This will be the third time this week I have tried to sit in front of this little, glowing screen (much like a Martian shaped like a square) and try to squeak out some of my recent thoughts. I’m scrubbing at the hinges here for something which is depressing, but true. It’s also true that I haven’t written a poem or a devastating beginning to a short story since I’ve returned from Australia. Okay, that’s not true, I wrote this really weird poem on technology and instant-messaging a few weeks ago with the prompt from Church of Whitman, but …. it was strange. And I wouldn’t share it with anyone, even the Church. I’m not even sure I’d unleash this poem in a confessional where you can’t even see through those little wired, wooden pieces into the shadowy face of a priest.
I keep thinking about Flannery O’Conner with her advice to sit down everyday for however long and write because some days magic will happen and some days your wand will poop out. It’s funny to me that so many people believe it’s the crazy’s and the manic’s and the thoroughly depressed that make the best poets, because here I am, my world in a tizzy (with new job, the wait of graduate school, living with my parents) and I can’t get anything on paper. I’m not really one to say “Dear Diary….” like a bad Britney Spears song, but it may be the only way at this point to get out what I’m thinking. And then there’s my mom’s advice to never write anything on paper you don’t want everyone to know. Well…I guess I want everyone to know everything then, huh? I mean, I’m pretty sure in the very front page of one of my favorite notebooks (given the title “Airplane Jane” because it has a very weird stenciled and geometric bird on the front) has a list of all the boys I’ve kissed. I also believe this was a Catie Hitzagrath production.
And since I’m not writing (this is the Capricorn in me, I want everything I write to be ingenious and when it’s not I think it ruins the notebook that I’ve written it in and therefore needs to be burned) is it really fair for me to pray two-thousand times a day that I get into graduate school? Not too sure about that one, because I’m sure some people who have applied and are my competition are ferociously sitting in their attic right now, in a rocking chair, leaned over a desk with their backs getting forever stuck in that hunched position so that when they’re old and shrinking they need a walker, or a wall or something to lean on. And I’m here typing a miscellaneous blog, not really saying anything about anything and wishing I could get in instead of these ferocious lion writers.
The muse God’s really aren’t giving me lion capabilities right now. They’re giving me the capabilities and slime of a small rodent or a shelled species (i.e. snail).
My cat’s even starring at me like “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE WOMAN?”
Here’s what I’m doing:
I’m avoiding telling you the in’s and out’s of my life at the moment.
I’m avoiding talking about anything that has to do with my life other than my writing as it stands this hour, on this Thursday, before I go to work and give my soul to the City of Raleigh Teenagers.
I’m avoiding talking about my Valentine’s day…well maybe not.
Valentine’s Day, night and hangover afterwards I spent with my nephew who just turned three and gave me no kisses so I was forced to steal them. He always smells of cold milk, and is being potty-trained with many accidents ensuing. We played car crash all morning, and ate ice cream with sprinkles. Then fed the ducks, geese and unfortunately seagulls of Lake Lynn bread and crackers. Stellar.
I need a good book to read.
Here’s something more I can share (hoorah)! My wonderful friend Abby has sent me two packages recently where she made me two funky earrings sets. 1. Made of old floppy disks and card board. 2. Made of Sea-glass from the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. Very exciting, very new age, very funky. My ears are gleaming. She also sent me this amazing notebook, that seems like a photo album until you open it and it has stout little people on the cover. Anything directly looking like a gnome (in stoutness) I’m sure to love. She also sent me an orange ring knowing it’s my second favorite color (probably not) but I wore it all day yesterday and watched it give off it’s orange radiance. I’m using a lot of words today that bad poems use to describe the sun (radiance, gleaming, glimmer, shine…).
Among other things…I was thinking earlier this morning “Who loved Hitler?” I know this is strange but last night while talking to someone I love (he who shall not be named, haha) he told me that if I had a good reason, he would love me even if I killed 400 people…now that’s not nearly as many as Hitler, but that means someone had to love everyone who murdered all of those people. Like who were the wives, and young lovers of Nazi soldiers? This is where my mind goes when my love tells me romantic things about how he’ll love me until we’re 85 and things of that nature. I think immediately of Hitler, and Nazi’s and all the horrible killers in the world. And then I try to mesh it together in my mind with love and my inside’s explode.
Can you tell I didn’t draw a diagram to map out this blog?
Can you also tell I’m writing this in a need to update you on my life, but at the same time avoid updating you at all?
Is anyone out there God, it’s me, Margaret?