Okay, this is my third fucking attempt to put something down here today and by the goddess, whatever comes out of me is NOT going to be deleted this time. I swear, put the label ‘professional writer’ on me and suddenly I can’t let it flow out. Jeez!
Yeah, I wore that label yesterday. Proudly. My grin almost split my face at times. I let myself drift and dream of greatness, like I said I would. I didn’t judge it. Gave my head a full 2 songs worth of time to zoom out as far as it wanted to go in my little fantasy. Oh, and I was THERE, darlings. Nobel prize for literature and all that. After my two song limit, I stopped myself, turned down the music a little bit, and came back to reality. I found a couple of stray thoughts left in my brain. Can I ever write another story like that? What if that’s the only thing I’ll ever get published? These twin demons of self-destruction had snuck in and I now faced them. I found myself afraid. I’d gotten noticed; now what if I couldn’t follow up? I want to say I banished them to the netherworld, but I haven’t. Not completely. They’re still in my head. We’re kind of at a stand-off because I KNOW I’ve face these fuckers before, which means I’ve felt this way after every good story I’ve written. Hells bells, they pop their damned heads up after every poem, every song I feel is good. So they’re there, all right. I’ve got them standing outside my window, just looking at me with those pathetic fucking faces. Pretty soon they’ll bugger off and leave me alone.
I want to say I met someone yesterday, but that will give you entirely the wrong impression. I didn’t meet someone in the conventional sense: no names were exchanged, we were not introduced, and I have no thought of ever seeing this person again. But I did MEET someone yesterday. On my walk, I passed by a group of disabled people and their carers. One young man reached out to shake my hand as I passed. It was probably just what he did to everyone. I’m not delusional about that. But the IMPACT on me was..almost indescribable. I got pure joy off that handshake. Pure joy that I had acknowledged him, looked him straight in the eye. Pure joy at the day, the walk, and life in general. We looked at each other, he in his joy and I in mine and we mingled our joy by hand and glance and it was sublime. For a fraction of a micro second, we laughed with each other at the world, at it’s sorrows and foibles and senseless tail chasing. I felt like he saw into me, past everything that had rusted my outside and corroded my heart, to the ME that exists before and after this life. And it’s almost like he burnt a path for me to follow. It feels easier to see that person inside me right now, and to access her. Thank you, whoever you are. Thank you, Universe, for setting up that moment. And thank you, me, for letting it happen.
Back at home, another epitome of irony between my bro and me.
This house is still a mess. There are still boxes in the middle of the floor because so far we just don’t have the space cleared out to put them anywhere else. So upon leaving for my walk, I dithered about where I should put my note to my bro telling him where I was. I thought, ‘Leave it right on the coffee maker. First thing he does is make coffee. He’ll be SURE to see it.’ Sooooo – yeah. I got back from my walk and my bro HADN’T made coffee and was wondering where I’d got to. There was nothing to do but laugh at it, yet there it is: the basic problem we have. We are so often at loggerheads as to timing or work! We even try to be in the same SPACE at the same time. I kid you not. Put us in a room and ask us to senselessly walk around. We WILL cross each other’s path sooner or later. It’s like our orbits cross. We can’t help it. The only way we can avoid it is one of us really has to step aside and let the other one do their thing. And even then, given enough time, the one of us waiting will inevitably – INEVITABLY – be in exactly the spot the one of us working needs to be. It’s maddening. For both of us. Well, at least we’ve learned to laugh at it a little.
My brother’s been haunted by an old song of mine, and is now spending his time trying to work out what I did because he wants to cover it. That is SO fucking cool. SOOOO fucking cool. Back then (the song was done in ’97) I programmed everything in MIDI. And of course, this last move wiped all my disks. I’ve lost everything, including the techno album I’ve currently got for sale. So I couldn’t tell him much, other than the key it was in (which he didn’t believe, had to check, and then told me I was right *eye roll*). He’s way fast at learning a song by ear, tho. A few hours and he had all the parts. Now he’s just rehearsing them to get a clean recording for himself. Hearing him play my melodies on his guitar is – well, it’s just so COOL. No other word for it, it is the ultimate cool in coolsville. Can’t wait to hear what he does with it.
This weekend, I’m facing a 100 word bio for my new pen name. Not sure what to put. Uh, this is a made up persona for a somewhat well-known independent artist. I don’t want to mention my real name. Call me paranoid; I guess I am because I’m afraid if I speak it I will jinx myself right now. Yeah, that reads REAL well. I also don’t know if I should announce this blog as a place to check me out. In some ways, I want to. I’d like to get more followers and feed my ego. In some ways, I don’t. My blog is my blog is my blog and doesn’t have fuck all to do with my stories or music. Ach, see, but that’s not entirely true. I credit this blog, and writing in it every day, for releasing whatever dam had built up inside me so I could access those stories. What’s more truthful is my fear that I’ll be pigeon-holed as ‘that bipolar writer’. Yeah, that’s the truth. I’m not sure I’m ready to wear THAT label just yet. It’s okay here, in the circle of warmth created by all of you. Of the tribe. I’m not okay with it out there.
No, I’ll keep that label private for now. I’ll hide it under the labels I’m more comfortable wearing in public. My labels of ‘professional writer’ or ‘professional artist’ don’t negate my ‘bipolar’ label. There’s no reason my ‘bipolar’ label should negate my professional labels, yet I know it does in so many people’s eyes.
Now I just gotta figure out what to do about the bio pic they want.