Power My Way


*sigh* As my dad used to say, ‘Woe is me!’ *dramatic flair and roll of eyes with a cynical smile to indicate the world is not lost*

I believe I was born with the instructions ‘open mouth insert foot’ on the inside of my eyelids.

Just spent the last hour signing on, reading a comment on yesterday’s post, replying, and getting a well composed, thoughtful answer back. Morning encapsulated: up too early, coffee, coffee, thunderstorm oh yea! sign in, read comment, re-read yesterday’s post, shame, shame, guilt, worry, respond to comment, begin writing, writing, ranting, raving, going mad, get answer, read, relax, shame letting go, anger releasing….

Thank you, Blahpolar. Sincerely. Getting called on my shit helps. I’m not always ready for it; or so I feel. I do try to believe the universe won’t give me anything I’m not ready for.

So. Growing up. Report on progress.

I did get in a walk yesterday and took care of some errands. I did get the dishes done, my bed made, and another load of laundry finished. I began a new story. And I turned on my groove box and re-loaded to begin setting up a live play set.

Feel like I didn’t do enough. I need more alone time. Just can’t write or do things when my brother’s around. He’s too hyper now, and interrupts me. Not small interruptions, which would be bad enough. LARGE interruptions. HOURS LONG interruptions.

….And ya know what? If I wasn’t in this house under this particular pressure, I couldn’t write at all anyway. I know that. It’s part of that built-in perverseness about me. Give me all the alone time in the world and I won’t write word one. I won’t even be able to think of a story line that intrigues me. Put me under time limits and pressure and the shit flows from me. Right now I’m pushing myself back up, earlier and earlier, to have more time to get on with my writing. First here, ’cause my own sanity is the most important thing, then onto my new story. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to finish this and get in another 800 words on the story before my bro gets up. As soon as his bedroom door opens, the spell is broken. I’m lucky to be able to proof read when he’s up.

I am one sick puppy. Anybody who figures out that reverse psychology works well on me has got me where they want me.

Is there a way to break this? Goddess knows, my mom tried. For all my life. She had to DIE before I stopped procrastinating so much. I used to think she kept the part of me that was able to move forward and deal with things, and when she died I finally got it back. Or it seemed that way to me. I began to tackle deadlines rather than let them creep up on me. But that was for mom’s shit, like paying bills on time or filling out fucking forms.

It wasn’t for me.

For me, I still procrastinate.

This is a struggle. In some ways, you can’t push creativity. Well, you CAN, but only at the risk – the real risk – of losing your sanity. As an artist, there is a part of me that wants to dive into that insanity. To lose the outside world because my ONLY world is in my art. As a person, I know that’s not healthy. I also can’t shake the feeling that that is the way to brilliance; to push and push until you’re ready to burst. There’s a certain ripeness you’ve got to get about you; a feeling of being too full to bear it so it ekes out on paper and in melody. I know there’s people out there who just put one word in front of the other, because they know many words and how to use them. Just the same, there’s many people out there who put one note after the other, one chord after the other. There’s a market for that stuff. But it has no soul. It will not live beyond today.

Perhaps it’s my belief in my own immortality that holds me back. No, I don’t think I’ll live forever. But death feels un-real, a thing that may come today or tomorrow or next year; I’m not facing it now. It’s a dream of forgetfulness now, not a nightmare of farewells. Just last night I said ‘Well, there’s always tomorrow’. But no, sometimes there isn’t a tomorrow. For a lot of people right now, there isn’t a tomorrow.

Is there a way I can balance this without being morbid?

Woe is me, woe is me….

Just thinking about my dad saying it makes me smile. I never thought to ask him where he got that from (ya, I know there’s a bible reference. I’m more interested in who used to say it to dad). Now, of course, there’s a hardcore metal band with that name. I just googled the phrase to see what I came up with. A bunch of pictures of angsty looking 20 somethings. Thanks for ruining the phrase for me, kiddies…

I guess I really need a schedule. Something to stick to. I hate the feeling of confinement that brings to mind. Yet, I know it’s a good way for me to move forward with my writing or anything else I want to accomplish. Steady time, set aside to do just one thing. If I don’t move forward, I don’t move forward. But I’ll use the time to TRY to move forward. Put my creativity on a timetable. Ugh. Sounds a lot like my mother. But then, there’s got to be parts of her that weren’t all THAT bad, right? She was successful enough in her chosen career. She had many things she wanted. Can I take from her what’s useful and ditch the rest? That’s my real question. Can I learn how to use what she taught me, but do it my way? That would be a winning combination. Her perseverance, my creativity.

I see power in that. Power used MY way, not hers. Not to manipulate. But to moderate. Not vindictive, but creative.


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