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Ok, I can do this itís only 100 words everyday. Hell Iím sure I write ten times that in email. Iím not sure how to go about it though. Do I record my life in an open forum, or rant about daily trivialities? I suppose thatís not really the point. Perhaps this is more of an exercise in discipline. Another question just occurred to me. Why do I want to do this? It could be a cathartic journey Iím sure. Writing is good for the soul. Itís not that I have anything poignant to say. 100 words, here I am!
Iím back. Second day, and so far so good. I wonder what today will be about? Well yesterday was Canada Day, and people from all walks of life, whether naturalized or of foreign birth, came together to celebrate our nationís 141st anniversary of Confederation. The typical backyard parties, outdoor concerts, and fireworks could be found in every town, village and hamlet, from coast to coast. It was quite a party, or so Iím told. I didnít attend any of the events. But this was supposed to be about today, not yesterday. I can see how this is going to work.
Iím new to this, so leniency should be granted when I make an erroneous judgement or etiquette faux-pas. Iím not really a journal kinda person. I used to be, in another life, but found that people didnít respect my privacy and the largest trust shattering rule was broken. Personal thoughts used for implements of war. As a child, I had not been familiar with the tactics and strategies of familial law, but despite the parental prattle of ďitís not your faultÖĒ became acutely aware that certain outcomes had been a direct result of my written thoughts. That ended my journaling.
I know that Iím writing FOR me, but who am I writing TO? Does one require an audience in order to compose? I suppose not; Else I would have to respond with, I write to ME. I guess that would make this a journal. Or perhaps a conversation with myself? I can hear all the clichť remarks now, but arenít our thoughts a form of communication? And (insert spiritual icon here) knows that I sure as (insert spiritual plane here) need to improve my communication skills. If I canít communicate with myself, then how can I communicate with anyone else?
Everyoneís got a little crazy in them. Sometimes we have a choice of when, where and to whom we show it, and sometimes we donít. So far I think I fall into the former category. Whatís a pair of red lace thong panties worn sideways, outside your pants, topped off with a jewelled tiara and knitted slippers amongst friends, or at least a bunch of middle to old aged gay men? Then again the blow up, anatomically correct Ewe ended up with them. The thong and tiara that isÖ not the gay men. Itís hard to say who was crazier.
I admit, Iím reading your work. You gave it to me as a backup when you almost lost everything on your hard drive. I sort of knew what was on the CD as you handed it to me. You said I could read it, but until now I didnít feel a need. So whatís changed? The loss. The grief. The desire to feel close to you again. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much, and there is nothing I can do. So I delve into what parts of you I do have. And Iím not fucking sorry about it either.
Have I been over reacting? I find myself bouncing between utter despair and devastation to necessary aloofness. Fool me once, fool me twiceÖ
Swallowing the lump hard. Feeling it enlarge and hack its way to the pit of my stomach where it nauseates. Yet I continue to swallow more everyday, and no amount of purging alleviates this sick feeling. Have I been over reacting? Right now Iíd say yes, but ask again in thirty seconds and Iím bound to give a different answer. Itís a struggle I donít think I really won all those years ago, because here I am.
Things Iíve recently learned:
Men and women canít be just friends. They can be friendly, but sex is always on the mind of one or both parties
You canít trust ANYONE
Dedication takes persistence
Sometimes the lies we tell ourselves are easier to swallow than the truth
Whatever IT is, it doesnít get any easier
When you find art (any kind) that moves you, surround yourself with it
Time does NOT heal all wounds
Itís not what you look at, itís what you see
Self exploration is daunting, but required
Karma is real. Donít underestimate her. Sheíll kick your ass.
A person has to draw the line somewhere. At what point is it the right time to say Ďenough is enough?í I wasnít able to say it when I should have. I still struggle with trying to hold onto the ground (or rather self esteem, sanity, self respect) Iíve regained. Going back time and time again, with the hope that something has changed, that things will work out. That I wonít end up disappointed and thoroughly wounded to the point I canít function. Why do I let myself? I just canít do it anymore. I just canít. I just CANíT!
Iím very empathetic, some would say to a fault. I tend to put others feelings before my own a lot of the time. "A.B." says this does more harm than good for me, that it will cause resentment because my needs arenít met. I have mixed feelings about it. We could use a shit load more empathy in the world today. Iím not saying it would solve all of our problems, but understanding could broker communication. And at the end of the day isnít that what itís all about? To be able to clearly communicate what we needÖ. Isnít it?
Itís so much easier writing on the computer. Lately though I find myself returning to paper and pencil. I prefer the pencil to the pen. It just seems to glide over the page more smoothly, not to mention it makes mistake correction a little easier. Some may argue that one shouldnít be editing oneself during the writing process. Write first, edit later. But even within the context of 100 words I lose track of the subject at hand. Is it against the rules to jump from thought to thought? Again, going back to the audienceÖ and ME says ďjust writeĒ.
