- Published on
New plan ... humility.
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
- Published on
This post is a ramble. To quote Nina Simone, "this is a showtune, but the show hasn't been written for it yet."
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
- Published on
I always look forward to October, the month when the world --the western world--celebrates the occult. I have been a fan of witches, ghouls, eldritch, and the macabre forever!
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifle that joy.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifle that joy.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
- Published on
I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it. Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it. Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
- Published on
I am still learning how not to expend myself.
The last few days have been stressful --domestic problems. Family. Drama. Home renovations, on top of all my editing, critiquing and anxiety issues.
I am trying to sleep, listening to my body, wrestling with my desire to over-indulge in caffeine. But when the body says rest, there's nothing else to do.
These days I desire only to sleep, dream and sleep no more. Best summarized in these Shakespeare words, “To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. ... To sleep, perchance to dream”.-Hamlet
The last few days have been stressful --domestic problems. Family. Drama. Home renovations, on top of all my editing, critiquing and anxiety issues.
I am trying to sleep, listening to my body, wrestling with my desire to over-indulge in caffeine. But when the body says rest, there's nothing else to do.
These days I desire only to sleep, dream and sleep no more. Best summarized in these Shakespeare words, “To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. ... To sleep, perchance to dream”.-Hamlet
- Published on
I think too much ... about everything
... will I die alone?
... is the end of the world near?
... when does middle age start?
... am I an impostor?
... will I ever get a traditional publishing deal?
.... am I a real or good writer?
... do I have a good personality?
... am I intelligent?
... do people like me?
... why don't I do something good with my life?
Sometimes my doubts creep up. I want to brush dirt off my shoulders but it's hard.
Staying positive? I cling to little things.
The last couple days I'd been on high thinking I got this ... and I didn't have this (received some great feedback about a short story and was convinced it would be accepted). Received the rejection this morning. I stop investing in things. No longer hold my breath and keep my fingers crossed. I was once accused of not being "passionate." My response (which of course I kept in my head): I am so used to be disappointed I didn't want to run my anxiety up only to be deflated). Of course, I no longer know how to be happy when I receive good news.
Sometimes, I wonder about me ... and where all this is going ...
The rejection says "I kept the reader at bay when it comes to the character's reaction". The story of my life. I am terrible at expressing feelings ... just terrible. I empathize and think, think, ponder, cogitate, worry ... but I just don't express OUTWARDLY.
My characters are criticized for lacking agency, motivation, expressing themselves or simply being plain flat. I love big concepts but don't think I express them clearly.
Been reading about "sociological" writing versus psychological. Supposedly, Game of Thrones lost the plot in season 8 when it abandoned the former for the latter. Ideally, a writer needs both to be good at STORYTELLING.
I try to do both, but ultimately I prefer plot and structure over either but don't do it well.
Sometimes ...
I wonder if I could ever write an intelligent piece of fiction ... NK Jemisin's The Broken Earth trilogy, for example.
Do I have the psychological grasp of the sociological structures that impress upon people to churn out such in-depth storytelling?
I often accuse myself of "tired/lazy" writing ... when I write despite being too tired to care/focus.
Writing criticisms I frequently receive: complicated plots, staccato sentences, wordiness, "elevated" writing style .... which I blame on my general love affair with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Shakespeare ... I was a pretentious child, who rather liked saying "I shall" versus, " I will."
Sometimes I wonder why I attend writing groups...
Recently listened to a man rant about his older co-worker whom he believes is just showing up to work because he likes the companionship of his co-workers and having something to do, socially.
. I considered quitting writing groups after my mom died last November. And sometimes, especially after a rejection, I think I should give up writing ....
But I have nothing else.
I am not a cross-stitch, crochet-knitting, sell stuff on e-Bay and Etsy type. I can't learn pottery, and I have yet to show up to my soap-making and kickboxing classes (I am still making promises about better weather and stable finances. My older brother says to just do it).
And what will I do with myself?
Watched sick-flick film with Maisie Williams (Arya Stark): she has another "bucket" list in it.
I don't even think I am the "live like you are dying" type. I'd just mope and sink into my shell, convinced the universe really hates me.
Speaking of the universe ...
Some times I wonder ...
Been listening to a lot of physics podcasts lately ... my dream profession had been Astrophysicist. I got intimidated by high school Enriched Physics and dropped out ... fearing I would fail, anyway.
