There is always time for death.
Procrastinate. Put it off. Don't rush dying.
Yes, you can rage against the dying of the light and all that. But it's more than that. Don't wish it. Don't hope for it. Don't expect it by some arbitrary date. Don't just sit around waiting for the inevitable.
It IS inevitable, to be sure, but that's no reason for not living a complete life.
There is always time for Death.
Death can wait for you. For Death, there is always time.
Keep Death waiting. Take your time. Die later. Much later.
Live. Breathe. Be.
There is always time for Death. This is the only time for Life. Embrace it. Cherish it. Live it. Live it now.
Embrace Life. Do it now.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Oh, hi there
It's been a while, I suppose. (Understatement, what?)
What have I been doing? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
I did take rather a long break between posts, admittedly. I haven't been writing much, which is truly regrettable. But I've been watching videos and reading books and inspiring quotes and watching Whisper of the Heart and spending time with creatively oriented people, and it's all sort of helping funnel me back to doing what I love.
And I so love writing. I have this imaginary captive audience that unwittingly attends to my thoughts. I don't mean to say by this that I think you are imaginary, because to make sense of all these pixels, you clearly must have some sort of comprehension ability. I believe in you!
There is this audience that is available any time of day or night, and all they have to do is find my writing (or, as often as not, have it thrust into their perceptive regions rather closely), and my words become this little train not so much chugging as flowing into the mind of another. How amazing is that?
For whom do I write? I write for you. At the moment, you is me. You may always only be me. Ergo, I write for me.
Let me un-derail for a moment to help fill the lost audience in on some particulars of my present circumstances. I'm doing the whole SAHM thing, homeschooling my miniature giant. I love it. But...(grr, don't DO that!) there is more to me than "teacher". There is more to me than "mother". There is more to me than "wife". There is a whole world inside of me, all of the people I can be, all of the places I can visit, all of the experiences I can ever wish to have. This universe in me wants to be set down in type, and it's selfish of me to keep it closed, locked, hindered. Sharing is what it wants.
So now, I have found my outlet. Writing is a thing I have always loved, but I have always struggled to find what I wanted to say. Thus I end up with loads and loads of meta-writing. One can only endure so much of that, don't you agree? (Yes, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.) What is this outlet, you query? Well, it's a writers' guild.
Oooooh, you say, aren't you getting fancy. When I say writers' guild, I mean 3 of us sat down one night and talked about writing, and then spent an hour solid just writing part of our respective novel projects. It was GLORIOUS--even more glorious than the doddering old man with the crisp Batman shirt. I felt so alive, so rejuvenated, and I spent HOURS of my time with scarcely even a reference to my life as a wife, mother, and homeschooling parent who occasionally has to think a few moments too long to remember her own name: For a span of time, I was just a Writer.
"Just". Hah! What an amazing medium writing is! You can read my thoughts, or what you said last Tuesday, or see a description of something you were unable to hear or touch or experience first-hand. You can read about other worlds or about studies of our own. You can read how it feels to be a woman dwelling in sorrow or a child elated by sugary foods or the ecstasy of intercourse. You can read directions for poaching chicken or building a house. You can read about how to be a better reader or a better writer, how "they" make just about anything, how to get to San Jose, how the West was "Won", how Lincoln was shot or the pyramids built. You can read how to paint or draw or make sculptures of ice, iron, clay, or wax. You can read a play that you have never seen performed and imagine it all in your mind, just as it would be in so-called real life.
And if I can keep this up (I think I can; I think I can; I think I can), I may finally believe the myth that people can do everything. I somewhat doubt it, though, as my sink is full of dirty dishes that have been there at least a week. Also, when I recently asked Jackson why he hasn't played with his toy vacuum much lately, he said it was because he prefers to use it when I vacuum and that I haven't done that in a long time. (The delightful honesty of children. Oof.) And let's not even mention the declining state of the master bathroom.
Still, my child is learning, growing, and intact. Since my goals with him are to keep him Safe, Healthy, and Educated, I'd say that's going well. My home is...functional. The bills are being paid. My spouse and I have moments in which we remember we are allowed to do spousal things (you know, like have pretend arguments about toothpaste and underpants). And I am writing a novel. Yes, it's the same one I mentionednearly two years ago that I had plotted to write.
So, I am making progress, honing in on the characters I want in my novel. In all, I am glad that I waited to write this. I've had so many inspirations that I would not have had if I had pushed myself to write it sooner. Now the delays I made for myself seem reasonable and sensible, rather than just exercises in procrastination. The feeling that something was missing from it is lifting, and the proverbial creative juices are flowing.
To quote Shizuku Tsukishima's character from Whisper of the Heart, "Ahhh! I love being a writer!"
What am I writing? I am writing life. I am writing death. I am writing young. I am writing old. I am writing healthy. I am writing broken. I am writing normative. I am writing non-normative. There is rebellion; there is love; there is fear; there is anger; there is insecurity; there is intrigue; there is denial; there is acceptance.
The only thing left to do, really, is to figure out how all the bits of these elements entangle. To complete the weaving of the web such that suspension of disbelief is so gentle as to be unperceived. There is humor, and there is sorrow. There is...sort of a beginning. And soon I hope to write The End.