ĎTwas the night before the party and all through the Ďhood
They were wrapping the presents as best as they could
The neighbourís had strung all the Christmas dťcor
And carols were sung as they went door to door
Itís glorious summer, and holiday time
Getting together when the weather is fine
Swapping of gifts brought cheers from the crowd
Some naughty, some nice, and stealing was allowed
The food was amazing, the drink overflowing
Together they revelled as the party got going
To family, and friends and strangers alike
Merry Christmas in July, and to all a good night.
I should be at the gym, but instead Iím here. Iím not the kind of person who says ďI shouldÖĒ but never does. Iíve been very faithful to the self imposed fitness schedule, but Iím finding that I need to be here right now. Ok, so how long do 100 words take? Especially when it seems there is no forethought as to the dayís ramblings. It depends I guess on what kind of feel I get from where Iím going. I stop, I contemplate. I lose track and start thinking about other things. But Iíve been through this before, right?
I think I experience way too much stimuli. Maybe thatís why my mind is all over the place. I honestly canít remember the last time I sat in complete silence to contemplate, without the call of ďLifeĒ interfering. I miss yoga, which of course meditation is a huge part. I really enjoyed bowl meditation. The sound allows my brain to listen, while at the same time soothes and calms yet permits the inner exploration that I need. Mental note to self ďPick up a Bowl Meditation CDĒ. Another mental note to self, ďConfer with S.Y. regarding a yoga retreat vacationĒ.
Middle of the month. I must be grasping for a topic to write about. I wonder if anyone else here struggles with that too? I have to admit that I havenít read all the 100 word authors, but of those I have, it doesnít appear they have much trouble. To quote a song lyric (albeit out of context) ďDonít stress, donít stress, donít stress.Ē So what if I write about Ďwhat do I write about?Ē Exercise in discipline; donít worry about an audience, just write. Writing for oneself doesnít require a subject or an audience.
Iím sorry, it just doesnít.
I donít know what today is going to bring. I try not to re-live yesterday. Not that there is anything wrong with yesterday, I mean it got me to today afterall. Itís just that today offers possibilities that yesterday didnít; the opportunity to have a new experience, to try something different, to write a new day.
Not re-living yesterday isnít the same as not having regrets. Sure there are things I wish Iíd done differently, but I donít wish to re-live those moments. Iíd rather look forward, make necessary changes, and face each new day for what it will bring.
The river is calm today, and the breeze is a welcome break to the oppressive humidity of late. Itís a quiet morning, and Iíve found myself in a contemplative mood. Iíve come to this place in remembrance. Such tender memories are a blessing.
As I begin my walk down the path, the flora and fauna are the only witness to my smile and the echo of my footsteps mask the sound of tears.
I hear a rustling behind me and turn around to find you standing in front of meÖ and just as quickly youíre gone.
Only a beautiful memory.
She casts a glance at the clock. She has an hour to wait and ponder whatís in store for her today. She slides a disc into the car stereo and turns the volume up. He gave her the CD and she plays it regularly having memorized every note, pause and lyric.
Listening to the first melodic tune stirs emotions that sheíll try to control, unsuccessfully, before she has to face an audience.
What could be more embarrassing?
Several moments cross her mind but they donít compare.
Then she remembers that emotions caused by grief are nothing to be embarrassed about.
Leaning back in my chair, feeling the soft warmth from cloud filtered sun on my face, I close my eyes.
Listening to the sound of my breath and feeling my hair tickle my shoulders from the light breezed that blows. Thinking of nothing in particular, but just trying to ďbeĒ in this moment.
I feel the clouds move across the sky as my body warms and cools. Inhaling deeply, the scents of summer, enjoying the perfume of cut grass and wild flowers mingled with a pungent chlorine undertone.
ĎTis a beautiful summer day, and a good day for being Absent.
I do try.
Someone once said to ďtryĒ implies failure. I disagree with that completely. I believe that to try implies attempt in the face of possible failure. Knowing full well that things may not turn out the way youíd like, youíve mustered the courage to ďtryĒ it anyway.
Itís an attempt at achievement. If at first you donít succeedÖ and all that.
You shouldnít ďtryĒ, you should ďdoĒ.
But if you ďdoĒ and fail, is your attempt worthless? You just didnít ďdoĒ it?
My belief is that ďtryĒing is valid. And I continue to try. Itís called determination.
At what age does one look at young adults and think they are kids? I guess the question really is, when does one become acutely aware that they are no long a
Is it when you are no longer asked for identification to purchase controlled substances? Or when you start noticing the grey replacing the youthful colour?
