Not Perfect : Day 99 #100daysofwriting

Vegging on a couch, babysitting and trying not to dwell on the fact that I've avoided posting all week. My weekend was amazing but I've been pretty down this week. The kind of down that you can't pinpoint the cause, you're just exhausted and drained.

I'm much better now and it really was just a dark cloud but it's hard to write in that space - you'd think not but the creativity dwindles and self pity sets in.

I really need a healing weekend. Maybe with a fresh canvas and some paints. Oh, on the note of painting - "Art Sauce" on Roeland St is amaaaazing. Buy all my birthday presents there please!!!

I suppose it is ok that I missed a few posts and I will catch them up. I'm not sure that I'm going to launch a new 100 day challenge on Saturday... a photography one on instagram maybe?

I'm glad it's Friday tomorrow... I need it.

Heartbreak : Day 68 #100daysofwriting

"Creativity is so delicate a flower that praise tends to make it bloom, while discouragement often nips it in the bud."
                         —Alex Osborn

I've been absorbing so much sadness and feeling so low that I am struggling to keep up with this challenge. I'm burnt out and I am afraid. On the surface I'm just hanging in there but today I feel like I can't breathe. This isn't a cry for help, probably just a declaration of my fragile state of mind.

I feel like I'm disconnected from truth and joy - somehow lost a little on my journey. I will be ok though and I know exactly what I want to write about on my two "missing posts". I just need to rise above the dark fog. Even writing now makes me feel a little lighter.

I suppose life is full of ups and downs, and it's ok to be down, especially when sad things happen around you, when you feel overwhelmed and when you make mistakes. I will be ok. You will be ok. We will all be ok.

Exhale : Day 61 #100daysofwriting

I'm nestled in a warm coffee shop, between social engagements. I'm starting to make a habit of these stolen coffee dates with myself. I had one yesterday too.

I'm especially happy that I'm taking the time to write a post now, rather than leaving it till midnight, to shoehorn into my routine while half asleep or half distracted.

I'm like Ernest Hemingway, just sober, writing furiously at a table in the middle of the bustle of human life. I have no idea of that is at all historically accurate but it is how I imagine it.

The warmth is almost uncomfortable as my fingers defrost from their brush with the night air. I'm so sleepy and hazy, even while clasping a latte. Maybe it's the candlelight? Maybe because I'm slowly decompressing.

This week is going to be so busy and it is probably my own fault for falling into so many engagements. But why shouldn't I have late weeknights? I hardly ever go to bed at a decent time. I'm only cutting into my series watching time. I've already prepped food for the next few days of packed lunches and dinners. I have tomorrow morning's veggie juice lined up. All my laundry is done. Why shouldn't I stay in the bustle of humanity a little longer?

xxx

I should be writing : Day 57 #100daysofwriting

 

So I totally did not do my post yesterday. My nose was blocked and my head hurt, and no I’m not sick ALL the time – I just have allergies and my grind plate makes it worse because it forced me to be a total mouth breather. So much of the excuses hey?

I should be writing. I am a writer. Writer is the good label that I apply, instead of depressed-alcoholic-single. So why don’t I want to write sometimes? Maybe because I end up complaining to an audience, as above. I have the opportunity to submit some freelance blog posts and I STILL haven’t done them. I think I’m afraid of wasting my time, but I don’t get paid to write this blog, so what should it matter if I write articles that are rejected? Surely all creatives run that risk? They should create for the sake of creating first and money second? It really doesn’t feel like that though, which is irritating.

Affirmation and praise is another driving force. I get some sort of affirmation by the number of hits I get on my blog, but really don’t know if anyone actually enjoys the majority of my posts. I have readers all over the world and that confuses me too – who are you? Yes, you, Dear Reader. What brought you to my blog? No, really, write a comment and tell me. I moderate my comments so if you ask me not to publish it, I won’t, just tell me! It would really help my motivation and confidence as a creative.

So… write to me, ok?

xxx

 

 

Instafun

Quote time: Writing

Why I Write

Snuggle up for a story... Day 15 #100daysofwriting

Once upon a time, just around the corner... Lived an average looking princess... Who am I kidding? She was beautiful! Average-smaverage!

 

Where was I? Oh yes, the princess from around the corner. Well, her name was Bunny. What do you mean "that's not a princess name?" I'm telling the story here! How will I ever get to the dangerous bits if you keep interrupting?

 

So, one day, Bunny decided to go for a ride on her horse. Tired of constant monitoring, Bunny snuck off while the staff were watching Dr Phil at tea time. Bunny rode very quickly into the cover of dense woods at the edge of her sprawling garden.

 

Bunny had ridden in the woods many times before, but never alone. There was something magical about the woods that day. Maybe it was the sheer adrenaline of escaping, or maybe something was going on that day. Well, no need to keep you in suspense, there was a secret meeting happening in the woods...

 

Yes, a Teddy bears picnic!

 

Bunny had never seen living Teddies before and let out a gasp when she spotted them. The Teddies were way chilled though and invited Bunny to hang out. They even had an apple for the horse.