I regret it ... and not pursuing math beyond the 12th grade.
File on my list of life regrets
... Physics
Master's or PhD
Jeopardy
Better relationship with my mom
Life feels like it's running away .... I want a time-loop do-over until I get it right.
Life's okay ... some times.
But sometimes ...
I wonder.
... will I die alone?
... is the end of the world near?
... when does middle age start?
... am I an impostor?
... will I ever get a traditional publishing deal?
.... am I a real or good writer?
... do I have a good personality?
... am I intelligent?
... do people like me?
... why don't I do something good with my life?
Sometimes my doubts creep up. I want to brush dirt off my shoulders but it's hard.
Staying positive? I cling to little things.
The last couple days I'd been on high thinking I got this ... and I didn't have this (received some great feedback about a short story and was convinced it would be accepted). Received the rejection this morning. I stop investing in things. No longer hold my breath and keep my fingers crossed. I was once accused of not being "passionate." My response (which of course I kept in my head): I am so used to be disappointed I didn't want to run my anxiety up only to be deflated). Of course, I no longer know how to be happy when I receive good news.
Sometimes, I wonder about me ... and where all this is going ...
The rejection says "I kept the reader at bay when it comes to the character's reaction". The story of my life. I am terrible at expressing feelings ... just terrible. I empathize and think, think, ponder, cogitate, worry ... but I just don't express OUTWARDLY.
My characters are criticized for lacking agency, motivation, expressing themselves or simply being plain flat. I love big concepts but don't think I express them clearly.
Been reading about "sociological" writing versus psychological. Supposedly, Game of Thrones lost the plot in season 8 when it abandoned the former for the latter. Ideally, a writer needs both to be good at STORYTELLING.
I try to do both, but ultimately I prefer plot and structure over either but don't do it well.
Sometimes ...
I wonder if I could ever write an intelligent piece of fiction ... NK Jemisin's The Broken Earth trilogy, for example.
Do I have the psychological grasp of the sociological structures that impress upon people to churn out such in-depth storytelling?
I often accuse myself of "tired/lazy" writing ... when I write despite being too tired to care/focus.
Writing criticisms I frequently receive: complicated plots, staccato sentences, wordiness, "elevated" writing style .... which I blame on my general love affair with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Shakespeare ... I was a pretentious child, who rather liked saying "I shall" versus, " I will."
Sometimes I wonder why I attend writing groups...
Recently listened to a man rant about his older co-worker whom he believes is just showing up to work because he likes the companionship of his co-workers and having something to do, socially.
. I considered quitting writing groups after my mom died last November. And sometimes, especially after a rejection, I think I should give up writing ....
But I have nothing else.
I am not a cross-stitch, crochet-knitting, sell stuff on e-Bay and Etsy type. I can't learn pottery, and I have yet to show up to my soap-making and kickboxing classes (I am still making promises about better weather and stable finances. My older brother says to just do it).
And what will I do with myself?
Watched sick-flick film with Maisie Williams (Arya Stark): she has another "bucket" list in it.
I don't even think I am the "live like you are dying" type. I'd just mope and sink into my shell, convinced the universe really hates me.
Speaking of the universe ...
Some times I wonder ...
Been listening to a lot of physics podcasts lately ... my dream profession had been Astrophysicist. I got intimidated by high school Enriched Physics and dropped out ... fearing I would fail, anyway.
I regret it ... and not pursuing math beyond the 12th grade.
File on my list of life regrets
... Physics
Master's or PhD
Jeopardy
Better relationship with my mom
Life feels like it's running away .... I want a time-loop do-over until I get it right.
Life's okay ... some times.
But sometimes ...
I wonder.
- Published on
This is an overdue post in my How to be a Woman adventures!
Three weeks ago I finally decided be confrotnational. It was the toughest thing I ever did. I chickened out a couple times, and then finally, on the weekend, I wrote the email.
I did not know what to expect--an explosive argument or a concession and apology.
For years I have been saddled by misplaced, lapsed anger about what I should’ve/could’ve done during past episodes when I felt disrespected/condescended to/bullied. I always walk away, priding myself on my non-violent/argumentative stance. I convinced myself I was taking the high road—when they go low, I go high. Ultimately, this was a lie I told myself, a lie to hide my insecurities, fears, anxieties and cowardice, even. I backed down because I was afraid to stand up for myself. It allowed others to get away with believing they could do and say whatever to me they liked, because I would back down.
