on the quest for finding myself i've finally decided to enlist outside help. this has come in the form of a self help/live your life to the fullest/create your own destiny seminar.... i'm not talking badly about it mind you. i've seen what it can do to people in their 60's all the way down to people in their mid-twentys. it looks good. i want it.
i want no part of it! it's just some wacked out scheme to make people feel in control of their lives while paying other people large sums of money to tell them what they already know! i've lived long enough to know what's going on, i dont need some shmuck in a suit to tell me anything....
what if i go and do this seminar and i turn into a different person? what if i'm not me anymore? what if i turn into one of those people who has, quote, 'drunk the kool-aid'?
what am i so afraid of? if i become a different person it has to be better than the person i am now. the person i'm so determined to hold on to. why am i so afraid of strangers and why do i worry what they think of me? i'm as much a stranger to them as they are to me....i do want it....
Friday, June 25, 2010
Saturday, November 7, 2009
....The dead will walk the earth
The aches and pains were always worse with the weather. It didn’t matter if the weather was hot or cold, wet or dry, it always changed and that’s when the pain came on. By now, she’d gotten to be almost an expert in the levels of pain, and the types. If it was cold, the pain was deep inside the bones, almost hot and all encompassing, if it was hot and dry, the pain was a dull ache, almost a memory, a phantom. The house was sinking; she could feel it in her stomach, the way it lurched when she was standing still, the way the doors didn’t quite close properly anymore. When she stood in the front yard and stared at it, studying it, the house sat like a malignant rock, hunchbacked and looming, blocking out the sun, no matter what hour of the day. Spending too much time alone was a recipe for madness, she knew, it hadn’t been just coincidence that Uncle Milton had gone into the woods out the back end of the property and no one had ever seen him again, save for old Widow Harlis, but then the Widow wasn’t the sanest person either. Some of her family had disappeared mysteriously too.
The dirt road that connected her to the Harlis farm, and farther down, the Cripley place, was rutted knee deep, and the dust hung above it like it was afraid to settle. In the winter, it turned into a mud river, slow moving and slovenly, it moved with malignant purpose, carrying away small birds and mice; their wails of doom and terror swiftly swallowed up in the sound of the current. Her great great grandfather had built the house, and it sat on a small hill, surrounded by the moat he’d dug, a primitive levy to keep flood waters at bay, if it flooded at all. He had planted the apple orchard as well, but these days, it was just one more acre for the weeds to infest. The last crop of apples had been hard and sour, even the skins had been bitter, none of them even worth making pies out of.
The house sinking was her first sign that things weren’t the same as they always had been. After that, she noticed that it was dryer than it had been in years past, and there were more crows perched on her barn roof then she had ever seen before. She wasn’t like the Widow Harlis, thinking that crows were the bringers of evil and death, to her corn field perhaps, but oddly enough, they didn’t seem interested in it. They watched her lazily as she moved from the washer to the clothesline and back to the porch, occasionally shuffling their feathers and croaking amongst themselves. At night, she could hear them moving across the roof and pecking at her windows, even though it wasn’t any cooler in the house.
The third sign came when the Widow Harlis promptly dropped dead, not one hour after walking home from church. The crows were ominously silent, heads tilted at matching angles as they stared at the Harlis homestead. It was enough to pull her to the edge of the porch, balancing against the splintering wood railing as she tried to see what they saw. The Harlis place looked the same as it always did, the same clapboard siding bleached white in the sun, the same porch sagging slightly in the middle, the same confederate flag in the window next to the cloth with two faded blue stars; sons that had never come back from war. The more she looked at it, the more that house seemed to sag, as if the supports inside were slowly falling away, leaving it to collapse in on itself. That couldn’t be, the house was the same as it always was, the heat was playing games with her. And the crows were only birds, she didn’t need to go letting her mind run away with silly superstitions and mumbo jumbo.
She went through her Sunday chores, moving with practiced ease through dusty rooms humming to herself for company, after the radio had broken the week before. The Widow would be over shortly, to sit out on the porch with her while they chatted and she worked on finishing a dress that she could wear more easily in the pressing heat. She was startled then, when someone knocked on the screen door, the Widow didn’t bother with niceties, she would sit down then yell through the open door, for lemonade or water. There was a police officer on her front porch. She paused, then wiped her hands on the dishtowel and moved to open the door.
The dirt road that connected her to the Harlis farm, and farther down, the Cripley place, was rutted knee deep, and the dust hung above it like it was afraid to settle. In the winter, it turned into a mud river, slow moving and slovenly, it moved with malignant purpose, carrying away small birds and mice; their wails of doom and terror swiftly swallowed up in the sound of the current. Her great great grandfather had built the house, and it sat on a small hill, surrounded by the moat he’d dug, a primitive levy to keep flood waters at bay, if it flooded at all. He had planted the apple orchard as well, but these days, it was just one more acre for the weeds to infest. The last crop of apples had been hard and sour, even the skins had been bitter, none of them even worth making pies out of.
