Tuesday, March 10, 2009

[190.2] deepest, darkest

I keep a lot incriminating things - boxes of spiral notebooks and journals, a trunk full of diaries and thoughts scribbled on scraps of paper, countless scattered bits of evidence in easily accessible locations. They're all things that, were I to die suddenly and unexpectedly, hearing from beyond the grave that people had begun reading would surely make me want to reanimate my own corpse and kill myself again.
I have never withheld a thought from myself. Just about anything that has eaten away at me for more than a fleeting moment can be found within the pages of one notebook or another. And yet, I have always had a nagging fear of becoming some sort of Anne Frank in the event of some unfortunate demise. I can only imagine that if she knew that her infatuation with Peter Schiff had become common knowledge throughout the entire literate world, she would be a touch mortified. Of course, knowing her poignant story has touched millions might curb her embarrassment. But what have I got to redeem me? I haven't a heroic bone in my body, but have had plenty of less than heroic thoughts. The last thing I want is for people to remember me for my Saves The Day-esque poetry detailing my disdain for my ex-boyfriend in 2003; or for imaginative hypotheticals on how I might someday capture the heart of some unrequited crush whom I have long since forgotten or moved on from.
A week or so ago, I decided that I would begin methodically destroying all of these damning artifacts. Lord knows I can't even bear to read them, so there's no reason I should be keeping them around for others to someday cringe, or worse, laugh at. Still, it's harder than it seems. My dearest Chelsea and I made an agreement when we were sixteen or seventeen that, should one of us shed this mortal coil before our time, the other would destroy the humiliating ramblings left behind. We called it "burning the cabinet," because all such records of Chelsea's were kept in a cabinet in her bedroom. A part of me thinks, well, maybe I should just keep it all and let Chels burn the cabinet. But the other part of me thinks that it could be time to burn it myself and finally move on with my life. I don't know what comfort I find in holding on so tightly to the past, but it's about time to let it go.

[190] the creative process

One of the many things I like about my fiance is that he doesn't blow smoke. I should be sleeping right now, but I'm caught between writer's block (or is it "writers' block?") and an excessive influx of ideas. This is mostly due to Kyo's delightfully/brutally honest feedback on the story ideas I've been bouncing off of him. Through the process of listening to his criticism, defending my vision, and debating over the general rules and expectations inherent in writing fiction, I end up with a plethora of thoughts as to why either he's right and I need to revamp everything, or I'm right and, therefore, need to write something that will blow his mind to prove it. It's beautiful. To the untrained ear, it may sound like bickering. In reality, it's the most helpful exchange I think I've ever had when it comes to my writing.
So, in the words of Matt Keeslar in my current favorite episode of Dollhouse, shoulder to the wheel; which I think is like "nose to the grindstone," which I think means I'm gonna go get some s**t done.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

[185] the chris brown & rihanna thing

In general, I try not to keep myself too up-to-date on who's dating who and all the drama of what VH1 cleverly dubbed, "celebreality." However, I, like many people I know, am fascinated/disgusted by this whole Chris Brown & Rihanna thing. As I mentioned on my Facebook status the other day, I was shocked that she went back to him after he hit her. At the time, I thought that was all that happened. He hit her. That was a big enough reason to me for her to leave him. Turns out, though, that that isn't the half of it.

Here's an excerpt from this article describing exactly what went down:

Robyn F. turned to face Brown and he punched her in the left eye with his right hand. He then drove away in the vehicle and continued to punch her in the face with his right hand while steering the vehicle with his left hand. The assault caused Robyn F.'s mouth to fill with blood and blood to splatter all over her clothing and the interior of the vehicle.
Brown looked at Robyn F. and stated, 'I'm going to beat the s--t out of you when we get home! You wait and see!' "
The detective said she then used her cell phone to call her personal assistant ... who did not answer.
Robyn F. pretended to talk to her and stated, 'I'm on my way home. Make sure the police are there when I get there.'
After Robyn F. faked the call, Brown looked at her and stated, 'You just did the stupidest thing ever! Now I'm really going to kill you!'

That's not even including the biting, the choking, the multiple headlocks, etc. that were all a part of this incident which started because she confronted him about a text message from an ex. Good God. Who goes back to this?

Well, the Anderson Cooper blog answered this question for me with this article: Why Rihanna would go back to Chris Brown.

Read it. Come to terms with it. Be sickened by it. This is what happens in the cycle of domestic abuse. Maybe the publicity and public outrage surrounding this incident might serve as a wake-up call to women who keep going back, or to friends and neighbors who sit by and watch thinking it's none of their business.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

[184] prolific. prolificness. prolificacy.

I think I'm beginning to get my muse back.
I mean, I don't know exactly what my muse is. It's not any particular person or place or thing, though there certainly are people, places, and things that I find inspiring. My muse just seems to be something a little more intangible than all that. I don't know. Could be a feeling. Could be an allergy. Could be a few too many late nights spent reading until either my eyes give out or my current reading material runs out of pages. All of these are possible. I don't need to pinpoint my muse, so long as I take advantage of it when it comes bustling into my life without warning.
I'm not sure, by the way, if this muse of mine does the whole blogging thing. But should I be able to press it toward prolificness (which, despite what my spellcheck is telling me, is actually a word) in the online arena, I will be sure to focus that energy on this ol' blog of mine. I have all but retired most of my others.
On the subject of reading into the wee hours of the night (if by, "on the subject of," I mean, "in reference to a passing comment I made in my first paragraph), I attempted to read a few pages of Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book the other nite, and instead ended up reading about 200 of them, effectively finishing the book I'd intended to make last for a week or two. It was magnificent. I laughed out loud, I sobbed into my pillow, I wrote a review on Facebook and promptly Twittered it (Really, Firefox? You recognize "Twittered" but not "prolificness?") to share my amazement. Needless to say, I highly recommend this book. I will not deny that I am biased by my complete addiction to all things Neil Gaiman, but I really do think that this goes beyond the simple bounds of fangirling (also in the Firefox dictionary). It's a touching story that is, at all times, bittersweet. I just might read it again in the near future. However, at the moment, Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake is beckoning me from the pile of clutter next to my bed. It would be rude of me not to respond to its call.