I haven't posted in a while. That's because I'm tired of reading the same story. Same sh*t, different day. Ok. Maybe not the exact same sh*t. And maybe I can see where I've gone wrong here. And maybe I can see a path...a very long trajectory where what exists today could be different...that could course correct somehow.
Maybe.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
If I were a painter
My artistic statement:
"It's endemic to the human condition, the need to communicate is a primal, elementary force. Painting gives me a freedom of expression with color and movement that hasn't found it's way into my journals and letters. Fluidity, morbidity, life...these are big ideas that I want to convey but I've always found my writing too one-dimentional to capture the full sense. As a new painter and lifelong writer, I hope my brand of visual language speaks to those who choose to linger."
And here is more:
" With regard to art, ---to paintings both abstract and figurative, above all, art that I favor has to leave a mark. The best work can illuminate and elevate me. And while important writing can do the same, as I've grown older I've craved the immediacy of the visual-- that unmediated and blissful assault to the senses. I want to seek this out and explore another aspect of my persona.
Like many individuals, I create to satisfy my palate. Though I'm not formally trained, I'm pleased with the results. It does what I want it to do."
"It's endemic to the human condition, the need to communicate is a primal, elementary force. Painting gives me a freedom of expression with color and movement that hasn't found it's way into my journals and letters. Fluidity, morbidity, life...these are big ideas that I want to convey but I've always found my writing too one-dimentional to capture the full sense. As a new painter and lifelong writer, I hope my brand of visual language speaks to those who choose to linger."
And here is more:
" With regard to art, ---to paintings both abstract and figurative, above all, art that I favor has to leave a mark. The best work can illuminate and elevate me. And while important writing can do the same, as I've grown older I've craved the immediacy of the visual-- that unmediated and blissful assault to the senses. I want to seek this out and explore another aspect of my persona.
Like many individuals, I create to satisfy my palate. Though I'm not formally trained, I'm pleased with the results. It does what I want it to do."
Friday, February 19, 2010
It's late and I've been drinking equal parts coffee and wine.
I'm sad. Sadder than I've been in a long time...but not too far gone to know why I'm so slack. A very large part is the perimenopause, that insidious little condition that inflates the down times and suppresses the memory of anything good and stable. It's also that she's away, and even though it's on a mission of mercy (for family...another aspect of the sadness)I'm still very lonely without her. Actually it's more than loneliness...it's disappointment at my rudderlessness when she's not here.
After all I'm not my mother. I can drive in the City and pay bills and even go camping if I absolutely have too. I know how to kill bugs (hairspray, of course!) and cook a gourmet dinner for twelve from scratch. In my time I've even switched out an electrical fixture. I'm an independent sort though not above liking to be pampered, a loner certainly--so why do I feel like I'm missing a secret ingredient when she's not here?
I write these words anonymously, but I wish I had the guts to speak with my true identity. But I don't. And that lack of courage has informed so much of my existence...this is another facet of that intercontinental sadness. I've been given so much, so much really but have done so very, very little with it. The minimum in fact that allows me to maintain my lifestyle at the edges of the middle class...the very least I can do without risk.
I may feel better tomorrow, but then again, I may not. Still, tomorrow isn't fated and my life isn't over yet. There is still time. Time to change.
After all I'm not my mother. I can drive in the City and pay bills and even go camping if I absolutely have too. I know how to kill bugs (hairspray, of course!) and cook a gourmet dinner for twelve from scratch. In my time I've even switched out an electrical fixture. I'm an independent sort though not above liking to be pampered, a loner certainly--so why do I feel like I'm missing a secret ingredient when she's not here?
I write these words anonymously, but I wish I had the guts to speak with my true identity. But I don't. And that lack of courage has informed so much of my existence...this is another facet of that intercontinental sadness. I've been given so much, so much really but have done so very, very little with it. The minimum in fact that allows me to maintain my lifestyle at the edges of the middle class...the very least I can do without risk.
I may feel better tomorrow, but then again, I may not. Still, tomorrow isn't fated and my life isn't over yet. There is still time. Time to change.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Lone Wolf
One thing about Facebook...it really highlights how many "friends" you actually have...and for me it's precious few. Most people have upwards of 200. I have 13. That's it. And I've wracked my brain, trying to come up with names but either they are too successful for facebook (more likely to be on LinkedIn) or they just hate social media in general and don't participate.
