Begin Again

Here’s the thing. It’s not that blogging baffles me, or confounds me, or makes me wig out, or does anything to make me want to avoid it. It just simply takes time that I never seem to be able to find, and therefore I stop blogging. And then – for that reason – I usually get inundated, by the digital-social world that I exist in, with an inordinate amount of comments about how I’m doing it all wrong. Phooey.

So – before I begin again – because that is what I am about to do – I guess I need to figure a few things out – and blogging about them seemed like the most appropriate thing to do.

1. I will blog when I blog.
Not every day. Not in sequence. Not covering absolutely everything. Not covering everything I take a photo of. I will simply blog… when I blog.

2. I will not feel guilty for only blogging when I blog.
My biggest regret is that writing – which usually brings me release and joy – will become tedious and difficult. Mundane and indifferent. Writing to write but not to write for myself.

3. I will write as I write.
I will not improve to some random stranger’s, or group of random strangers’, beliefs about what blogging should be. I will not change my blogging even at the imploring begs of friends. I will not update for the sake of updating. I will not write just about one topic. Nor just as a diary. Nor just as social media commentary. Nor just as a photo blog. I will simply write, as I write.

4. I will be content.
There is no best I am trying to reach – there is only difference, and more. The best that I can be is my everyday – and if it isn’t good enough for someone else – they should probably write their own.

5. I will re-find my 14-year-old self.
Simply because – it seems she was damned good writer – much better than the me that exists now.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Begin again.

A note about the next three days...

Before I post the last three days of our Contiki trip - it should be noted - that blogs for the last three days were not written. I am trying my best to re-create from my memories what happened along with the photos we took those days. We'll see how it goes, eh? :o)

Ramblings of the Written Kind: #2

Another piece dug out of the "drawer"...:

And it just hits you – this need to write and write and write because nothing comes out right when you say it and nothing seems so clear and honest as when you take that jump from heart and mind to page and ink.

I let the music on my stereo fill the room and even overpower some of my thoughts so that only the baer essentials from my brain drip through.

I feel bloated with emotion and energy – like I’m bursting at the seams with all these things that I want to do and see and experience, and yet life seems to get in the way. This city, this place, this experience of living has become some drollery of tedious cyclical momentum – energy building and building with no way to release itself into a wider arena than a life which presents itself as a room with no doors, no windows - only white-washed walls with no discernable physicality.

Sometimes I wish to just explode on the page with no idea as to what it is that I’m writing at all. I want to feel and express everything within, so much tied into such a small soul – in a way music does but with my own capabilities – of which music is not one. I used to think it was – but I am humbled by the greatness I come upon in others everyday. I do not have the voice of an angel, I do not have the fingers of a virtuoso, I do not have the perseverance of a struggling artist – I only have that deep inner want that drives talentless schmucks such as I into an oblivion of desperation with no way to actualize true fruition.

It would be one thing to write an actual story – something that could be read and understood and connected with an actual reader – but I have no cause to write such a tale – because there’s no real story to tell – no meaning to impart that I don’t believe hasn’t been told a million times.

And then, so it dies, this false sugar energy of mine disguised as actual ambition. Reality builds its brick wall in an instant and doubt and fear and listlessness pervade.

How fleeting inspiration is, and how I long for it to return.

Ramblings of the Written Kind: #1

One of my biggest failings when I write is that I constantly and consistently start and stop... and then do not continue when I pick up again. Instead, I start all anew. It definitely makes for a very unfruitful use of my writing for sure. However - I also tend to like the bits on their own for what they are - the memories they bring and the feelings they evoke.

I used to post on thisisby.us, and do still love that community to bits, it's just a bit of a task to write there, as it requires trying my hardest to keep the "me" out of "me"... so instead, I figured I'd post a few things here...

Here is a bit, I dug out of the heap...

Somewhere along the way, our relationship had turned into an old pair of jeans, the ones you basically love and wear to death. The hole of our fight had been patched lovingly, caringly, and slowly - with strong thread that not only bound the woven fabric of two existence planes of our partnership together, but interconnected them in a way that to the average eye, made them seem like one. But like those old pair of jeans, as time went by, the patch proved stronger than the original whole.

Bit by bit, just as every pair of jeans eventually do, the greater original base of who we were slowly wore away, and eventually, the only part that remained was the patch alone. We had turned ourselves into a woven scab of tiptoes and glances that were wholly evident in all our conversations and truths. Only a shadow of our original connection lay hidden under the patchwork we created – destined to forever be obscured for the sake of holding it all together. Oh to glance at the remnants of our original selves one last time – but no. Such an action would only kill all that is left, and leave a patch unto itself – something meaningless and no longer useful because its purpose had completely fallen away.

Tomorrow is approaching...

Tomorrow is approaching,
So much so that it is already here.
Hard steps to be a'takin.
Walk slowly, but not in fear.

I ruminated with Michele the other night about how, this time around, during this extremely hard and stressful time - I haven't done the one and only thing I usually do - which is write.

Whether it be a blog, or a page, or a short story or even just a "scene" - I've always written. Mostly to escape, sometimes to be creative, and always to find some piece of 'me' to hold on to.

Writing just does that. Even in the smallest amounts.

Usually - I've at least always "written" through prose and indirect intimation towards my state of mind in quick lines that fit into my msn handles. People are usually thoroughly confused or thoroughly shocked - but most definitely not dismissive.

But even that... for so long... has been... missing. Catapang even once commented how wax poetic it all was... but I just haven't been there in so long.

Until tonight.

I have begun with the above. It isn't great. It isn't meaningful - except in invisible ways. Oh the effort to get there - I crave to return to the ease that it used to flow from. Perhaps soon....