OMITTED
Things are weird. I don’t… really have a simpler way to put it. There is a stark inner knowing that I’m in the thick of some kind of change. It’s an uncomfortable and liminal haze in the process of transitioning into whatever’s Next.
There are two things to consider. First, I’ve discovered that part of my writing process consists of starting out with a sort of confessional journal entry. I try to get the unrefined and sentimental thoughts out of my head before settling into the more technical and intentional part. I do this to avoid (hopefully) sounding too self indulgent and angsty and cliché in the final draft even though writing by its very nature pretty much requires an intimate knowledge with my inner world and emotions. I’ve gathered some of these journal excerpts from the past few months to share a bit more of the parts of myself that I’m tired of hiding. I must warn you, there’s a bit of a thread of melancholy and yearning and dreariness. Such a sad girl sometimes! (My eyes are rolling too.) No need to fret. My life has a lot of blessings and beauty, however, despite my dogged efforts at having it all together, I fail at godhood but excel marvously in my humanity.
The other thing: I actually am sad right now, because of grief, and I feel useless to those I want to help most. It just so happens that I’ve evaded the experience of loss for over a decade of my life and it’s been a whirlwind to get adjusted to my way of processing things. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
With that being said, what initially started out as an attempt at being vulnerable as it relates to creativity has become, unfortunately, a timely document that, while accurate, feels trivial in the wake of other occurrences. I don’t have as much energy or focus right now but I have more resolve. I hope that there’s still something worth expressing- these feelings and experiences that I’d rather omit…
New day. It’s 1:07 and I watched some DFW interviews as well as one with Johnathan Franzen. I took a shower, did my makeup, got dressed, attempted some mirror selfies and became annoyed with the poor camera quality (getting a new phone soon) and now, I’m writing at my coffee table because I feel guilty about leaving my cat home alone. I was planning on going to the library, and still might, but there’s something in that space that is also depressing. I don’t like the industrial and grey design of it. I want to read Zadie Smith’s essay on the public library, and I want to write. More specifically, I want to produce a finished piece of writing that is done well, and will somehow act as a way to connect myself with others. I’ve thought of a few interesting ideas earlier, at least some that feel like they could lead to something that is from an authentic place. I’m lonely. Deeply lonely. I am starting to understand that this may be one of the reasons why writing is more appealing to me than painting right now. I can be more explicit in my own emotions, and let them out in a way that isn’t as veiled as a painting.
I woke up and started my day by not making wise decisions. I felt a certain sense of depression yesterday, and really let out a deep flow of sadness at night. I had an intense “shame” dream that kept me awake for hours, which caused me to sleep in until about 8:45. I’m still in my t-shirt and sweatpants, and my hair is dirty, and I went to Starbucks for an iced pumpkin spice latte to have as breakfast. I have been defying the suppressive hand of depression for months and I don’t feel like frantically taking part in my little rituals that I’ve clung to for a sense of productivity and control right now. I’ll jump straight into writing with my cup of liquid sugar and maybe I’ll jump back into being a good girl tomorrow. Maybe this afternoon. The day is still young, and I need to write.
No, I refuse to wallow in the muck of the specifics of the days I’ll eventually forget. Maybe I just don’t want to be so modern, maybe I want to crawl into a grimoire, tucked between the love and money and protection spells. Incense ash and clove, I will be a particle visible only under a microscope, not to the naked eye. I hide and hide and hide in the open air, I float with no direction, hoping to make it somewhere to put my roots down. There is a lag. I am overwhelmed yet feeling limited, loved yet feeling inhibited, broke but spoiled. I don’t want to wallow in the muck of my hateful thoughts, but it’s hard because I can’t make heads or tails of the right moves to make or the right way to be.
Scared, pent up and feeling invisible and therefore inaudible, do I know enough to say the right things? Or, if not the right things, then the things that are sharp enough to cut through the glass that conceals truth? It’s a difficult thing, to face the dense matter, knowing it must be melted down and taken like a bitter remedy before it becomes the fruit of my eye. Don’t I like this? Not when I feel directionless about what to say. Maybe I’m overthinking it, the whole process. I can’t see the end result so I can’t start from there. I’m trying to just move, to not think about genre or theme or money… quantity, then quality
Some type of exhilaration is required to remove the lethargy from the center of my creative bowl. A boredom formed a thick film over the soup of my next meal and I know I want to serve up something good. I just don’t always want to face myself. What’s new? What do I want to be new?
