Another Adventure Post

Here's another thing that came up under "adventure." I was still working at an actual job when I wrote this, but I guess in my mind I was already gone. I think I subconsciously know that whatever I do I will always be a writer. I think I know (or maybe fear) that whatever job I get hired to do will always be somewhat temporary.

Here's this one.

Love to you.

December 5, 2010

I write and I paint. And I communicate. Through words and photographs and doodles. Through sighs and tears and deep deep laughs. I hold onto the world, and then for a moment, I let it go. Out into thin air. Where it twists and turns and floats far away from me. Disappearing like a mist on the breeze. Other people get up every day. They brush their teeth and wash their face. They get dressed in their business casual, scrub pants and scrub tops, suits and dress skirts attire and then, they head out the door, to an office or a hospital or a factory or the top floor of a sky scraper and they put in their 8-10 hours and they do work. But not me. I sit at home or in coffee shops, I go to the library or to the book store and I type and type for minutes on end, about thoughts going on somewhere inside of my brain. 

And somehow, it feels so invalid. Like what I do isn’t real. Like what I do is just an attempt at a life that exists somewhere off in la la land. I fight it. I fight this lack of regard for what I do with my life. I try to pretend like I feel legit by actually closing the door during writing time or taking a shower, getting dressed, and leaving the house to go off to somewhere else. Somewhere where people are walking about. Where I have the chance to interact with other human beings. And not just sit inside of my own head.

But somehow, it still feels like it’s fake. Like what I do isn’t actually doing anything at all. When I sit on the couch and type away, and then someone comes over and talks to me, interrupting the stream of consciousness flowing towards the screen, it always startles me. Startles me out of the moment. Out of the stream. Out of the flow of the work I am doing. I get so annoyed, like those thoughts are lost forever. And I want to tell them. “Please, when I am typing away, please do not talk to me.” But it sounds so rude. I want to get one of those big red lights, like Uncle Jessie had on Full House when he was recording in the basement. I want to hang it above my head and when it’s on people will know not to bother me. But I know that they don’t get it. Like what I’m doing is just playing on the computer, while what they do is actual work.

I feel silly comparing the two. Comparing my typing my thoughts to your dispensing valuable medications or giving check-ups to sick three year olds. But this is all I have. This is my only occupation. For now. Or possibly, hopefully, fearfully forever. I want to say, “I would never come to your job and interrupt you while you are on the clock and for me this is my ‘on the clock’.” But they could never understand that. Because to them, I am just searching the Internet or playing around or wasting time and not actually writing anything of value. Or so I feel in my head. I may be completely wrong about all of this.

            I always feel the pressure. Of starting all over. I wonder if it’s too late. If you can’t really switch professions at twenty-nine. I become enraged at myself for getting a Bachelor’s degree from a liberal arts college instead of going to a University where I would have started some sort of valid career path. I kick myself for actually going to school to get a Masters in Communication. I mean who does that? Who goes to school for six years and ends up with two completely worthless degrees? In my self-deprecating fantasies, I wish that I could do it all again. Go back and get on a solid career path at eighteen. Instead of dreaming my life away through college and grad school. 

Sometimes I wish that I could get up like everyone else. Get dressed in my uniform and then head out the door to corporate America. A land where I fit right in. Where I am able to run the rat race with everyone else. Where I look like and blend in with everyone else. In this perfectly corporate fantasy I have an actual job. One that I go to every day. That makes a dent in this world. Something that I can explain easily and doesn’t involve being labeled as illegitimate or idealistic.

            But I know that this is not for me. I know that my fate has been signed, sealed, and delivered. And instead, I am doomed to always be a writer. To always be a dreamer. To always be stuck somewhere in the delusions of my mind. And for this, I am somehow grateful. Because this is who I am. I am a girl with an afro and a nose ring and a very visible tattoo on her left arm. Who likes to dress in bright colors. Who actually loves the feeling of typing and gets excited over glitter and new fonts. I am not a number cruncher or a uniform-wearer and I would be absolutely miserable if I had to do either for 8-10 hours a day. I know that if I didn’t write I would not be me. That a huge part of me would wither away and die. 