Now, Bunny lived a low carb lifestyle and could hardly control herself when she saw all the baked treats laid out. She started to pile her plate high with all sorts of cake and pie. The Teddies looked a little bit shocked and muttered to themselves. An elderly lady Teddy cleared her throat and said, "Bunny, we usually take one treat at a time as to ensure proper sharing." Bunny blushed.

 

"Tell us how you came to be in the woods alone," another Teddy asked. Bunny explained that she had stolen away for a ride. The Teddies muttered again.

 

The Teddies couldn't handle having someone so greedy and dishonest in their midst, so they ate her.

 

The End

 

"If you go into the woods today..."

TAO - on writing

She withdrew into herself,
First writing just for one,
Then touching thousands.
She incarnated ghosts, hurt, and joy
Into paper-and-ink stories of wonder.

One author said, “I can get rid of anything by writing about it,” meaning that the process of externalization could liberate him from the pain in his soul. That realization produced a delicious dichotomy : to free himself, or to hold on to both joys and tortures by remaining silent about them.

Writer write because they must : They need to express something from deep within themselves. They hear voices that others do not. They listen urgently, and they must communicate what they hear.

People feel Tao in the same way that writers feel something unique. In the process of listening for mysterious voices and expressing the wonder that comes is a magic akin to the perfection of Tao.

All above as shared on http://mymostlyunfabulouslife.com/2014/06/08/daily-tao-159-writer-2/ and http://www.justfortodaymeditations.com/daily-recovery-readings-june-8/

Write Stuff : Day 9 #100daysofwriting

I really enjoy writing and it helps me to unload all of the feelings that crash around inside me. Writing makes the feelings line up neatly like the disruptive school children that they are. I like to think of my emotions, character defects, my habits - call them what you will - as little creatures who follow me around. Personifying them makes it easier for me to dimiss them, uninvite them from parties and meetings, and to put them in their place.

This said, I also get anxious about writing. Sure, writing free flowing thought is basic enough, but I want to try my hand at paid writing. Frankly, it all feels daunting! I suppose it is self doubt and my need for affirmation. But then again I realise that potential criticism and feedback will only work towards helping me to improve and hone my skills. I need to quiet the nagging inner voice that claims that I can't write. Look! Words in a line - I just wrote!

I suppose a level of fear is ok when something is important?

In the words of James Thurber: 

"Don't get it right, get it written."

THROW BACK THURSDAY #TBT

Throwback to some of my favourite posts!

Your Concept of My Beauty

Pregnant

Fighting Dragons

First Day of the Big Promotion

The Point of Life

Free Play : Day 3 #100daysofwriting

In a way I shouldn't even address the fact that sometimes I write dark, twisted, sad things. I'm writing, expressing, twisting words and enjoying it. I have frustration in my body, mind and soul - I do not have romance... So it would be contrived to write a love poem. I am tired of the romancing of love. Love songs sound hollow. Am I depressed? No. I'm just not in a romantic dream world. Things around me are not miserable, but they are hard and practical. Pain and exhaustion sit on my shoulders.

But to please some people I will now attempt a nice poem, although not in iambic pentameter.

NICE POEM

A little frog
Sits upon a log
Contemplating love
And the sky above

The rolling fog
Covers his bog
And hides the dove
His symbol of love

Now little frog
From the bog
Has lost his love
The gorgeous dove

OK I tried, it still came out dark.

The Cat's Meow - Day 1 #100daysofwriting

There is something about a blank page, blank screen, flashing cursor, naked line screaming for content. Break the seal, crack the glass, rip the bandaid off and write. So on with the first of 100 daily posts.
 

I have a cat, Arizona, who I haven't written much about on the blog, although she is one of my favourite photographic subjects on Instagram. She is my baby, my daughter, my comfort, my companion and my little muse. Yes, muse in the sense of I can't stop taking photos of her but in another way too. I got sober on 5 October 2013 and Arizona was born three days later. She is a type of symbol, talisman, and my new vice. I run up the stairs to my flat when I get home to scoop her up in my arms. She has the softest fur I've ever felt and I bury my face in her warmth.
 

My brother says that cats only meow at humans. Arizona is very communicative. This morning I realise that she has me wrapped around her perfect little claw.  When I answer her meow I am not just a crazy cat lady, I can actually understand her!  There is the "Where are you?", the "Feed me!", the "Let me into the bathroom" and then this little "purp" sound, like a chirp that she mostly uses on my brother which I guess means "what up?".
 

I still maintain I'm not touched in the brain. Promise.
 

Should I?

“You said you would, so really you should,”
 “I should? I should? Why should I do anything?”
 

There’s an exhaustion in my bones. Sometimes I just lie on my bed feeling like I can’t move, but then I get up, and do something big. Big like cooking a ton of food to freeze. Is it a bizarre type of laziness? Being prepared?
 