...The End.
Inspirations provided in part by:
The Element by Sir Ken Robinson
Be An Artist - Right Now! by Young-Ha Kim (watch the video in upper right corner)
With acknowledgements to Smeagol and J. Alfred Prufrock. Also a cursory nod to Dickens, whether he deserves it or not.
What have I been doing? Well, I'm so glad you asked!
I did take rather a long break between posts, admittedly. I haven't been writing much, which is truly regrettable. But I've been watching videos and reading books and inspiring quotes and watching Whisper of the Heart and spending time with creatively oriented people, and it's all sort of helping funnel me back to doing what I love.
And I so love writing. I have this imaginary captive audience that unwittingly attends to my thoughts. I don't mean to say by this that I think you are imaginary, because to make sense of all these pixels, you clearly must have some sort of comprehension ability. I believe in you!
There is this audience that is available any time of day or night, and all they have to do is find my writing (or, as often as not, have it thrust into their perceptive regions rather closely), and my words become this little train not so much chugging as flowing into the mind of another. How amazing is that?
For whom do I write? I write for you. At the moment, you is me. You may always only be me. Ergo, I write for me.
Let me un-derail for a moment to help fill the lost audience in on some particulars of my present circumstances. I'm doing the whole SAHM thing, homeschooling my miniature giant. I love it. But...(grr, don't DO that!) there is more to me than "teacher". There is more to me than "mother". There is more to me than "wife". There is a whole world inside of me, all of the people I can be, all of the places I can visit, all of the experiences I can ever wish to have. This universe in me wants to be set down in type, and it's selfish of me to keep it closed, locked, hindered. Sharing is what it wants.
So now, I have found my outlet. Writing is a thing I have always loved, but I have always struggled to find what I wanted to say. Thus I end up with loads and loads of meta-writing. One can only endure so much of that, don't you agree? (Yes, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.) What is this outlet, you query? Well, it's a writers' guild.
Oooooh, you say, aren't you getting fancy. When I say writers' guild, I mean 3 of us sat down one night and talked about writing, and then spent an hour solid just writing part of our respective novel projects. It was GLORIOUS--even more glorious than the doddering old man with the crisp Batman shirt. I felt so alive, so rejuvenated, and I spent HOURS of my time with scarcely even a reference to my life as a wife, mother, and homeschooling parent who occasionally has to think a few moments too long to remember her own name: For a span of time, I was just a Writer.
"Just". Hah! What an amazing medium writing is! You can read my thoughts, or what you said last Tuesday, or see a description of something you were unable to hear or touch or experience first-hand. You can read about other worlds or about studies of our own. You can read how it feels to be a woman dwelling in sorrow or a child elated by sugary foods or the ecstasy of intercourse. You can read directions for poaching chicken or building a house. You can read about how to be a better reader or a better writer, how "they" make just about anything, how to get to San Jose, how the West was "Won", how Lincoln was shot or the pyramids built. You can read how to paint or draw or make sculptures of ice, iron, clay, or wax. You can read a play that you have never seen performed and imagine it all in your mind, just as it would be in so-called real life.
And if I can keep this up (I think I can; I think I can; I think I can), I may finally believe the myth that people can do everything. I somewhat doubt it, though, as my sink is full of dirty dishes that have been there at least a week. Also, when I recently asked Jackson why he hasn't played with his toy vacuum much lately, he said it was because he prefers to use it when I vacuum and that I haven't done that in a long time. (The delightful honesty of children. Oof.) And let's not even mention the declining state of the master bathroom.
Still, my child is learning, growing, and intact. Since my goals with him are to keep him Safe, Healthy, and Educated, I'd say that's going well. My home is...functional. The bills are being paid. My spouse and I have moments in which we remember we are allowed to do spousal things (you know, like have pretend arguments about toothpaste and underpants). And I am writing a novel. Yes, it's the same one I mentioned
So, I am making progress, honing in on the characters I want in my novel. In all, I am glad that I waited to write this. I've had so many inspirations that I would not have had if I had pushed myself to write it sooner. Now the delays I made for myself seem reasonable and sensible, rather than just exercises in procrastination. The feeling that something was missing from it is lifting, and the proverbial creative juices are flowing.
To quote Shizuku Tsukishima's character from Whisper of the Heart, "Ahhh! I love being a writer!"
What am I writing? I am writing life. I am writing death. I am writing young. I am writing old. I am writing healthy. I am writing broken. I am writing normative. I am writing non-normative. There is rebellion; there is love; there is fear; there is anger; there is insecurity; there is intrigue; there is denial; there is acceptance.
The only thing left to do, really, is to figure out how all the bits of these elements entangle. To complete the weaving of the web such that suspension of disbelief is so gentle as to be unperceived. There is humor, and there is sorrow. There is...sort of a beginning. And soon I hope to write The End.
...The End.
Inspirations provided in part by:
The Element by Sir Ken Robinson
Be An Artist - Right Now! by Young-Ha Kim (watch the video in upper right corner)
With acknowledgements to Smeagol and J. Alfred Prufrock. Also a cursory nod to Dickens, whether he deserves it or not.
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