Still, I feel rather chagrined at my paltry friend list. And at whose feet does the blame for this one lie? Mine of course. I have the profile of a hermit.
The other thing that is going on for me is that I find it rather presumptuous to ask someone who I haven't seen in a while if they'd like to friend me. It just feels kinda like begging. (remember that old saw by Groucho Marx "I'd never join any group that would have me as a member." Yeah...like that.
So most of my "friends" are family or extended family. Or 'pity-friendings' from friends of friends. And my mother.
I've tried to make up for the lack of friends by joining groups--typically writing related groups or listing myself as a fan of certain writers. I'm that weird one with no friends but lots of passionate devotion to certain organizations.
Still, I feel rather chagrined at my paltry friend list. And at whose feet does the blame for this one lie? Mine of course. I have the profile of a hermit.
The other thing that is going on for me is that I find it rather presumptuous to ask someone who I haven't seen in a while if they'd like to friend me. It just feels kinda like begging. (remember that old saw by Groucho Marx "I'd never join any group that would have me as a member." Yeah...like that.
So most of my "friends" are family or extended family. Or 'pity-friendings' from friends of friends. And my mother.
I've tried to make up for the lack of friends by joining groups--typically writing related groups or listing myself as a fan of certain writers. I'm that weird one with no friends but lots of passionate devotion to certain organizations.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Bad-Ass Kitty
My cat, my formerly sweet tempered and intelligent black cat has morphed of late into a harpy. Whereas she was deferential and equable before, she’s now a shrew-bully who’s got it out for any four-leg within sight distance. She picks fights, both those she can and those she can never hope to win with the heedlessness of a teenage kitten, and while she’ll be sixteen in July, I had expected her to behave closer to a feline in dotage than to a homosapein sapien (yes, I mean to say sapein twice) in adolescence.
It says a lot about a creature when they change who they are so late in the game.
I’m angling for the same type of change.
I’ve been the type of person who has given herself lots of room to shirk off big goals. Instead I’ve focused on the smaller stuff, trying to get along, be appropriate and pleasant. But it hasn’t gotten my anywhere except older. And most people who think they know me consider me a very “nice and considerate” person without any major heartaches. Hmph!
Inside I’m awash in Klingon-style outrage that exists beyond the cantankerousness, treading very close to recklessness, just like my newly bad-ass cat. And just like her, I’m having a hard time concealing it anymore…discontent keeps punching its way through.
By a stroke of fate though, I’m not a cat and have more leeway in creating my own reality (nor do I have to poop in a public sandbox or wait on someone else to put the kibble on the table). I’ve no excuse to let my concealed resentment erupt onto everyone else’s landscape. Admittedly kitties are smart and have the right to be spiteful when they want to be but I’ve been given many TOOLS to be smarter about going after what I want.
So meow. Do the right thing, kiddo. Writing is a duty.
It says a lot about a creature when they change who they are so late in the game.
I’m angling for the same type of change.
I’ve been the type of person who has given herself lots of room to shirk off big goals. Instead I’ve focused on the smaller stuff, trying to get along, be appropriate and pleasant. But it hasn’t gotten my anywhere except older. And most people who think they know me consider me a very “nice and considerate” person without any major heartaches. Hmph!
Inside I’m awash in Klingon-style outrage that exists beyond the cantankerousness, treading very close to recklessness, just like my newly bad-ass cat. And just like her, I’m having a hard time concealing it anymore…discontent keeps punching its way through.
By a stroke of fate though, I’m not a cat and have more leeway in creating my own reality (nor do I have to poop in a public sandbox or wait on someone else to put the kibble on the table). I’ve no excuse to let my concealed resentment erupt onto everyone else’s landscape. Admittedly kitties are smart and have the right to be spiteful when they want to be but I’ve been given many TOOLS to be smarter about going after what I want.
So meow. Do the right thing, kiddo. Writing is a duty.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sick days
After two days of being sick (I never really got over being sick at Xmas) and my wife being sick too, I've begun to understand why a certain cadre of people who work at home stick to the ritual of getting up and getting dressed.