I feel inspired to write at the most inappropriate times and sometimes consider carrying a little tape recorder around with me so I can dictate my thoughts as I drive. I suppose my phone would suffice. But I don’t and my thoughts often just float away. My creative being is sort of squatting inside me as I get on with the shoulds, until creativity becomes a should, a something to be scheduled and controlled.
 

As I sit on my bed, with a newly discovered cover of “Black Hole Sun” on repeat, I’m tempted to grab a canvas and just drag paint covered hands across it. I want to attack a canvas. I want to lean off the balcony and give out a primal scream. I want the parts of me to realign. I’m even sure that I knew that I was out of line until I typed it right now. I’ve been describing my mood as lonely-antisocial all day – weird, I know that I’m actually just on a depressed wave. A weird limbo of needing rescue without being able to shout loud enough for it. But no means do I need people to phone me or rush over to my flat. I’d love it if someone abandoned a tub of ice-cream on my welcome mat. If someone drove me through the drive thru for a MacFlurry and then dropped me at home. I think I’m also feeling financial strain – I get down when I feel like all my money is for petrol. Food is a drug, spending money is a drug; spending money on junk food is the ultimate relapse… or the closest to a relapse that I could allow. If I had wine, and technically I do, would I drink it? No. Smoking has never been my thing so sinking back into a smoky cloud of herbs doesn’t appeal. I don’t feel like acting whole with a lipstick smile while I pull my tummy in… so I can’t be bothered to indulge my sycophantic needs in the company of men. I feel too selfish to listen to stories about anyone else’s life so that rules out the rest of humankind. So this leaves food and money, and we’ve established those are a no go. So I’m a junkie without a fix.
 

So I’m a junkie without a fix. And in this moment I feel relief. I’m a junkie without a fix.
 

With a wry smile, I remember why I love to write, it's like an emotional purge, and now I can get on with my life.

Nonsense #100creativedays Day 54

"I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living."
- Dr. Seuss

I think my mind is only full of nonsense lately, or perhaps singular words who have no intention of bonding to form beautiful and inspiring sentences.

I've been playing a lot of scrabble against my phone...it seems like an escape of sorts. Its also an interesting gauge of my level of intellect at various times of the day. Sometimes I cunningly place a well thought out word, other times I test the apps filter on "dirty" words like "slut" - yes I need to get out more.

I need to find some inspiration. I'm running dry.

The Problem With Blogging Personal Stuff...

 

I wish that I felt differently...

 

Maybe it's the cold, maybe it's because I don't know what you expect me to say...

 

My head is so stuffed full of unwritten posts, song lyrics and static memories... I don't feel "funny" and you come to my blog to have a laugh... don't you?

 

I'm disappointed, a bit jaded and really complacent... I ready hope that I get to have the night I want to have... me, in bed with chicken soup, laptop and a bottle of wine. Maybe then the words can escape my mind and flow into yours. Maybe I'll make you laugh.

 

Maybe I'll make you laugh.

Nostalgia

Words are beautiful, think of your favourite snippet of poetry, a lyric, something that some said to you off hand, something that stuck with you, something so powerful that just hearing those words can twist you round and send you straight back to another place and time.

But why stop at words? A melody, a smell, a painting, a sunrise, an face from the past…

Sometimes one thing can trigger off such an overwhelming ripple effect of memories that your breath is quite taken away. This might sound so insane, but I have to write it. I feel so overwhelmed by nostalgia, pricks of forgotten pain.

The trigger for me tonight was watching a movie called “Remember Me”, something that I’ve had on my hard-drive for the longest time and avoided, probably because it stars Robert Pattinson. But I gave it a chance, and it crawl up and around my heart, flaking off strange nostalgia for poems I’ve forgotten. Somewhere in my teens I got hold of a collection of poems by Rod McKuen, I don’t think many of my friends would even know who he is, but he wrote the lyrics of the song “Seasons in the Sun”. I must have picked up the book at a 2nd hand book stall, maybe urged by my mom. However I came about owning it, it moved me. Lines that haunt me still, glimmers of adult themes, who knows, I flicked through the book now and poems I’d forgotten about were so familiar, like seeing an old friend.

If I thought
that I was dying,
and I am
            of inattention,
                         indifference
                         and the need
to prove just once
                 I’ve lived –
for someone
              other than myself,
what would/should
my reaction be?
Especially if I knew
that finally and forever
there would be no one.

An excerpt from “The Pause, Before the Going” – Rod McKuen

Reading these words, the words that have haunted me for probably 15 years, brought back a few lines of a poem by D.H Lawrence. I remember my surprise at finding a poem like this in my poetry setwork book, it seemed a strange concept to me.

I am worn out
with the effort of trying to love people
and not succeeding

Now I’ve made up my mind
I love nobody, I am going to love nobody,
I’m not going to tell any lies about it
and it’s final.

An excerpt from “The effort of love” – D.H Lawrence

I could go on and on with haunting lines, but will end for good measure with the painting that made an 8 year old me fall in love with Dali... I was a very cultured child.

Metamorphosis of Narcissus - Salvador Dalí (1937)