Does one generation look at another generation recalling what it was like, and wishing they could relive the good ole days?
Do these thoughts always lead to examination of oneís own mortality?
I suppose it does, regardless of oneís own age.
Why is it that when you purposefully go clothes shopping you can never find anything that you like or that fits properly?
Yet the day you get your credit card bill (which always happens to coincide with your poorest day of the month,) you not only find the cutest outfit marked down 50%, but you also find a strappy little pair of sandals and a handbag to match?!
The only sane thing for a gal to do is make the minimum payment on the card, score all the goodies, then step out on the town with the girls.
Itís raining again today, and itís supposed to rain the rest of the week. I mean it doesnít rain all day. Mother Nature has been kind enough to take a break in the evenings.
I like to sit on the patio, soaking in what little summer sheís giving us. In the evening after the rain, the air is lighter, cooler, and not so oppressive.
Watching the birds and the clouds, occasionally sipping a glass of Barolo.
This is my time to relax and enjoy what Iíve worked hard for. Itís me time.
OhÖ here comes the rain.
Me timeís up.
Should I be more philosophical here? I know that I can, but do I want to? To that Iím not sure.
Although I claim to be writing to and for myself, the mere fact that these thoughts will be made available to others, coupled with a desire to not offend anyone results in a form of self censorship.
Iím accustomed to treading an eggshell path. A regular tight-rope walker I am.
Are circuses still a big draw?
Oh to run awayÖ but that never solved any problem. Stand up and face it. Translate thoughts into words, and words into action.
The clouds are sitting low over the city, clinging to buildings and obscuring roof tops.
It hasnít rained much, but the moisture soaks into your clothing and turns well trained hair into wisps of frizzy fly aways.
Tut tut now. The humidity is good for the skin, and I AM using less moisturizer, which is a good thing since there is no one to help apply it to my back.
Now if only I could find a silver lining with the hair issue. I suppose I could wear it up. It would be less trouble and work in the mornings.
She cared for her children as best she could until the day came when she didnít care for herself.
Of course she still loved them, and they loved her, despite the arguments, the tears, and lack of parental responsibility.
The pleaded with her, got angry, and with the role reversal complete, attempted to take matters into their own hands.
Even after they grew and left the co-dependent nest, they check in on her, tried to council, and bailed her out of self inflicted situations.
Her eventual death caused conflicting emotions. Grief naturally, but with an undertone of subtle, guilty relief.
His eyes were the prettiest blue she could imagine, and they sparkled when heíd gaze upon her smile.
He couldnít fathom what this delicate creature wanted with him, but offered himself up to her. As a token of his devotion, he placed a jewel the color of his eyes, which he knew she adored, around her neck. It served as a reminder that he watches and protects her through this love gesture.
It is her most prized possession and she wears the color of the sky, the color of love, the color of the most beautiful eyes she knows, always.
Does abrasive language convey a stronger meaning? When one uses coarse language is it a way to express emotion, or is it a lack of education? Not that educated people donít use obscenities; But what effect does emotion have on language?
It seems to me that anger is a dominant instigator, likely used for insulting another. Pain can be implicated also as a cathartic means of communication.
Is the reason why young people regularly employ profanity in every day language, a lack of emotional or academic maturity? Though this is not what I meant to contemplate here. Oh fuck it.
I woke far too early this morning.
It could have been the stiff back, or the call of nature (both literal references, since the birds were also awake, and beginning their noisy morning chatter).
In any case, I made coffee and proceeded to the patio where I waited to greet the sun.
With the exception of morning bird song, it is so quiet.
The serenity washes over me and for a moment, just as the sun crests the horizon, I am fulfilled, enjoying the peace of the new day ahead.
I think Iíll sit here a while with my thoughts.
Itís an ugly scar, visible, but not always noticeable. It happened so long ago, but the location, shape and size of it makes it impossible to fade no matter the number of lotions and potions I try. Some who notice it are questioning, and I suppose I can understand why, but it gets old after a while and the explanation tiresome. It was an accident when I was six years old, so you can stop looking at me pitifully and with disdain. It was just the misguided adventure of a young audacious child, a bicycle, and a storm windowÖ period.
Itís the end of the month and Iíve managed to endure. (Proud Grin)
Its taken persistence of which I have plenty, however some days were difficult (as you may or may not have read) to string thoughts together.
Itís definitely been a disciplinary experience. I think Iíll be able to survive several months, maybe a year.
Who knows, I may devote a lifetime to one hundred little words every day, published or not.
Iím thinking that I need to explore different styles of writing. Perhaps next month. Iím just now settling into a routine.
Write you tomorrow.
The Tip Jar