Haiku

Well my friends this is another sad writing day for me. Actually, it is a sad reading day for you. I wrote a beautiful essay. Only I can't share it with you. It was way too personal. Here's the thing, I wrote for a long time, and when it was done, I read it and knew that was for me. Maybe someday I can share it, but for now, that is my gem. For you I have Haiku:


I wrote an essay
Thinking of you the whole time
Reading my fine words

In The Room

The room is empty. I sit, legs crossed, eyes ahead. I am transfixed with the blankness of the wall. The size of it is more than my imagination can grapple with. The entire room is white. There is no door knob. There is no window. There is no bench, or chair, or cushion upon which to sit. I am donned in white; white leggings that cover my feet, a white long sleeve leotard, white gloves and a white hood. I am here voluntarily, though I am now beginning to question my choices. I am forced to face nothingness. As white is the absence of color, so my brain shall become absence of thought. From that, I do not know what will present itself, but I can hope.

No clock in the room. Time begins to change shape. I am lying on my back, legs together, arms tucked in close to my body. I wonder how long I have been here. I feel no hunger, so perhaps it hasn’t been very long. But I have taken too many breathes to know that cannot be so. Time. Why has it become so important to me? I begin to feel an urgency to know what time it is, to know how long I have been here. I look at my wrist as if a time piece will magically appear. I realize I am looking for my sense of time. Like touch is a sense to the hands and sight a sense to the eyes. Where in my body do I sense time?

There is no sound save that of my breath. The walls have been sound proofed. Not just from the outside. I try to scream, but it falls flat. There is no umph in it. No echo. No depth. I’m standing, my belly and ear pressed hard against a wall. I strain to hear something, anything. I do not think I have ever fully appreciated how loud quiet is until now.....It’s deafening.

I can’t figure out where the light is coming from. It’s as if the room is lit by magic.

I’m still thinking.

I’m going back into the dream now.

The Wall

Words are elusive,
Transient beings
Swirling through my mind.
Just when I think I’ve
cornered one,
It slips through the synapses,
Becoming a transparent memory –
Taunting me
Daring my creativity to flow,
An elaborate wall constructed.
Is this
Writer’s Block?

I love to write

I have recently remembered I love writing. The process of stringing words together, in a precise pattern to convey images or feelings is a great deal of fun. Time seems to slip away, as does the world around me. Including all my responsibilities. All that remains is my pen and paper, or screen and keyboard for a more accurate representation, and my thoughts. I feel so at peace. I become the epitome of focus. Nothing can interrupt me. It’s odd, as I have lots of people and animals around me, yet they become two dimensional, as if I had just birthed them into the scene on the screen. Interaction feels scripted and only half (or less) of my attention is there. I’m not sure if this is healthy or not.

For me this is that “thing” that makes time disappear, we each have one. For some it might be painting and to others it's running. For now, this is mine. Yet I'm feeling like this may not be a good thing. The word I am looking for more accurately would be guilt. I feel guilt. Guilt for writing. Guilt for doing something creative. Guilt for not doing something useful. Guilt. It feels so unfair. I rarely do anything just for me, especially if it is something I really enjoy. I’m supposed to be attentive to my family and their needs. Guilt. I’m supposed to be teaching my children. Guilt. I'm supposed to be present. 100% in the moment present. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should just let it go, right? You’re thinking, “you’re a mother, of course you need some time just for you”. Well let me tell you, so am I.

I have a good excuse for keeping the guilt. I find writing late at night too tedious. After a full day of using my brain, I don’t want to use it anymore. First thing in the morning won’t do, my brain needs a good 2 hour jump start or at least 2 cups of coffee. No, the perfect time for me to be writing, is when I’m supposed to be making dinner. When my family most needs me, I want to check out. That sucks. Like my language? See what guilt does to a person? It reduces people, or at least me, to use crass, base language. I know I need to get over it, but I only just discovered it. Well, I hope it’s the guilt I soon get over and not the writing. I guess only time will tell which will win out.

Maybe I could make this magical time of day, “writing time”, for the whole family and we could all write. Then, as each of us finishes we could join the others in the kitchen and we could all make dinner together. Wow, I may just have figured out how to let the guilt go and keep writing. Did you see the breath of relief I just released? Did you breathe it with me? Yahoo!!!! I love it when stories have a creative, happy ending. Don’t you?

You know they only happen in fairy tales, right?

