and DVDs to the library today. After paying the late fee on the DVDs, I decided to pick up a few books for myself (the returned books were leftovers from a recent baby-sitting outting). 

I can't remember the last time I read a book that wasn't canonized or written by a General Authority or prophet; which most decidedly is not something to be ashamed of. But I LOVE to read. I used to read all the time; anything and everything I could get my hands on. But my last "extra-curricular" reading was probably for my last English class, which I finished at least two years ago. I hadn't even had a library card before last week (barring the one I used to have in elementary or middle school) so the whole situation was rather tragic when you think about it; especially considering the close proximity of the public library to my house. I did manage to find a couple of books and finished a good portion of the first one this afternoon.  As I bookmarked it with an Aldi receipt from my more than obliging wallet, I remembered something; I mean, really remembered it: 

I LOVE to read. 

Why haven't I been checking out books all this time? I should be reaping the rewards of some kind of frequent-borrower program (someone should put that in the suggestion box; it would be, like, a free cup of frozen yogurt for every fifth trip within a month's time--or maybe that's too frozen yogurt-based for bibliophiles? Perhaps the only reason this promotion hasn't taken off...). 
Back to the point: I also realized that as much as I love reading, I love writing even more. And I definitely haven't written anything since my last English class, aside from a few sporadic scripture journal entry. Which is fine, but not fulfilling. Not as fulfilling as writing what I think, anyways.

See, half the time I don't know what I think about something until I write about it-- and then it's obvious. I'm very opinionated but also quite empathetic; I can see both sides of things. So unless it's written down in a hard-copy for me to read back to myself, it's hard to sort out my feelings. 

I love the self-discovery; the feeling of knowing that I know myself. It's the most basic of all starting points but-- or maybe because of that basic-ness-- crucial to reaching the full measure of one's creation.

So why the long sabbatical? What am I so afraid of? 

Lots of things, I guess--serial killers, public speaking, that Hillary Clinton could actually run for the presidency and win...

The thing is, the past few years I haven't particularly wanted to wade into my feelings, which is what writing is for me-- a very personal journey into the very depths of my (often) labyrinthian mind and heart that leaves me, my very being, splayed across a page for God and everybody to see, including me. I guess these past five years or so I've been afraid of what I'll see in the splatter. But that's silly. Who's afraid of a Rorschach Test? 

It's the height of ridiculousness to not do something you love because you're afraid that you're not  perfect or that you aren't reacting to personal trials the way you know you're supposed to; that you haven't reached the smoothed down version of yourself that's supposed to result from the tumbler of personal difficulty. Just because you're not at Point C yet like you want to be doesn't mean you need to ignore Points A and B; you can't even get to Point C without them. Because the purpose of this life is not to Be right out of the gate; it's to Become. There is no perfection without the journey; without the trial; without the experience.

How can I ever be an influence for good in the world so that there are less mentally unstable people who end up as serial killers, or more people who come away from communicating with me feeling empowered and uplifted and educated (so they don't vote Clinton 2016) if I can't even get past this stupid thought process I have where I can't even look myself squarely in the eye when I feel like I'm struggling? 

Recording my thoughts, even the not-so-great ones, on this blog is my way of sticking it to myself, then I guess. Not the self that I always am or want to be, but the self that tells me I can't or shouldn't. That stupid-- yet persistent-- voice that always decides to rear its ugly head the minute I'm feeling down or overwhelmed with this experience called mortality.

So what am I so afraid of? Nothing. Not even a rambling, unedited blog post.