This led to years of “chip on shoulder” emotions boiling over. In my head were a slew of "trigger" words: so? No! Go! (spoken condescendingly or angrily). I couldn't escape the ruminations, nor obsessing over every slight. When it got bad, I seriously considered contacting those who’d wronged me in the past to confront them, be it social media or in-person. Ultimately, these solutions felt weird. The past was gone. Here was now. So, I focused on something else –the next time, I’d speak up.
Despite vowing to speak out when I am wronged, I didn't. I still found myself letting incidents slide, partly burdened by my own lack of confidence in my own judgment --did that person mean to speak down to me, I would ask myself. What if I was making a big deal out of nothing? What if I misinterpreted.? At the end of the day, I realized I was stalling and making excuses.
I knew I had to express my feelings. But, how to express myself with words when I wasn't big on talking? I resorted to my strong point--writing. I wrote my thoughts down, went over the words, made sure they said what I wanted to say, tone and everything, conveyed. I did this with the co-worker, and then I hit sent.
The worst of it was over. Once the inevitable happened --my coworker read it and responded, I received an apology. Of course, this went over better than most real life scenarios, and I partly banked on my coworker's personality and professionalism for a smooth resolution. I know in real life standing up to someone, particularly a stranger, or a bully with a bad personality, won’t be so easy. Nonetheless, it’s a breakthrough, the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself too many times to count. Stand up for yourself. Speak up. Keeping it all inside won’t help. Trust me.
Three weeks ago I finally decided be confrotnational. It was the toughest thing I ever did. I chickened out a couple times, and then finally, on the weekend, I wrote the email.
I did not know what to expect--an explosive argument or a concession and apology.
For years I have been saddled by misplaced, lapsed anger about what I should’ve/could’ve done during past episodes when I felt disrespected/condescended to/bullied. I always walk away, priding myself on my non-violent/argumentative stance. I convinced myself I was taking the high road—when they go low, I go high. Ultimately, this was a lie I told myself, a lie to hide my insecurities, fears, anxieties and cowardice, even. I backed down because I was afraid to stand up for myself. It allowed others to get away with believing they could do and say whatever to me they liked, because I would back down.
This led to years of “chip on shoulder” emotions boiling over. In my head were a slew of "trigger" words: so? No! Go! (spoken condescendingly or angrily). I couldn't escape the ruminations, nor obsessing over every slight. When it got bad, I seriously considered contacting those who’d wronged me in the past to confront them, be it social media or in-person. Ultimately, these solutions felt weird. The past was gone. Here was now. So, I focused on something else –the next time, I’d speak up.
Despite vowing to speak out when I am wronged, I didn't. I still found myself letting incidents slide, partly burdened by my own lack of confidence in my own judgment --did that person mean to speak down to me, I would ask myself. What if I was making a big deal out of nothing? What if I misinterpreted.? At the end of the day, I realized I was stalling and making excuses.
I knew I had to express my feelings. But, how to express myself with words when I wasn't big on talking? I resorted to my strong point--writing. I wrote my thoughts down, went over the words, made sure they said what I wanted to say, tone and everything, conveyed. I did this with the co-worker, and then I hit sent.
The worst of it was over. Once the inevitable happened --my coworker read it and responded, I received an apology. Of course, this went over better than most real life scenarios, and I partly banked on my coworker's personality and professionalism for a smooth resolution. I know in real life standing up to someone, particularly a stranger, or a bully with a bad personality, won’t be so easy. Nonetheless, it’s a breakthrough, the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself too many times to count. Stand up for yourself. Speak up. Keeping it all inside won’t help. Trust me.
- Published on
Smile
smile
smile
tomorrow is another day
smile
smile
smile
I am awake
smile
smile
smile
breathe
smile
smile
smile
wake up and do it again
smile
smile
tomorrow is another day
smile
smile
smile
I am awake
smile
smile
smile
breathe
smile
smile
smile
wake up and do it again
- Published on
How To Be A Woman Tip #1
De-clutter.
I am a hoarder. I have known this for sometime. Perhaps it is the fact of growing up working class without much to own, I have developed a fascination with collecting things, including broken or damaged things. The mindset is that broken things can be amended, re-purposed.