Caged Love

I say, let me go
Don’t hold me
here
against my will

I say, release me
Freedom from behind
stained glass walls
is fuzzy at best

I say, let me fly
Clipped wings
confine me
to earth

I say, raise me up
Praise me
increase my potential
to change the world

I say, give me space
I am strong
I have a voice
Let me use it

If not,
One day
I will escape
And you
will
be
alone

AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH

I just spent the past hour and half writing and because I didn't pay attention, I clicked the wrong button and lost it all!!!!!! AAAAHHHH!!!! That's me yelling silently so as not to wake up anyone as it is 1:45am. I'll try again tomorrow. Sorry you all have to miss a fabulous piece and instead get this. Didn't mean to take it out on you. It had get released though. Ugh! There, it's done. Till tomorrow.

Going green

My husband and I have a two year old home renovation business. Until now I have done very little for it. I basically type and answer the phone. Not too hard, since we don't advertise or even have a card to hand out. I just sent in an application to register us with the state so we can have a registration number and then I can get our name out there. I only recently became motivated to do something.

You see, this is what he loves. He loves building and design. It leaves him feeling accomplished at the end of most days. This business was not my idea. (I wanted a used book store, but we all know they barely make enough money to stay afloat let alone support a family of four.) In fact two years ago I was looking for a job. I was usually over qualified or under qualified, but I never actually qualified. So three or four months passed when he asked me if I would work with him. I was so excited, for about a week. You see, my husband works alone. He is exceptionally good at what he does and the few times he worked with others, they were unable to meet his high standards. He is orderly and efficient at the work site. He also cleans up after himself every day, leaving the space nice for those who have to live there. If you have ever hired a contractor you know how rare all this is. Anyway, when he asked me to be his business partner I was flattered. We had bought a four family, fixer upper 9 months prior to his proposition. In that time I learned a lot about renovations. He was impressed with how quickly I learned and how accomplished I became. My biggest fault was that I was slow, which can improve over time.

Unfortunately, the reality was, I was still only a secretary. Don't get me wrong, I know how important that role is, as I had been doing it most of my life. I just thought I'd get to do something else for a change, something I was good at. I thought I was going to be on the job site, working side by side doing the renovations. Have you ever demolished a ceiling and then installed a new one? It feels so good. Women, have you ever used a pneumatic nailer or a cordless drill? It is so empowering and a lot of fun too. I loved putting on my tool belt at the start of the day. I thought I had a new career.

It proved to be more difficult than we had imagined. With two children going to school, at that time, a half hour drive from home, it quickly became apparent that I would not be able to be on site as much as I hoped. My first priority in life has been my children since the day I found out I was pregnant. Thus, it seemed one of them (and there are only 2) always needed me. Either for a field trip, a school project, to get picked up due to illness...see where I'm going with this? From there, my new career went down hill. I was back to being a secretary. My heart went out of the business.

We recently made a huge business decision that has my blood pumping again. I'm finding I need to force myself to pay attention to the children and not our business. What is this decision? I bet you guessed by the title. We are going green. When we went to college, my husband studied environmental science and geology. I studied sociology and took as many science courses as I could. We love our planet. The field of home building and renovation creates enormous amounts of waste and uses excessive amounts of energy. This has bothered us so much, we decided to do something about it. We are going to be green renovators. There is so much to learn and it is very interesting. Where things are produced, how far they have to travel, what they are made with, how to dispose of waste, which products are renewable, you get the idea. These are just the tip of the iceberg. I love this feeling. I love the idea that we can make a difference in the world. Helping people to live in a way that will have less of an impact on the planet and doing it in a thoughtful way leaves me feeling good about myself and my career choice, even if I am only the secretary.

The Monarch

As I sped off down the road,
Rain pelting my windshield
I saw the magnificent creature
Only after it was too late.
As the color on the far wiper blade
Caught my eye
My heart sank,
my mind raced.
Is there an appropriate response
When something like this occurs?
I left it there.
I tried not to see it.
Using the wipers only
When I could no longer see the world.
Not so my very dead hitchhiker.
Orange and black,
Orange and black
Flashing brilliant against the grey.
Each swipe of the mechanical arm,
Shredding the delicate remains.

I struggle not to see it...
Not to think about it...
Not to let it in.

It never happened.

In the Carroom

Have you ever noticed that when most people are in their car, they behave as though they are in their homes? They treat their vehicles like another room in the house; there is the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, the car. It is the only room unavailable to window treatments. If I lived in a glass house without curtains, I’d expect to be looked at by passers by. Yet those sitting in the carroom don’t seem to mind.