The house sinking was her first sign that things weren’t the same as they always had been. After that, she noticed that it was dryer than it had been in years past, and there were more crows perched on her barn roof then she had ever seen before. She wasn’t like the Widow Harlis, thinking that crows were the bringers of evil and death, to her corn field perhaps, but oddly enough, they didn’t seem interested in it. They watched her lazily as she moved from the washer to the clothesline and back to the porch, occasionally shuffling their feathers and croaking amongst themselves. At night, she could hear them moving across the roof and pecking at her windows, even though it wasn’t any cooler in the house.
The third sign came when the Widow Harlis promptly dropped dead, not one hour after walking home from church. The crows were ominously silent, heads tilted at matching angles as they stared at the Harlis homestead. It was enough to pull her to the edge of the porch, balancing against the splintering wood railing as she tried to see what they saw. The Harlis place looked the same as it always did, the same clapboard siding bleached white in the sun, the same porch sagging slightly in the middle, the same confederate flag in the window next to the cloth with two faded blue stars; sons that had never come back from war. The more she looked at it, the more that house seemed to sag, as if the supports inside were slowly falling away, leaving it to collapse in on itself. That couldn’t be, the house was the same as it always was, the heat was playing games with her. And the crows were only birds, she didn’t need to go letting her mind run away with silly superstitions and mumbo jumbo.
She went through her Sunday chores, moving with practiced ease through dusty rooms humming to herself for company, after the radio had broken the week before. The Widow would be over shortly, to sit out on the porch with her while they chatted and she worked on finishing a dress that she could wear more easily in the pressing heat. She was startled then, when someone knocked on the screen door, the Widow didn’t bother with niceties, she would sit down then yell through the open door, for lemonade or water. There was a police officer on her front porch. She paused, then wiped her hands on the dishtowel and moved to open the door.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
walking down this rocky road....
What would I do for love? Hmm well, a lot probably. I do a lot for so called love already. I'm pretty sure. Can you tell when you fall out of love? Am I in love? Is there an instruction book that I can own to see if I really am? When you say that you love someone, taking for granted gets thrown into the mix, a lot of, 'if you love me, you'll do this (insert request) for me.' I don't want to do things simply because it's what I'm supposed to. I will not be painted into a corner, I need to stand up for myself and the things that I want, the things I need. I've only just begun to peel back my layers, to expose the tender folds to the outside air, to dry out and harden like the fake shell that I've surrounded myself with. I can't go back to doing what I did before, being what I was before. I can see the road stretching out in front of me and all the potholes and sharp stones erupting through the soft dirt. I can see how painful it will be and I have no shoes. Only time will give me toughness. I need to stop thinking. And start walking.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
It Starts Today
I am still editing myself! After having an enlightening conversation with one of my friends earlier today. (She doesn't live in the same state, but she can call me on my self editing crutches, she pulls no punches.) I came to realize that I am still editing myself and making excuses. When I should really be saying, I feel sad, I feel sucked dry, I am angry, I am frustrated, I don't know how to make it better, I know how to make some things better, but I'm scared. I even catch myself doing it, why do I feel the need to complain about something, but quickly follow it up with some kind of ridiculous disclaimer like "oh but at least I have a job, it's really not that bad" when really I want to say that today I really hate my job, and I wish I didn't have it, and everyone can take a flying leap because I'm tired. It's because it's easier to let things go, cave into things, less confrontation, and I don't want to bring anyone down. What I need to realize is that when my friends and family ask me how things are, they have enough insight and brains to see under my shallow words, to the deeper and more ugly ones. They can see the truth that I try to sugarcoat. I am not in this alone, I have spare sets of backbones and hands to hold, and shoulders to cry on, and smiles to return and laughter to share to the point of pants wetting. Why am I even doing it anymore? No one in real life is actually like this. Well, this Stepford train has come to the end of it's track, no more Miss. Shallow, no more worrying about if it might bring someone down, no more thinking I have to be the easy one. It starts today.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Popsicle Cannibal, I'm never gonna grow up.....
whoever said that it's good to be alive.... sneaky sneaky, bouncing down dark hallways, waiting to be discovered... everyone clap your hands to the beat, the beat in your head, the beat in your heart. my thoughts are like bubbles, soap bubbles that rise higher and higher before they burst in the wind like chicken grease on a stove top. music makes me strangely nostalgic, i remember things i would rather not....love is all you need, doesn't anyone tell you this? and panda's don't wear purple bathrobes, ice cream has no bones and you can't drive a canoe down the freeway....it's all very obvious if you just know what you're looking for. and who you travel with.
Monday, September 7, 2009
C'mon skinny love...