I am the type who is fascinated by people who turn throw-away/basic everyday things into art. I get carried away by the guy who makes artwork out of gum, or the woman who re-purposes old clothes into blankets and shawls. In my head, I am this type. The goal is to turn these trinkets into art one day. I am still waiting for that one day that I know in my heart will never come.The end result is that I have "collections" of little trinkets, things the world would dismiss as garbage (specialty store paper/plastic bags, designer tags/ buttons that have fallen off clothes), piling, and need more and more storage boxes.
I am the woman who will keep an old, falling apart piece of clothes because I really like the color, or the design, or out of sentimentality, the reason I still have my old high school gym shorts. I keep bags with broken straps with the intent to sew the strap back on, someday.
Those some-days are not coming.
Increasingly I have a "hunt for the perfect ...." mentally. The perfect sweater, the perfect winter boots, the perfect handbag. I convince myself that once I find the "perfect" INSERT ITEM, then I'll stop looking or shopping. Each time I find the "perfect" Item, then some new item comes around that I think is more ideal. And so the saga continues.
I have spent the last few months in a transitional phase ... donating and/or throwing away items that I cannot wear, don't like, or that can't fit anymore. It hasn't been easy. I buy clothes and shoes not because I need them, but because I want them, and I don't throw things out because they might still fit, and because, growing up, my family amended clothes, not get new ones.
Now, my clothes are meant to represent the woman I want to present to the world--casually professional and sophisticated, part tomboy, with an embrace of feminine aesthetics.
Learning to de-clutter has been therapeutic. Part of my process includes questioning why I have/want things. Often, the answer is that the "item" makes me happy. The rule that's been toughest is the "blind dump."--Throwing things out without checking what it is first. If I throw something away and don't miss it, then it wasn't worth keeping. I have gone through my cupboards and thrown out unused mugs and glasses that have been there so long they've yellowed. I have gone into the bathroom cabinet and decide to either a) use up items that are unfinished (1/4 bottles of perfume, for example), or b) throw out expired or dried/caked up items--I had a few of these). It's been useful.
Tips
1. Check to see if you have an item before you buy it.
2. Use up all your partly finished liquids/fluids before you buy more
3. Donate (you'll feel good)
4. Ask yourself why you are keeping this? (need, sentimentally, or just because?)
5. Organize/Label things into types or kinds (it helps to keep track of what you own, and if you can SEE THE LABEL you are more likely to be reminded of what you have and therefore more likely to consult/use the thing). Sometimes items are lost in the clutter, and I forget I have this or that.
6. Don't buy bulk unless it's for frequently used items (e.g. tissue). Limit items to a certain number. e.g, Only buy 5 volumes of one item every month, e.g.
7. Throw out "goods" boxes, after a month. Chances are, if you haven't returned the item after a month, you won't do so ever. If you do need to return it after this time, you only need a receipt.
8. Do a seasonal purge (make this a habit--spring cleaning, etc.)
9. Take a picture rather than keep the "cute" designer label tag for no reason. A virtual "art collection" is just as effective as a physical one. Seriously, taking pictures of things I like, such as a "cute" button or bottle still allows me to create a collage out of that item rather than store those items in boxes at home and never get around to doing anything with them.
P.S. Scanning important documents work, too. Plenty of online storage. If you insist on keeping physical copies, then do so, but purge after three years (government--taxes)--keep things like contracts, mortgage papers, etc.
10. Fold laundry. sheets, etc. Folded clothes take up less space. Seriously.
De-clutter.
I am a hoarder. I have known this for sometime. Perhaps it is the fact of growing up working class without much to own, I have developed a fascination with collecting things, including broken or damaged things. The mindset is that broken things can be amended, re-purposed.
I am the type who is fascinated by people who turn throw-away/basic everyday things into art. I get carried away by the guy who makes artwork out of gum, or the woman who re-purposes old clothes into blankets and shawls. In my head, I am this type. The goal is to turn these trinkets into art one day. I am still waiting for that one day that I know in my heart will never come.The end result is that I have "collections" of little trinkets, things the world would dismiss as garbage (specialty store paper/plastic bags, designer tags/ buttons that have fallen off clothes), piling, and need more and more storage boxes.
