[Disclaimer: I have NOT been caught stealing. That’s not why the song is here. I’m just a punk.]
Where the hell am I and what am I doing? Oh, yeah. Tuesday, post-swim. Always seems to do a number on my brain. Don’t know if it’s the early morning start, the smoking – or lack thereof, or just my reaction from pushing my body so hard, but Tuesdays are just damned difficult for me to remember.
Did my shopping yesterday, and spent a whopping €49.95 (could I have gotten closer to €50 without trying?) at a department store. I am now the (not so) proud owner of probably the ugliest pair of sneakers they had in the place. Don’t really care; just so happens they fit my feet the best, were in my size, and 30% off to boot – tho I must admit I find them really, really ugly. I have two new pairs of sweatpants (side query: why do we say PAIRS of pants in English?) that don’t fit me too terribly. Two new T-shirts, so pristine they’re gonna shove some of my older T’s into work-out gear, and a pair of gloves that I needed for cold weather.
I was in and out of that store in 30 minutes. Now THAT’S what I call shopping!
Had another appointment to tinker with my orthopedic shoes. I hope it’s the last. So far, so good, but we’ll see how I feel after the first two to four hour walk I take them on.
Today was swim time, lovely, lovely, swim time, with the lights on just so that they sparkle under water. Didn’t want to get out. Just wanted to keep swimming, back and forth, watching the lights. Goddess, I love the water. I pretend to be a ninja in class, punching and kicking out with all my might. Then I am a mermaid, gliding through the water. A fish, diving. A sea lion turning and splashing just for the sheer joy of it.
Some days I think I’m gonna grow gills.
And now: quiet time. My brother has left the house for a few hours, the tv is off, and even the downstairs neighbors are silent and still. It’s welcome after the music at the pool and the general noise of people talking and not drowning. I can hear myself again. Hear that voice in my head. Hear the words begin.
I’m NOT a fast typer. When I worked as a secretary I think I topped out at 50 words a minute. But when I write I guess I forget to type slowly. My fingers fly, the keys clack, and I’ve been threatened on more than one occasion to have a mic set up to record the noise I make. I don’t hear it. All I’m aware of is the words appearing on the page, the thoughts coalescing out of nothing. But it might be nice, once, to record me while I write. I always think I’m so damned slow!
Writing. The script is going well. Very well. Still basically writing itself. Did a little research on formatting; I’ve only written one other script and it was for the British publication 2000 A.D. so it was for comic books, not actors. A little different. I know a word count and page total to shoot for. My head’s already divided it into three distinct acts: before the meal, during the meal, and after the meal. And I guess it’s a black comedy. Two marriages are going to break up and someone will try to commit suicide; that’s not standard ha-ha material. Still. I can’t stop writing it as a comedy. Can’t stop with the jokes, inside and completely upfront. Can’t stop with any of it. The weirdest thing is – and it IS completely weird – I’m having deja vu through the entire thing. Every. bleeding. word. Like I’ve already written it a hundred times over. The core idea is true to life; I saw my family disintegrate in a very short period of time. And some of the lines the characters say are right out of my personal experience. But the fictional side of the story, the jacket I’m dressing it all up in, if you will, is also very familiar to me. I don’t have to think about who does what, or what anyone says. It’s all right there. It’s almost as if I’ve dreamt this a million times, and now I’m just pulling it out of my subconscious.
And yes, my head is off in orbit. Dreaming of fame and fortune. Padding out my inner ego. I keep pulling my feet back to the ground. Remembering that first I must finish this. Everything else comes later. Knowing I still have 16,000 words to write is a sobering thought. Then someone has to DO it. I’m crossing my fingers the theatre group I’m working with will perform it, but my flights into hypomania are no guarantee that I’ll get what I want. Still…I enjoy letting my mind run free, feeding my ego from the inside. Sometimes that’s what gives me the confidence to actually put myself out there. And that can’t be all that bad.
Because yesterday I heard the words from my brother: she’s got no confidence. His friend, R, had stopped by; they’re still working on taxes and immigration. R speaks Dutch fluently, but he’s rarely heard me speak the language. I rolled some sentences out on him and as usual got that very surprised look followed up by the ‘you speak Dutch very well’, which then prompted the statement from my brother on my lack of confidence. My bro was very specific on his meaning; he stated I’ve got no confidence in speaking Dutch but I know more than I think I do. I heard all of that, and acknowledge it. And my head still walked away with just ‘she’s got no confidence’ because it hit me. Just that right time and place, you know? Went straight down to the core of me.
Every once in a great while, we’re gifted with short bursts of understanding. Yesterday, in my brother’s words, I saw me as probably many people see me: lacking self confidence. It was illuminating. It threw a spotlight on my quietness, my holding back, my lack of participation that I hadn’t expected. It’s true, too. I thought I was passing it off as shy, but I’m not.
I been caught.