08-31-14

I did it. I woke up and immediately started to write. Still in a dream state? Not sure. Need to relax my shoulders and get it done. I wrote my first critique so I'm kinda wondering if I got a response from the critique. Curious. Was watching Justin Timberlake on SNL singing My Love. I think that's the name of the song. Not sure again. I Boy, he would be a character in a story that I would write. How to describe him? So charming.  Symmetry features, just lovely. Also watched a little of Louis CK. It was pretty good. On FX. finally found some good programming outside of HBO. Cox sucks. I am meandering throughout the bullshit of t.v. Watched too much t.v. I think. Lazed around all day. It was a wonderful break. I cannot do that forever. Today my goal is write another critique and actually get busy with my notebook and some other exercises! It will be done. So I peaked and about what I just wrote and found that my JT is in need of a

fuller bodied description. I am not going to beat myself up. My cat, Jasper is laying on the table while I write. I love him. Cat boogers and all. Thee was a time when I would listen to Mozart music, (hey that is another uncovered goal of mine is to take a music appreciation class!) and his violins would make me cry. Wonder f I could find something on the old clunker of the internet.  I am 52 years old and I am finally realizing my dram after being stuck f or far too long in my old belief of not being smart enough. I was also think back on bringing up an issue where the points were 15 and should not have been under 20 to Tamra. She was so unjustly in my face about it because of this exception that I created for the order. But wasn't willing to look past her own nose and therefore spited her face. Within the confines of this blog, I fucking hate how she judges my actions. She's such a fucked up bitch-whore. There. I said it. No dream state there. Now....get back to being a loving, accepting and pure vessel of giving and receiving and being love. Done.

Thank goodness that creepy crawly thing on my chest was an ant. I thought it was a fucking flea! Ick. Fleas. Hatem'! Clean this desk of the papers.  Clean, clean clean. The simpler life. I love it.

What will my first piece as a 52 year old writer be about? Need to get to sleep and have a rested sleep. Need to ask the question rite before I sleep.What was it the put me beyond the edge of figuring I was living an old belief? Just remembered part of a dream. Todd and Moses were switching homes b/c the had just added onto their homes. Too weird. That's all I remember.

I am no longer encumbered with wasting huge chunks of time living someone else's idea (wait, my own) of how fucked up I am by not being smarter.

Dream State

I spend way too much time in front of a t.v. that yields not one quality show unless HBO is in the mix. Music in my ears to produce that dream-state that is so lovely in the morning hours to bring me to my knees with thoughts and emotions that bubble over and brim to the top of the cup, waiting for the last drop to spill  the contents to overflowing. I write with my eyes closed, so hopefully my fingers are pressing the right keys.  Celtic music with humming and light piano in my ears.  I will begin to find many prompts today from which to refresh and write. I will read a story and begin a critique. I have a cup that runs over of ideas from which to draw from. and a well worn notebook from where to store it all. Notes and ideas and doodles. This pink notebook will hold it all. I did not dream. I only had residual chest pains. I come from love and not from fear. I see Tamara as a scared little girl that cannot not be challenged and must always be in control at every avenue. Ah, well, Sheena is my example. I am not a leader and therefore I am? Hooves of the half goat half leprechauns? What are those called? It is flute and violin. Wish I knew the names of all the instruments playing. But I don't. Dram-state, dream-sate. Wild blackberries, well, not so much wild, Ernie's blackberries. That beautiful garden that grew behind the house on 2nd. The fruit trees on the other side. Mary and Sally and Steve, and Allen and so many other children and her mother still a fairy, calling Mary home in her sing-song voice. and losing Mary so young so young. How is it that she remained chill and lovely, at least in my memories. I have finally given over to the desired dream of having enough time in my lifetime to write. I have given up the ghost to be a student with a mission to graduate. It is not gonna happen in this lifetime for sure as I will always pursue this dream state within reality to show my love for writing. I want to  craft and belong to a group next. Add that to my list of goals for the weekend. I want to read and write and write and critique. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.  Empty mind emptiness. That is okay to not be so full of thought that it overwhelms and begins to stuff down because it is so full. I am loving my life again. I am loving that I have allowed for some sense of peace by giving to me in a form and fashion that stretches to limits of my imagination creativity burst of free will and damn be the cost to do it. School of hard knocks.

Post Life

So I begin again and the music for the Closer comes to mind. Bittersweet and "sad" as my mother always says, but then backs away from all that sadness with the faith, hope and trust of her lord and savior. Oh how I hunger for that kind of faith..  This is free think writing at its best. I sit and am finally blank. When I try to medicatate, my mind twirls and swilrs in so many direction, I cannot see the "forest for the trees". And now that I am writing again? Wo woulda thought tath I ramin a blank canvass? I should be happy for this, but am not. It must be the adjustment tot the meds. Oh the meds. Oh the darlings of my life. Giving me a clear picutre of who I am without the veil of darkness. How did it come to pass that within the blink of an unadulterated eye, I can change my path, again, so swiftly that I don't know the pain and destruction I leave on the path? I speak of removing myself from the thoes of a college driven life where I wince over micreconomics. I undersood it and I get the concepts, just don't ask me about sceanios and applying that shit in everday life. Too much wasted time when all I could think about was, maybe in the next lifetime I will be a writer. WTF? I want it in this lifetime. I want the written word to mean something. I want to share it withers and have it resonate have it refelcted back at me that it means something to me and n therefore to others. There is so much bottled up in me and as I stir the pot, the mix is blended and all that shifted to the , into sediments is being lifted higher and higher into the light. Work. Ahhhh, yes, that lovely word work. I said something to another mother last night. Retire. Retire? YUes, I got a taste of that when I was out of work for that perod of time after being harshly let go. Oh how I hate that I must revisit so that I can feel the wings of the phoenix rising and taking hold of it, all of it, to change and morph into soemthing so surreal, it becomes the replace imaery of that sickening time.  A time of ostracizing, of retreating, of being met with stonewalling. I am sick, sick, sick of being the hurt, citimzed fuck-up. I want to spread those wings and fly above it all. Onto the aged telephone poles and look down on it all, and then spread my wings and fly away above rooftops, through puffy white clouds. To stop and rest there for a spell. To draw it all into to me agin and relase it with the heavenly stars. I want this wrterly life to enrich and fulfill me like it has never done before. I wan the click of keyboarding to be the music to my ears. I want so much of the internal to breed a life in me that improves my posute, changes my gait, installs a permanet smiles on my face. I want that and I want it so badly. I have had my head in scholastic study ofor over a year. Steadily paced and enriching for sure. Meaningless? FULLof meaning. For what I DON'T want.  Scary the depths that I go in order to gain control of my life as it were. Scary.

Loving life, loving lfe.

Watching my 5.5 y/o swimming, floating on her back and enjoying a Friday early evening . I see things through her eyes: a lone small plane flying by, being brave to try the deep end; having the pool all to herself. Speaking with two boys close to her age. A bird sings nearby; but she doesn't hear it. It's part of the background noise, like the background noise to me is splashes of chlorinated water; excited breaths, jumping from land to water.

Other sounds: Japanese conversation in the jacuzzi blended with the flutterkicks of the children. Pauses and then more mist from a recent dunk, a female voice mixing with the males around her. Gorgeous blue sky.

Loving life.