I am the woman who will keep an old, falling apart piece of clothes because I really like the color, or the design, or out of sentimentality, the reason I still have my old high school gym shorts. I keep bags with broken straps with the intent to sew the strap back on, someday.
Those some-days are not coming.
Increasingly I have a "hunt for the perfect ...." mentally. The perfect sweater, the perfect winter boots, the perfect handbag. I convince myself that once I find the "perfect" INSERT ITEM, then I'll stop looking or shopping. Each time I find the "perfect" Item, then some new item comes around that I think is more ideal. And so the saga continues.
I have spent the last few months in a transitional phase ... donating and/or throwing away items that I cannot wear, don't like, or that can't fit anymore. It hasn't been easy. I buy clothes and shoes not because I need them, but because I want them, and I don't throw things out because they might still fit, and because, growing up, my family amended clothes, not get new ones.
Now, my clothes are meant to represent the woman I want to present to the world--casually professional and sophisticated, part tomboy, with an embrace of feminine aesthetics.
Learning to de-clutter has been therapeutic. Part of my process includes questioning why I have/want things. Often, the answer is that the "item" makes me happy. The rule that's been toughest is the "blind dump."--Throwing things out without checking what it is first. If I throw something away and don't miss it, then it wasn't worth keeping. I have gone through my cupboards and thrown out unused mugs and glasses that have been there so long they've yellowed. I have gone into the bathroom cabinet and decide to either a) use up items that are unfinished (1/4 bottles of perfume, for example), or b) throw out expired or dried/caked up items--I had a few of these). It's been useful.
Tips
1. Check to see if you have an item before you buy it.
2. Use up all your partly finished liquids/fluids before you buy more
3. Donate (you'll feel good)
4. Ask yourself why you are keeping this? (need, sentimentally, or just because?)
5. Organize/Label things into types or kinds (it helps to keep track of what you own, and if you can SEE THE LABEL you are more likely to be reminded of what you have and therefore more likely to consult/use the thing). Sometimes items are lost in the clutter, and I forget I have this or that.
6. Don't buy bulk unless it's for frequently used items (e.g. tissue). Limit items to a certain number. e.g, Only buy 5 volumes of one item every month, e.g.
7. Throw out "goods" boxes, after a month. Chances are, if you haven't returned the item after a month, you won't do so ever. If you do need to return it after this time, you only need a receipt.
8. Do a seasonal purge (make this a habit--spring cleaning, etc.)
9. Take a picture rather than keep the "cute" designer label tag for no reason. A virtual "art collection" is just as effective as a physical one. Seriously, taking pictures of things I like, such as a "cute" button or bottle still allows me to create a collage out of that item rather than store those items in boxes at home and never get around to doing anything with them.
P.S. Scanning important documents work, too. Plenty of online storage. If you insist on keeping physical copies, then do so, but purge after three years (government--taxes)--keep things like contracts, mortgage papers, etc.
10. Fold laundry. sheets, etc. Folded clothes take up less space. Seriously.
- Published on
The last month has been hell for me, the worst, heart-crushing experience of my life. I lost my mother, and there's no magic in the world that can bring her back, no spell to cast to undo the ravages of time and death, the destroyers of worlds. It's hard to move on, not while I'd prefer to crawl away from the world and sleep it off. I have little energy to write, and am confused and resentful that the world keeps moving without my mother.
I am haunted by her memories, woken deep into the night by her calling my name, and stuck in the psychological torment of "what if". I hid my writing from her. She knew I wrote, but never truly read any of my work, and I regret wholeheartedly all the missed opportunities, hugs, and communications, and there's now no way to re-do these never-moments. All of my tomorrows are not worthy enough to regain the 40 yesterdays and counting since she was here.
I'll have to find a way, even if the things I love are bitter and useless to my existence in the current time. It's what my mother would've wanted. Always and forever!
I am haunted by her memories, woken deep into the night by her calling my name, and stuck in the psychological torment of "what if". I hid my writing from her. She knew I wrote, but never truly read any of my work, and I regret wholeheartedly all the missed opportunities, hugs, and communications, and there's now no way to re-do these never-moments. All of my tomorrows are not worthy enough to regain the 40 yesterdays and counting since she was here.
I'll have to find a way, even if the things I love are bitter and useless to my existence in the current time. It's what my mother would've wanted. Always and forever!