I don't live alone. It just looks like that. I have an apartment. There are two bedrooms and one of them acts as my office. I try to sit at my desk in there and write, but it is as if the magnets of writing ideas pull me away from there. I have a nice set up. A large living room with two couches and a nice TV which I watch more often than I'd like to admit. I should be writing, exercising, cleaning, running errands, calling family, leaving the house for once, or maybe just relaxing with a book. But no. The Today Show runs my early to late morning and then it is TBS from then out. I have creativity and I can write. It's just that I can find a whole lot of other things to do. It is as if not only does my writing desk reject me, or I guess I subconsciously reject it since I'm the living being, but it is as if I have these creative juices flowing and pulsing through me that I could explode. They should be used to write master pieces. My energies should spill out onto paper like a fine powder coating the sheets of paper like a dusting snow, and when the wind blows words are left behind. They should come so naturally, but they freaking do not. Instead, I paint or draw. I quilt and knit. I cook and bake. All of which keep my fat and happy, but never seal the deal with the writing situation. I rely on my writing to keep a roof over my head and little mini roofs (rooves?) over my fat and happy kitties' heads.
I wake alone. I write alone. I sing in the shower alone. I eat alone. Yet there is another. A man in my life. The man actually. Not "the man" as in the government. But the one and only, always forever. Well, actually. The only every other weekend and sometimes just special occasions and holidays "one." I ok with it, I think. He's off chasing his dream. And of course, I allowed such a thing so he could be who he was meant to be and whatnot. For the here and now, it is a lousy situation and I don't know what I had been smoking when I agreed to such circumstances. Some befuddled love principle of sort lead me to to think being apart wouldn't hurt or would only be good for us. And I once heard, "It is a sure way to lead myself into disaster if it is under the illusion it will be good for me." Or something like that.
The literal house I live in is being supported and paid for by Darrel. He's my husband of four years. We have been students for half of that time. I was a student the first half and him the second. It is a really weird situation to feel like you went from being a hopeless mope relying on someone elses money writing papers all day to a hopeless mope relying on someone else's money writing books all day. It is true though, and oh so sad.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Notes of Ryla Mason
This is an excerpt from the writing I am doing. I have a character and I feel like these blogs she'll write. If I give her the reins I may just find out who she is. These are her notes about her book about the end of the world.
July 9th 2008
Around 2:10 pm today I thought I heard the coming of the end of the world. This happens on occasion. A punk in his low riding tricked out car follows the 25 mph speed limit on the road past my house and as it approaches with its loud muffler and booming bass music, I imagine the end of the world. I guess a tricked out Honda Civic sounds like the roar of the world's demise. A world killing tsunami wave or the mushroom cloud of a nuclear attack. As the rumbling of a the deep tones of the expensive stereo setup, I hear the inevitable and unpreventable approach of disaster. I imagine seeing a wall of debri or water or smoke, which is incidentally traveling 25 mph in this fantasy. I can do nothing. Say nothing. Feel nothing. There is no time. I die in my meaningless but rather nice spacious two bedroom home, alone. Sometimes in these fantasies, I burn alive, or rather in case of a nuclear apocalypse, I am incinerated with my two cats before I can blink. The end.
Or sometimes I drown in my belongings. The water wells and gushes up the the second floor windows of my house. The water forces its way into every crevice and every crack. There is nothing to be done. It happens slower than the burning scenario. But the death by water is very appealing. It's more peaceful. That is only if the water is clear and clean. If I were drowning in the mud and muck of those already killed and all the matter this storm collected, it sounds much less appealing. I drown among the comfort of my belongings. The water of the oceans is far away from its proper home there in my living room. Books and photos and pillows swirl around me in the churning water and swallow me up.
Or sometimes I imagine a blast of immense power and energy that sends the glass of my windows inward. I huddle against the wall between the windows of my dining room and living room as they explode in a spray of glass. I huddle with my two cats as the big impact hits. I cough and choke on the dust and floating debri. It steals the oxygen from the air, it soaks up the saliva in my mouth and throat, and clogs my nose. My eyes water and I cover them. My ears ring with the roaring of the explosion. I guess I don't die in this scenario right away. I might die from radiation later. Or the lack of water. The power is out. I have no heat. My only shelter is the decrepit apartment which is windowless, wrecked, and at the mercy of further explosions.
I imagine and concoct all of these scenarios in less than 10 seconds, and then I realize the roaring rumble of the end of the world was just a Honda Civic that has a stereo system that is worth far more than the car itself for sure. I go back to the mundane and routine of my normal life until the world end again as a plane passes over or the ground shakes. It's these times that I imagine the end as inevitable, hopeless, quick, and lethal. But there are other ways for the world to end. In fact, I am sure of it. I imagine those as well.
Until another end- Ryla
July 9th 2008
Around 2:10 pm today I thought I heard the coming of the end of the world. This happens on occasion. A punk in his low riding tricked out car follows the 25 mph speed limit on the road past my house and as it approaches with its loud muffler and booming bass music, I imagine the end of the world. I guess a tricked out Honda Civic sounds like the roar of the world's demise. A world killing tsunami wave or the mushroom cloud of a nuclear attack. As the rumbling of a the deep tones of the expensive stereo setup, I hear the inevitable and unpreventable approach of disaster. I imagine seeing a wall of debri or water or smoke, which is incidentally traveling 25 mph in this fantasy. I can do nothing. Say nothing. Feel nothing. There is no time. I die in my meaningless but rather nice spacious two bedroom home, alone. Sometimes in these fantasies, I burn alive, or rather in case of a nuclear apocalypse, I am incinerated with my two cats before I can blink. The end.
Or sometimes I drown in my belongings. The water wells and gushes up the the second floor windows of my house. The water forces its way into every crevice and every crack. There is nothing to be done. It happens slower than the burning scenario. But the death by water is very appealing. It's more peaceful. That is only if the water is clear and clean. If I were drowning in the mud and muck of those already killed and all the matter this storm collected, it sounds much less appealing. I drown among the comfort of my belongings. The water of the oceans is far away from its proper home there in my living room. Books and photos and pillows swirl around me in the churning water and swallow me up.
Or sometimes I imagine a blast of immense power and energy that sends the glass of my windows inward. I huddle against the wall between the windows of my dining room and living room as they explode in a spray of glass. I huddle with my two cats as the big impact hits. I cough and choke on the dust and floating debri. It steals the oxygen from the air, it soaks up the saliva in my mouth and throat, and clogs my nose. My eyes water and I cover them. My ears ring with the roaring of the explosion. I guess I don't die in this scenario right away. I might die from radiation later. Or the lack of water. The power is out. I have no heat. My only shelter is the decrepit apartment which is windowless, wrecked, and at the mercy of further explosions.
I imagine and concoct all of these scenarios in less than 10 seconds, and then I realize the roaring rumble of the end of the world was just a Honda Civic that has a stereo system that is worth far more than the car itself for sure. I go back to the mundane and routine of my normal life until the world end again as a plane passes over or the ground shakes. It's these times that I imagine the end as inevitable, hopeless, quick, and lethal. But there are other ways for the world to end. In fact, I am sure of it. I imagine those as well.
Until another end- Ryla
Dreams
I have dreams every morning. As the sun rises and the birds wake, I lay in bed asleep. Though not completely asleep. My mind wakes bit by bit and wanders. I have dreams that are beyond scary. I have dreams that feel a whole lot scarier than they are. I have dreams of mundane and silly things. My emotions get tied to my dreams and I awake still anger, upset, or happy. Haven't had too many happy dreams though. Why is that? Who has happy dreams? I wonder if there is a requirement for what one needs in order to have a good dream.
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