I think it's kind of funny that even online I see and use my introverted tendencies. Go out there amongst the big bad world, then let my sensitivities chase me back into my hole, my home.
Well this is it, the place where the shadow of the projectionist shows on the moving pictures of life. That is this curse, to see the edges of the grains and to play with their substances. I also have noticed in my last trip out there that all my words put together sound just the same. People are saying great things about my writing and that excites and scares the hell out of me. Whoa? Hold on, this mental mediation that happens is called writing? I thought it was just my minds speaking amongst themselves? They want more of it? Now who's nuts, me or them? Because something isn't right with this picture. Don't they know who I am?
I wrote a piece on Yabberz last week. In it I typed the words "I am a writer" to begin a paragraph. It was 4:30 am and I had been up for over an hour putting something together. When I typed those four words though tears started falling from my eyes. Not the crying type or joyful type, just tears. There was no pain, no happiness, just tears, and release. You see there was no thought to those words, they hit me as a matter of fact... fact. Now I see emotions in everything, hell I have a poem on here giving those qualities to rocks of all things. Fact though goes cleanly through, it was as a matter of fact that apparently I am some kind of writer. I cried and cried.
Of course people tell me that they knew this all along, just like the alcoholic part too. I just didn't realize it, really realize it.... until then. I thought this was more of a kids thing, everyone does it. Journals, diaries, everyone can write, right? I grew up a fat kid, I taught myself how to cope I guess through this writing stuff. I have huge, and I mean Y'uge esteem issues, I am getting better, but I do not take praise well. There are always, always much better folks out there. On Yabberz when Mark praises my writing, or Kevin and Opie do as well it is hard to take. In my head, with my esteem, I place it in the being kind to the short bus kind of special kid. Keep going and writing a nod to one day you will graduate grade school kind of thing. I can't help feeling this way at times, I am getting better. As always though I have lots of work to do. These folks can really write, they know how to, and even went to school for it. Who the F am I?
Since I am straddling this bull ride of a midlife crisis into the hours and not the seconds this is the crap that I have to think about? Couldn't it just be about a mortgage or a kids college education? WTF am I supposed to do now? I am seemingly ill prepared for this whole epiphany that has been happening. I will have to work on it some more and keep in my hole here. I know my mind is also probably playing tricks with me as a half century mark looms just a month away. Breathe.... Ok I am a writer.... Now what? My penchant for the bigger picture turning the mindful angst screw.
My Father always wanted to be a writer, I didn't find that out until well after his death. I knew he was a more than avid reader in his later years and I even picked up the same titles myself. His mother was a school teacher and I believe language arts was her area. I was a drunk cook, uneducated and still to this day stumbling through life for the most part. Until I sobered up, I never had any plans, I didn't hope for any "life." The meaning it had was how fast I could end it in my own cowardly way.
Fuck! I have to get a life now? You mean for me to get a life that means something to me is to write about life and what it means to me? What it looks like? Feelings and stuff? Aw Crap! That people are going to like it? Oh motherfudger! That it may bring happiness and possibly help others? Get the fucout?... OK, I'm a writer, it brings me peace, denial is there too, this can't be real. You mean I had a life all along? I learned a few things? Yeah, stubborn with emotional and trust issues... It's gonna take a while to sink in, really sink in.
I find it inspiring that I am going on a men's retreat with my brother in June. It is on the eighth step in the program one about making amends. That subject is big for me right now for I have much mending still to do. Stitching up the emotional and financial woulds that I have caused in the past.
It may help all of this to really sink in, that I see that this just may be a way that I do some healing, not for just myself, but for others too. It's going to take a while to really sink in.
That maybe, just maybe I may succeed at something, get a life, grow up some more. That this whole writing thingy is not just a selfish waste of time. That it is work, if nothing else it is a work of a lifetime. That in itself should be payment enough. For anyone who reads this should understand I see nothing special in myself and my abilities, I simply see something special in others and theirs.
Well this is it, the place where the shadow of the projectionist shows on the moving pictures of life. That is this curse, to see the edges of the grains and to play with their substances. I also have noticed in my last trip out there that all my words put together sound just the same. People are saying great things about my writing and that excites and scares the hell out of me. Whoa? Hold on, this mental mediation that happens is called writing? I thought it was just my minds speaking amongst themselves? They want more of it? Now who's nuts, me or them? Because something isn't right with this picture. Don't they know who I am?
I wrote a piece on Yabberz last week. In it I typed the words "I am a writer" to begin a paragraph. It was 4:30 am and I had been up for over an hour putting something together. When I typed those four words though tears started falling from my eyes. Not the crying type or joyful type, just tears. There was no pain, no happiness, just tears, and release. You see there was no thought to those words, they hit me as a matter of fact... fact. Now I see emotions in everything, hell I have a poem on here giving those qualities to rocks of all things. Fact though goes cleanly through, it was as a matter of fact that apparently I am some kind of writer. I cried and cried.
Of course people tell me that they knew this all along, just like the alcoholic part too. I just didn't realize it, really realize it.... until then. I thought this was more of a kids thing, everyone does it. Journals, diaries, everyone can write, right? I grew up a fat kid, I taught myself how to cope I guess through this writing stuff. I have huge, and I mean Y'uge esteem issues, I am getting better, but I do not take praise well. There are always, always much better folks out there. On Yabberz when Mark praises my writing, or Kevin and Opie do as well it is hard to take. In my head, with my esteem, I place it in the being kind to the short bus kind of special kid. Keep going and writing a nod to one day you will graduate grade school kind of thing. I can't help feeling this way at times, I am getting better. As always though I have lots of work to do. These folks can really write, they know how to, and even went to school for it. Who the F am I?
Since I am straddling this bull ride of a midlife crisis into the hours and not the seconds this is the crap that I have to think about? Couldn't it just be about a mortgage or a kids college education? WTF am I supposed to do now? I am seemingly ill prepared for this whole epiphany that has been happening. I will have to work on it some more and keep in my hole here. I know my mind is also probably playing tricks with me as a half century mark looms just a month away. Breathe.... Ok I am a writer.... Now what? My penchant for the bigger picture turning the mindful angst screw.
My Father always wanted to be a writer, I didn't find that out until well after his death. I knew he was a more than avid reader in his later years and I even picked up the same titles myself. His mother was a school teacher and I believe language arts was her area. I was a drunk cook, uneducated and still to this day stumbling through life for the most part. Until I sobered up, I never had any plans, I didn't hope for any "life." The meaning it had was how fast I could end it in my own cowardly way.
Fuck! I have to get a life now? You mean for me to get a life that means something to me is to write about life and what it means to me? What it looks like? Feelings and stuff? Aw Crap! That people are going to like it? Oh motherfudger! That it may bring happiness and possibly help others? Get the fucout?... OK, I'm a writer, it brings me peace, denial is there too, this can't be real. You mean I had a life all along? I learned a few things? Yeah, stubborn with emotional and trust issues... It's gonna take a while to sink in, really sink in.
I find it inspiring that I am going on a men's retreat with my brother in June. It is on the eighth step in the program one about making amends. That subject is big for me right now for I have much mending still to do. Stitching up the emotional and financial woulds that I have caused in the past.
It may help all of this to really sink in, that I see that this just may be a way that I do some healing, not for just myself, but for others too. It's going to take a while to really sink in.
That maybe, just maybe I may succeed at something, get a life, grow up some more. That this whole writing thingy is not just a selfish waste of time. That it is work, if nothing else it is a work of a lifetime. That in itself should be payment enough. For anyone who reads this should understand I see nothing special in myself and my abilities, I simply see something special in others and theirs.
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