My body is asking for food but my mind is asking for a poem.
A good one, a really powerful collection of a few broken up
sentences that will shake the world and break the internet.
My body wants a meal that will nourish me
but my mind doesn’t like to cook, so frozen pizza it is.
My mind prefers to whip up something
for you to chew on instead.
To strain to see what’s woven, to trust the colored threads that reveal no clear image until the final knot is tied, to go without always knowing why.
[OMITTED] was very much the place to be yesterday. Synchronicity happened there again. Today, I’m at [OMITTED], doing my best to show up and write while faced with the temptation to read. Obviously, reading is a good thing; it naturally improves my writing skills. It’s just difficult to feel like a beginner again, so I can rely too much on reading and hide from the act of writing. I remember feeling this way when it came to painting. I was totally at a loss when it came to my process, my general aesthetic, even what materials I preferred. I feel that way now. I forget that once upon a time I was paid to write as a copywriter. I don’t necessarily want to write articles about art or inspirational instagram captions, but there’s something important in that experience as it corresponds to a strength I have that, once cultivated, can contribute to what I authentically write.
On isolation. On retreating to propel forward. Don’t fall into the trap of over-intellectualzing the outcome or the path and make room for the unexpected. Become an explorer again, leave your cash and debit card at home, and roam. Don’t look at your phone. A human being’s eyes are a world of their own and we all know this. Smile for a while and swallow up the world.
Have you ever had the opportunity to metaphorically look your shame in the face and watch it fade away, a smoky ghost, no longer tethered to its past life? It’s relatively common knowledge that in order to heal and make room for new and desired experiences, to grow, to step into your Destiny yadda yadda, one must release shame. The common knowledge seems to end there, leaving the mass of many of us at a loss for how to go about this in practical terms. We often don’t even know what this feels like, do any of our bodies know this freedom?
According to ancient Goddess traditions, the “Virgin” did not mean a woman who has never had sex, rather, she was a woman who was “whole in herself.” There’s a clue here, for all of us. To be virginal, even “pure” I think, has more to do with our inner attitude and relationship to our personal experiences than with the specifics of what those experiences actually are. How can someone enjoy a purity of spirit in a messy life such as this?
It happened again. This restless, stir crazy uncertainty that comes with having too much time alone, the constant questioning and debating back and forth over whether I should spend $6 on a coffee just to sit somewhere else that isn’t my living room. I did it. I’m at [OMITTED] sitting at the bar. Drake is playing throughout the place and I’m contemplating putting my headphones in. Healing frequencies for focus. 420hrtz? No, I think it’s 432. I’m encouraged though, if he says I’m the fuckin’ best then I’m the fuckin’ best. Young Money. That’s the dream.
At the bar, the overhead television:
Drew’s News: 90% of parents say it’s more important for their children to make money than it is to start families.
This is followed by a lucky charms commercial, one for ancestry.com, a same day behavioral health care organization, oatmeal.
The program comes back.
Drews news: doctor performs vasectomies from country’s first ever mobile clinic.
Miss Barrymore looks great. Her pinstripe suit and black rimmed glasses make for such a smart ensemble- a famous talk show host mobster. They’re eating deep dish pizza. The tv’s on mute, but are they still talking about vasectomies??? Drew is sawing away… at the pizza. Drew takes a big bite. I admire her red manicure.
Hold out for the best, to settle is to undermine your own patience and therefore your deeper sense of what is best for yourself.
In simplification and surrender, the thunder breaks the silence between the core of earth and the crown of space. A flash burns into the mind and something new is born.
Little Rituals to Keep Hope Alive
Small devastations and keeping your hands clean from unhealthy ways of coping from them. Pushing stubbornly into the pleasurable but somehow difficult things you love to do. Dodging the clouds in your inner eye. Trying to trust in the night visions when they aren’t all together clear. [OMITTED] Angry at the school girl angst that may or may not have a place in the finished product. Developing discipline and continuing to be the most competent self soother. Give yourself a hug. Shower. Be selective with who touches your power.
I want to be held I want to be held I want to be held. Maybe I deserve to be rigid and tense? So angry. What even is on my mind? Or more specifically, what do I want to write about when I don’t want to write about [OMITTED] or [OMITTED] or [OMITTED] or being bored. I’m hoping that by writing poems I can change my life but sometimes I feel like I have to change my life before I can write poems.
I’m hoping that by writing poems I can change my life but sometimes I feel like I have to change my life before I can write poems.