The next time you’re a passenger in a car, watch every one else. You may be amazed at what you witness. The rear view mirror is wonderful for primping. People brush their hair, apply makeup, clean food out of their teeth, and check for unsightly objects hanging from their nostrils. They are pleased the car makers were so thoughtful of their needs.

Car makers continued this trend of thoughtful design by creating the cup holder, thus enabling the carroom to double as an eating space. Whole meals are consumed by entire families en route. The upholstery scotch guarded, of course.

There is something very beautiful that happens if you continue to watch. You will experience the bright face of a child looking back. A signal of recognition will be given, perhaps in the form of a hand wave, a protruding tongue or even an obscene gesture. Wave back, react and watch the excitement that ensues. Children are watching even when you think no one is. They do not know boundaries, nor do they care. So the next time you are in your carroom, stop, think, are you doing something you want a child to see?

What does it mean to be a creator?

What does it mean to be a creator? If I create a character and breath life into her, is she real? If I give her shape and love and work and conflict, is she more real? What is real? Does she have experiences, if I give them to her? Am I any more or less real than her? Could I be a character written on a page having the experiences of my author? How do I know that I’m not? What would it be like to realize I’m just someone’s imagination? I’m someone’s written character? Would I be any less real than I was before I figured it out? What an interesting concept. Do I die at the end of the story? If I learned I was written, could I jump to the end to see what happens to me? Would I have any control over the story if I became cognizant of it? Would my observation change everything? What if a reader happened to be there when I made this discovery? Would the words on the page change? Would the reader be there with me? Would the reader be able to observe what was happening to me, or would it be in my own created mind? What if my cognizance happened while I was still being created? What would that mean for the writer? How would the writer experience it? Would I be able to have life off the page? Would I think I had life off the page already? Would I only exist in the minds of those who read about me? Would I then be a runaway creation living in the minds of all who read about me? Would I be able to enter into the collective unconsciousness via my readers?

What if I became bored? What if the scene that was written for me was boring? How would that play out? What if the scene wasn’t boring, but I was bored with it? What if I became bored with the scene as my writer was writing it? Would it be experienced by me and the reader as boring? Or would I space out and not experience it at all while the reader, the observer, experienced it completely. The reader would experience the scene and see my reactions which may be me nodding or uh-humming, but not know where my head really is. How could I know where my head is if my reader and writer don’t know? When we space out, do we know where we just were when reconnecting with here and now?

Would I have the ability to overwrite my author? What if my author wrote for me to say or do something I really did not want to do? Can I change the story? Or at least my own actions? Or would I be forced to behave in a way I didn’t want to? Would I act out the script written for me, while watching from behind my eyes? In what ways would I be able to be autonomous in my behavior? Would I be nothing more than cognizant of my being? Would I be a self aware puppet? How boring. Perhaps I might start out that way, but what sentient being doesn’t grow and change? Therefore as I became more aware of me and my surroundings and the laws that govern them, I’d be more readily able to exert my will upon them. At first, perhaps, it would be in small ways. The ability to change the punctuation of a sentence perhaps. Or would it not work that way all? Would I work behind the words, so to speak. On another level, where the reader can’t or won’t be able to know I know.

What would happen if something were to happen to me? What if my author wrote something tragic? Would I have the ability to change the event itself? Could I alter the direction of my story? Like in lucid dreaming, you can see a person with a knife in their hand and turn it into flowers, would I be able to do that to? Would I only be able to do it if I’m paying attention at the moment of writing? If I caught the writer in the act, would we have a battle of wills over the letters on the page? Would I be completely helpless and at the mercy of my author? Like my author, would I only be able to react/act to the events written for me? Maybe I could control the events, but only in a limited way. Maybe it would take so much of my energy to actually change the events that I would only do it in extreme cases. Maybe I’d never do it and as the saying goes “what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger”, I’d only become more me.

What if something were to happen to my author before my book was finished? Would I have no ending for my story? What if I was the one who just made that line space occur? Because my writer can’t or didn’t cause it. What if it’s not a glitch in the program but my will? How would a person react to that, huh, writer? What if there is no end? What happens to me? Can I write my own? Can someone else write it for my author? What if more than one person wrote me? How hard would it be to be then?

What do I owe to the reader? What does the reader owe to me? What if it was the reader who was there when I became aware of me? How would that look? Do I even exist if I have no reader? What do I do on the pages when they are closed? If I have form, but only in the mind of the reader or writer, where am I? How can I have form and life if I’m in someone else’s mind? I started in the mind of my writer and was put onto paper to be shared with readers. How many ways do I exist? Do I still exist if the reader forgets me? How can I be an individual if I’m in the minds of so many? ......