I just got done watching He's Just Not That Into you with a few friends of mine. Kathryn surprisingly had never seen it so we felt the need to rectify the situation immediately.
As cheesy as it may sound the movie is extremely smart and has a lot of good advice and points to it.
I attempted to find the ending scene on Youtube so that I could post it... when Alex shows up on Gigi's door and tells her she is his exception.
Didn't work.
But the lesson of the night... we are NOT the exception... and I have to stop thinking I am. It's not getting me anywhere.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
What's Good for the Soul is not always good for the Muse.
One of my closest friends, and long time writing kindred texted me this evening after she left my house. We had spent the evening indulging in sweet wine, taco salad and a little interactive game playing with the Wii.
She asked if I thought it was bad that alcohol seemed to be a key source to curing her writers block, as she was feeling very inspired to write.
It's the sign of a true artist I teased. But began considering the thought myself. I've always felt much more inclined to produce work when I've had a cocktail, a few beers or even the occasional bottle of wine. There's something about the elixirs that loosen the tongue and allow a writer to push through the bullshit to get to the root of what they are trying to say. Another thing that has always fueled my writing, my own self loathing.
I know typically as a writer you are suppose to have a self confidence that defies critic and when it comes to my writing I might, but everything else about me and my life I always feel I could be doing better. I could be smarter, thinner, happier, friendly, stronger... I can just be more. These feelings of inadequacy are some of the things that inspire me to write, because I want to embrace the truth of my existence or because I want to create a reality through fiction that I don't feel I'm worthy or capable of.
I believe in a lot of ways the reason I have always remained self loathing and never truly tried to focus on changing that aspect of myself is because I fear that if I love myself entirely, I'll no longer feel the need or the desire to write. Great artists throughout time have allowed their own personal misery, heartbreak, short comings and failures fuel articulate and poetic pieces that inspire and encourage people 100s of years later.
I don't think I'm going to feel like I've really accomplished much until I touch someone like that.
But, I am feeling rather inspired this evening,,, and going through my old work is reminding me how much I loved letting the language flow through me, how exhausting and exciting and calm it made me.
I'm not giving up one of the few things giving me purpose these days. Other than Evelyn, there's not much.
She asked if I thought it was bad that alcohol seemed to be a key source to curing her writers block, as she was feeling very inspired to write.
It's the sign of a true artist I teased. But began considering the thought myself. I've always felt much more inclined to produce work when I've had a cocktail, a few beers or even the occasional bottle of wine. There's something about the elixirs that loosen the tongue and allow a writer to push through the bullshit to get to the root of what they are trying to say. Another thing that has always fueled my writing, my own self loathing.
I know typically as a writer you are suppose to have a self confidence that defies critic and when it comes to my writing I might, but everything else about me and my life I always feel I could be doing better. I could be smarter, thinner, happier, friendly, stronger... I can just be more. These feelings of inadequacy are some of the things that inspire me to write, because I want to embrace the truth of my existence or because I want to create a reality through fiction that I don't feel I'm worthy or capable of.
I believe in a lot of ways the reason I have always remained self loathing and never truly tried to focus on changing that aspect of myself is because I fear that if I love myself entirely, I'll no longer feel the need or the desire to write. Great artists throughout time have allowed their own personal misery, heartbreak, short comings and failures fuel articulate and poetic pieces that inspire and encourage people 100s of years later.
I don't think I'm going to feel like I've really accomplished much until I touch someone like that.
But, I am feeling rather inspired this evening,,, and going through my old work is reminding me how much I loved letting the language flow through me, how exhausting and exciting and calm it made me.
I'm not giving up one of the few things giving me purpose these days. Other than Evelyn, there's not much.
Ink Stained Fingertips
I have ink stained fingertips
where your lips use to be.
Memory has seeped into my bones
and crept up the length of my arm;
cramps that resembles an ice cube on the tip of your tongue
August, in the park.
My body remains youthful, but my hands
resemble an old woman
brittle beneath the surface from knowledge,
passion, lust greed.
I have created worlds from these hands,
baring children from my palm.
I write and bleed black on the page
in desperation, to release you from me.
Club soda and paint thinner can’t remove these stains.
where your lips use to be.
Memory has seeped into my bones
and crept up the length of my arm;
cramps that resembles an ice cube on the tip of your tongue
August, in the park.
My body remains youthful, but my hands
resemble an old woman
brittle beneath the surface from knowledge,
passion, lust greed.
I have created worlds from these hands,
baring children from my palm.
I write and bleed black on the page
in desperation, to release you from me.
Club soda and paint thinner can’t remove these stains.
My Rubber Soul
Written April 2007
My Rubber Soul
The abyss awaits me.
There is something comforting
about the sulfur
like chocolate-chip cookies
on Saturday Morning.
It smells like Marlboro Reds
$2 beer and temptation.
I try to ignore the call
of smoky darkness.
The thought of his hands
like a pen on my blank pages
creating a history
from my silence.
It’s a longing
self-destruction. The wrecking-ball
waiting to rip through my home.
He sees me,
sees disloyalty like a tattoo
through the haze of red, green,
purple. Jazz singing my blues.
You would think...
You would think that spending a night drinking and playing Wii with friends would be fantastic. And it is...
until the men of the group start comparing the lengths they have gone for women, especially in the aspect of amount spent on dates.
$1900.... $2300.... for one date.
And my self worth just dropped about 12 points.
And so the week of feeling hideously unattractive and completely worthless continues.
Awesome.
until the men of the group start comparing the lengths they have gone for women, especially in the aspect of amount spent on dates.
$1900.... $2300.... for one date.
And my self worth just dropped about 12 points.
And so the week of feeling hideously unattractive and completely worthless continues.
Awesome.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Falling Can Hurt...
So I fell off of the metaphorical wagon today when it comes to my new "wellness living"
I'll not bore you with the sloppy details... but it has left me with a sever migraine.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I'm going to get right back too it. Promise.
I'll not bore you with the sloppy details... but it has left me with a sever migraine.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I'm going to get right back too it. Promise.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sometimes It Really Is That Simple...
Cause I’ve been hidin’
All my life and
I’ve been tryin
To keep me safe but
I’ve been healin
I’ve been thinkin
I am ready
Finally for something more
Than this...
I couldn't have said it better myself...
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