What a f***in’ joke

imgres.jpg

An orange dot on the upper right hand side of the WP screen alerted me to the fact that today is my two year anniversary on this blog-o-sphere. Whoop-de-doo. The occasion should be marked by stating unequivocally that I’m in a better mental state now than when I began. Still don’t know if I’m “happy” or not, but at least I’m not miserable.

Ear specialist appointment today. No slicing or dicing, thankfully. But odd. Had a hearing test first with the nurse. Twenty minutes later I was being congratulated by the doc for ‘having the hearing of a 10 year old kid’. Really? This is good? You people are deaf. Have a prescription for extra strength nose drops (should create an excellent momentary sense of drowning; really looking forward to using them – not). Told to see a special physiotherapist, someone who (apparently) can manipulate my jaw to help any built up pressure from scar tissue formed by my RA. Ach! Another one? More money out? Seriously? And I’m supposed to wait an additional 6 weeks before making another appointment – and then it will only be to set up a further appointment for “therapy” and “counseling” to deal with the continual ringing in my ears. Like I bleeding need therapy to deal with my hearing!

In other words, I still got my bionic hearing and no one can figure out what I’m bitching about.

Story of my life.

The radio drama is out and I’ve already received notification that they’ve got it. Also feel the fool. Noticed on my writer’s email account a tiny, dark grey number by the spam folder. Yeesh. There were the two replies from the competition answering my requests for a submission form. Took me half an hour to figure out how to get them out of the spam folder, and I’m still working on letting go of feeling a right ASS for not noticing it sooner.

Brutal appointment with my physiotherapist. I asked for it, and I got it. He hit a point by my tailbone that was sore, and he began with his usual gentle touch. I was quick to point out he shouldn’t be afraid of hurting me and within half a second I was almost regretting telling him that. Bore down on the area with his full weight. OW! But for the first time he got a deep crack in the area, and my back’s felt better ever since.

Getting back to gym time. Not easy with my hearing complaint. I can’t submerse into sound with my iPod; it doesn’t sound right to me, and the high end is ALL wrong. But I can’t keep using that as an excuse. My angry outburst the other day proved that to me beyond a shadow of a doubt.

I am just done making excuses for myself. The truth is, I’m a woman of extremes. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. Always tried to prevent it, always tried to tread the middle path. Doesn’t work for me. And I’m tired of trying. It is what it is. I push more, feel more, think (and doubt) more than most, believe weird things, and apparently have the hearing of a pre-nubile goddess. At 51.

What a fuckin’ joke.

I wear my sunglasses at night

images-1.jpg

Holidays. Been through quite a few holidays that consist of me sitting at home, doing my usual thing. Someday I’m gonna take a real holiday again. Not a work holiday or a performance holiday, not a holiday to meet someone or hand out music, not a holiday to scout the venues or check the scene or make connections or attend a meeting but a real, live, fully grown holiday complete with a hotel robe and room service. No agenda other than to go out and see things, do things, try new restaurants, and annoy the housekeeping staff by continuously using the ‘do not disturb’ sign.

Yeah.

I might even do it alone, at one of those spas.

This holiday certainly isn’t that. There’s an extra added tingle at night, heading off to bed and realizing I don’t have to set the alarm yet again. But I’m walking the same parks and lanes, doing essentially the same stuff, and still having to clean out the bathroom drains and do the dishes every day so it’s hardly a holiday in my book.

Just more time to fuck around.

Autumn rain has moved in; it’s already swishing outside under the cars, telling me it’s wet and will stay wet today. The entire week (the whole holiday) is forecast for much the same. It’s kicking me in the ass to go and join the gym that’s near my home. Today I’m on a search for athletic footwear. Realized that between my orthopedics and my other footwear I don’t have a pair of sneakers right now. So it’s off to the mall, sure to be packed with kids free from school and anyone and everyone (like me) who hasn’t escaped the city on this break. Not really something I want to do; mall shopping on a busy day rates about a negative ten on my fun scale. But I DO want to join the gym, which means I need new shoes, which means I have to go shopping. Hopefully I can execute a guerrilla style attack later on: in the entrance closest to the shop I want to go to, find some shoes, get them, get the hell out. I know I have ample time to burn. It’s not about wasting time. It’s about sheer annoyance over slow walkers, people who aren’t aware of others, queues, and bad mall music.

Besides…I gotta little something going on. A little something that seems to kinda be writing itself. A script. Did a hunt for the script treatment of my book and could find no trace of it anywhere. Either I thought a lot about it and never did it, or it’s among my work that got lost. Lost on some memory stick, lost in the cloud, lost in the tons of mish-mash paperwork I carry around from place to place. I felt very put out when I couldn’t find it. But my head obviously took it as an invitation to begin writing again. I churned out 1000 words yesterday and only stopped because the sun came out and I felt I needed to go for a walk.

I’ve written for my mental health. I’ve written because I HAD to write out the story that was haunting me or I’d never get any rest. I’ve written with the idea that I’ll get whatever I’m working on published. Right now, I’m writing for a group. The theatre group. I find myself concerned over how many actors I’ll use (naturally, I want to use as many as are willing). I wonder if the group has access to any set material. Can I write a full play that takes place in one room? That’s what I’m trying to do. The implosion of the American family in one afternoon, does as a comedy. The words, the people, even the room I imagine all feel familiar to me. They should; I’m using it as an opportunity (there’s that word again) to exercise my demons. But of course everything’s mashed together. The father figure might be based on my dad, but it isn’t my dad. The brother might be based on my oldest brother, but it isn’t him. I’ve decided to load up my sister’s hateful personality into an in-law, so I can leave the family blameless for all the nastiness when the story is over. And I’m splitting myself into two characters: one will be depressed me, one will be the me everyone wanted to see. The mother figure is the most removed from my family and bears no real resemblance to my own mom other than she’s shown to be the family’s servant, running around more than relaxing. It’s the kind of scenario I can easily add more actors to, if wanted. Right now I’ve got six, split evenly between the sexes – something my brain is adamant about: making sure there’s plenty of good roles for women of all ages and sizes.

I figure the theatre group is pretty amateur, right? The plays they’re prepping right now were written by a former director. So they should at least be willing to workshop it. Maybe if they like it, they’ll do it. Maybe if it goes well, they’ll ask me to write some more. Maybe. The truth behind that ‘maybe’ is maybe something will come of it. Clive Barker got started in theatre; why not me?

The irony behind that situation – me traveling half way around the world to a non-English speaking country only to become known as a writer of English works – isn’t lost on me. It is, in fact, part of why I think it’s a possibility. Contrariness is strong in my life. I don’t run from it; I embrace it. So when something comes along that looks tailor made for me to lift up one half of my mouth in a small smile and emit that short ‘ha!’ that IS my answer to irony in my life, I tend to go for it.

Holidays that aren’t holidays, shopping that isn’t shopping, writing English in a Dutch speaking country.

And yes, I wear my sunglasses at night, too.

Labels, Reflections, and Personas

Unknown

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.