And I know that that part of me is actually the best part of me. The part of me that believes in something. The part of me that smiles and laughs and can always see the good in every situation. The part of me that likes new people right away. The part of me that wants to hug you even though I’ve only known you for an hour. The part of me that sings loudly even when I’m off key. The part of me that lives for adventure and trying new foods and seeing new sights. The part of me that listens really intently and only speaks after I’ve heard you out. Or apologizes if I interrupt you in excitement. The part of me that is genuine. Sincere. Who really does love you even though we’ve just met. The part of me who lives for the sound of music and the sight of clear blue skies and mountain peaks. That visceral part of me. That feels things so deeply and can always relate even if I’ve actually never been there. But I always feel like I have. 
 That part of me. The best parts of me. The parts of me that I know are deeply connected to the heart of God. 

These are the parts of me that bring me to the computer every day. The parts of me that doodle on napkins. The parts of me that paint and sew and read and sing and watch movies and laugh and laugh and laugh. The parts of me that hug tightly and never want to let go. And all of these parts of me would die if I wasn’t creating. If I wasn’t communicating. I know that I wasn’t made to wear a suit every day. I wasn’t made to even put on a stethoscope every day. I was made to create. To write. To speak. To listen. To vision. To dream. 

This is my work. And this work is valid.

Still and rested

I wrote this after I got back from visiting California in the Spring.
I found it today while searching "Adventure" on my computer.
I'm asking myself today, "Do I want to go on an adventure?"
I'm always ready for adventure. As long as that adventure isn't too scary or too hard or too stressful or too unsafe. Ha. The other week I remember praying, "God I want an adventure." Because I was so bored with my life at that moment. But then almost taking it back, because I remembered that when you pray those words you never know what you're going to get. You can't control your adventure. Your adventure could end up rocking you, it could end up scaring you, it could end up scarring you-both physically and emotionally. But it could also end up relaxing you, it could end up soothing you, it could end up healing you. Whatever the adventure it will end up shaping you--forming you more into the person God wants you to be. You will discover weird things about yourself. You will discover annoying things about yourself. You will discover awful things about yourself. And You will discover wonderful things about yourself. But mostly you will feel and remember and know that you are alive. And that life is more than just complaining and dreading and wondering and searching and wrestling and ignoring.

Here's what I wrote after California.

Love.

March 3, 2011

(Day After California Adventure)

My finger tips are cold

And my sinuses ache a bit

But I taste the richness of chocolate

Melting throughout the dark boldness of my

Coffee

And this feels like home

Because inside I know that I could be a million other places

With a million other people

But instead

I sit on my bed

Facing my beloved computer

With my feet curled up under me

And the taste of coffee and chocolate lingering in the back of my throat

And I want no other feeling than this

The softness of this blanket

And the tingling of my sinuses

And the sweet

Dark

Rich

Bold

Flavors of chocolate and coffee

Resting in pools

Laying down motionless

Falling asleep at the back of my tongue

Warming my whole body

There’s no other taste I’d rather have

There’s no other softness I’d rather feel

Than this fuzzy blanket on my feet

And the cold quick keys of my computer

And my palms resting on the smooth cold steel

And seeing silver

And black

And this blank white screen becoming filled with

Dainty

Strong

Black

Words

And me

Sitting on my bed

With my legs curled up under me.

Alone

But not lonely

Rested

But not tired

Still

But not bored

Ready

But not anxious

And only vacation can put me here

Back in my real world but not

Restless

Back in my every day life but not

Bored senseless

Back in my room

But not feeling

Locked in a cage

Instead

I feel alive

And at ease

Grateful

And full

And only vacation can put me in this place

Where my soul has gotten a chance to travel

To experience

To live

And to be free

And now she is able to just

Sit

And

Be

Still

Knowing that life is still out there

And in here

And waiting to be lived

But also knowing that her life

Is being lived

Right now

In this moment

As the chocolate runs over my tongue

And the coffee rests at the back of my throat

And the marriage of caffeine seep into my veins

Yet I don’t feel anxious

But instead

Feel

Rested and chilled

Soft like this blanket

And calm like the sound of these words being tapped out by my

Lively fingers

And in this moment I feel

 Like

This

Is

Home.