Sometimes it takes me a while to see that I slip down a hill just the same as everyone I see around me. what I mean is, I was having a conversation about how new age people kind of creep me out, in that some of them grasp on to healing Chrystal's and herbs like it'll suddenly cure their whole lives, like suddenly everything will be alright because they have their necklaces and powders. And it only occurs to me at this exact moment that I opened my mouth and said the things that people do when they're pointing fingers because they are scared of the very thing they talk about. I said that those people need to realize that it's not just about having stones and incense, if you want things to change in your life for real, you have to believe in it, you have to get off your ass and change your life so it moves in a more positive direction, you can't just clutch a stone and hope that it gets you were you want to go. That's just lazy. How true. Too bad that I'm cowering in my tower, my fortress, hoping that it'll turn out just exactly that way. At twenty-six I'm just now not wanting to be invisible, I want to do things, I want people to notice that I'm in the room.....I still don't want to speak up but I want to be noticed. It's a nice little corner I've painted myself into. Hand to mouth, I've left nothing extra to show me how I can be less invisible, to show me how to show myself. And now I stay invisible. such a vicious circle, till I blast into the sky like some kind of superhero, out of the darkness and into the light. I will not be invisible forever.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
An amalgam of sorrows and the wisdom they give
Lately I find myself trying to change how I view the world and people around me. I try to put myself in their shoes when I smile at them and they don’t smile back, maybe they are the same as I am, and are nervous about someone trying to reach out and form a connection with them. Much the same as I am. It’s hard to change when I’m always so afraid, trying to move forward when I feel like I’m going crazy in my head seems like an exercise in futility. As if I’m running in quicksand with concrete shoes.
Talking to my friends, I’ve realized that I attempt to make things work until I have a breakdown, I force myself to do things that I hate, and to be in situations that make me unduly nervous, as if I’m testing myself, and somehow magically this time will turn out better than in the past. I force myself till there’s nothing left, no way for me to fake my brain out any longer and then I collapse.
More and more now, I find myself thinking about when I was young. I try to pinpoint where things took a turn from endless possibilities, to the same path stretching on into eternity. The exact moment when I started to live in fear of everything, the exact moment when I told myself that this was how it is, this is what everything is, nothing more, nothing less. The farther those early memories slip into the past as I age; it’s harder to recall if I was happy more than I was sad, comforted more than I was scared.
People are fond of ridiculous sayings. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, view the world through rose-colored glasses; two in the hand one in the bush, people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Do people say these things because they lack the courage to voice their feelings and have to rely on puritanical proverbs? I cannot point even one finger, as I have been lying to myself all my life, never mind anyone else.
Now I’m caught in the middle, in a sea with no land in sight, velvety bitter regrets swirl around my body, they weigh me down and drag me just under the surface, convincing me that this is the end. The end is near, and I feel it, but I am not afraid. Funny that, how I’m terrified of everything in life but now I’m no longer afraid of dying or death. Not so unafraid that I’d actually willingly seek it out, but when it comes I won’t be afraid of it.
My brain feels like the ever-changing house, in House of Leaves. Hanging tape measures and lighting flares and using fishing line to mine the dark depths of things I’ve long forgotten will do absolutely no good. In the next instant, they will be gone, replaced by a door far too narrow to slip through, a flat gray wall that stretches in both directions forever. My brain is not a peaceful place, it feels like it changes on a whim, and I’m only along for the ride. Well I want off this ride, I get motion sickness, and I want to be the captain of this crazy train, this runaway cruise ship. Maybe I will be one day, maybe never. Maybe I should just not think about it anymore. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Talking to my friends, I’ve realized that I attempt to make things work until I have a breakdown, I force myself to do things that I hate, and to be in situations that make me unduly nervous, as if I’m testing myself, and somehow magically this time will turn out better than in the past. I force myself till there’s nothing left, no way for me to fake my brain out any longer and then I collapse.
More and more now, I find myself thinking about when I was young. I try to pinpoint where things took a turn from endless possibilities, to the same path stretching on into eternity. The exact moment when I started to live in fear of everything, the exact moment when I told myself that this was how it is, this is what everything is, nothing more, nothing less. The farther those early memories slip into the past as I age; it’s harder to recall if I was happy more than I was sad, comforted more than I was scared.
People are fond of ridiculous sayings. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, view the world through rose-colored glasses; two in the hand one in the bush, people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Do people say these things because they lack the courage to voice their feelings and have to rely on puritanical proverbs? I cannot point even one finger, as I have been lying to myself all my life, never mind anyone else.
Now I’m caught in the middle, in a sea with no land in sight, velvety bitter regrets swirl around my body, they weigh me down and drag me just under the surface, convincing me that this is the end. The end is near, and I feel it, but I am not afraid. Funny that, how I’m terrified of everything in life but now I’m no longer afraid of dying or death. Not so unafraid that I’d actually willingly seek it out, but when it comes I won’t be afraid of it.
My brain feels like the ever-changing house, in House of Leaves. Hanging tape measures and lighting flares and using fishing line to mine the dark depths of things I’ve long forgotten will do absolutely no good. In the next instant, they will be gone, replaced by a door far too narrow to slip through, a flat gray wall that stretches in both directions forever. My brain is not a peaceful place, it feels like it changes on a whim, and I’m only along for the ride. Well I want off this ride, I get motion sickness, and I want to be the captain of this crazy train, this runaway cruise ship. Maybe I will be one day, maybe never. Maybe I should just not think about it anymore. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
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