It's rainy and cold out and we two, stuck inside, feel stale and warmed over. Coming in and out of sleep I've had the dream that somehow, my hair is washed, cut and styled just the way I like it but without any work on my part. Likewise my eyebrows have been shaped to perfection, a peerless line etched timelessly across my forehead.
Winter sick days (or summer ones for that matter) call out for the clean, well-tended trimness of health.
It's rainy and cold out and we two, stuck inside, feel stale and warmed over. Coming in and out of sleep I've had the dream that somehow, my hair is washed, cut and styled just the way I like it but without any work on my part. Likewise my eyebrows have been shaped to perfection, a peerless line etched timelessly across my forehead.
Winter sick days (or summer ones for that matter) call out for the clean, well-tended trimness of health.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Pain and no peace
I haven't been able to achieve plain old peace in a very, very long time so the question, naturally, is can I actually achieve this state? Reading over the entries of the last year or so, I'm not so sure that melancholia isn't more of a better fit than say contentment.
I've mentioned ad nauseam that I want to be writing but it does seem that an awful lot of things are happening in my life that do not include writing. When, writing, like brushing one's teeth each night and regular sex (none of which occurs consistently for me due to my own lack of constancy) isn't habitual, do I really want to write at all (or have sex or have gleaming pearly whites??)
Yes and no.
One of the little pronouncements I've been making lately is to state the obvious when someone suggests a new method for achieving better habits ("Well, what I've been doing hasn't been working so I'm willing to try something different"). This mindset-- which acknowledges that I've failed in the past because I simply wasn't up to making changes-- has helped me lose weight and become a tiny bit less disorganized. It has given me the strength to overcome my natural inertia.
As I write this my wife calls to me from the bedroom. She's watching TV and missing me. Heck I miss her. This often happens when we're not in the same room. Most of the time, I go hang with her and try to write with Grey's Anatomy or football competing for mindspace. Typically, I stop writing soon after relocating. But this time, setting aside my culpability with the practiced selfishness of a veteran hack, I say "I'm writing." And even when her small voice says "oh ok. do what you need to do" and I feel that pang of guilt, I remain committed to the keyboard, to this passage, to wanting to change my life in the face of what–has–been–before.
It's all so GD complicated.
I've mentioned ad nauseam that I want to be writing but it does seem that an awful lot of things are happening in my life that do not include writing. When, writing, like brushing one's teeth each night and regular sex (none of which occurs consistently for me due to my own lack of constancy) isn't habitual, do I really want to write at all (or have sex or have gleaming pearly whites??)
Yes and no.
One of the little pronouncements I've been making lately is to state the obvious when someone suggests a new method for achieving better habits ("Well, what I've been doing hasn't been working so I'm willing to try something different"). This mindset-- which acknowledges that I've failed in the past because I simply wasn't up to making changes-- has helped me lose weight and become a tiny bit less disorganized. It has given me the strength to overcome my natural inertia.
As I write this my wife calls to me from the bedroom. She's watching TV and missing me. Heck I miss her. This often happens when we're not in the same room. Most of the time, I go hang with her and try to write with Grey's Anatomy or football competing for mindspace. Typically, I stop writing soon after relocating. But this time, setting aside my culpability with the practiced selfishness of a veteran hack, I say "I'm writing." And even when her small voice says "oh ok. do what you need to do" and I feel that pang of guilt, I remain committed to the keyboard, to this passage, to wanting to change my life in the face of what–has–been–before.
It's all so GD complicated.
At least I lost weight
Way back in October I started trying to lose weight and I finally have made some progress. 20 lbs worth of it. I'm back to fitting into jeans that haven't seen the light of day for 2 years. This is uplifting. A singular good in a season of low spirits. I'll take it.
Pretend
Just visited littlebrownpen. Sigh.
It's clear I've been fooling myself. I pretend I don't care about going back to Paris but I do.
I pretend I'm not all that bothered by having gotten older (and thus no longer able to achieve the fabled cool phase of my life), but when I look at the video clips of the Marais from this blog, I'm very bummed.
Gotta find a way back from bumdom.
It's clear I've been fooling myself. I pretend I don't care about going back to Paris but I do.
I pretend I'm not all that bothered by having gotten older (and thus no longer able to achieve the fabled cool phase of my life), but when I look at the video clips of the Marais from this blog, I'm very bummed.
Gotta find a way back from bumdom.
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