What my computer might say

I found this writing prompt this morning on writer's digest's website. I thought it was fitting since the prompt calls for it to be morning. I started to post it then, but then got distracted by living life. :) So here it is. I wrote the first one then thought, "I wonder what my computer would really say..." then wrote the second one. I think it would probably sound better if you read the second one first, then the first one, but I'm posting them like I wrote them. Ill have to try reading them in reverse and see how that sounds.

I wonder what I'm going to dream about tonight. Last night I dreamed I was in a grocery store looking for...no idea. I always have really crazy or vivid or detailed dreams. So maybe Ill remember mine tonight and give you a glimpse of the inner workings of my subconscious.

Love to you. I wish I could hug you!

July 15, 2011

One morning you are sitting in front of your computer working on your novel when, suddenly, the computer starts talking to you. What does it say? Does it deliver an important message or just want to chat?

Child

Stop writing and start living. Start oozing with life. Start running towards something instead of away. Open your arms wide and embrace everything you come in contact with. Stop trying and start doing. Stop staring and start asking. Stop repressing and start telling. Telling your story. Open your mouth wide and shout out who you are. And if you don’t know in that moment, shout out who you want to be, and who you are will just collide with that person. You are on fire and you were made to spread across the globe. So spread already. Let your fire ignite the trees and the earth. Let it touch everyone who steps in its path and just burn them down. Consume them up in your fire. Stop waiting and start going. Stop wondering and start acting. Child why are you so tired? Maybe it’s because your mind is always racing. Maybe it’s because your body is moving though you just sit still. So stand up and let it move. Let it race. Let it run. But don’t run away from it, let it take you across the ocean. Let it make you sail on the sea. The summer is here and the sky is pale blue. Periwinkle blue. And the coffee shops are open and the coffee needs to be drank. So go drink it. Hold it in your hands and sip it down. Reminisce on why you liked that shop in the first place. Go sit outside at Humboldt even if it does take you a half hour to get there. Go there. And sit and don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about gas and resources today. Just go sit and stare and ask questions and do. Clean your room but also walk. Tell a story but also sing. And live your life. Let it drip down your arms onto the paper. Let it move inside your soul but don’t keep it locked up in there. Share your life. Breathe your life into existence. Tell yourself who you are and then be that person. Tell yourself what you can do and then do it all. And do it all well. You are a mountain. You are a fire. Go and burn the whole world down.

Hey, you there. The one who keeps pushing my buttons. I like the way it feels when you type on me. so keep doing that. It massages me and makes me feel alive and well used. I like that feeling. So thank you for that. But I do have a complaint. What I don’t like is facebook. I don’t like all of the random profile checks. I don’t like the late night staring at my screen when you know you should be sleeping. I don’t like the random updates on what people you haven’t talked to in years are doing. Why do you even care? I know...you don’t care. Yet you keep reading them as if you do. So let me be the first to tell you, stop. It’s great to hold on to friendships. It’s great to reconnect with people you miss but have lost. It’s great to be connected. But even I know that connection comes from words in person. Connection comes from hugs and smiles and warm food and laughter. The real kind. The kind that echoes in your ears and then reverbs in your soul. Not the kind that LOLs across my page. Connection comes through smells, even the bad ones. The ones that let you know that the person youre sitting across from is actually alive. I enjoy the time we spend together, but I am not alive. So go out and spend some time with actual people, not their online personalities. I love all of the research you do. Really I do. I love looking things up for you and being able to produce infinite amounts of bunny trails. I really do. But I don’t really understand the point of it all. Where is all of this information going? I mean really, what is it all for? Is it so that your brain can be packed full with bits and pieces of every topic in existence? Or do you plan on actually doing something with all of this knowledge one day? The first thing to do would be to take one of these alive smelly people and talk to them about it. And if they don’t get it, talk to someone else about it. And soon you will have a little group of people who actually get all of the research you do on here. And what they don’t get, you will all learn together. And that will be real true community. So my dear friend and owner, while I love the time we spend together I really think you should get out and spend some time with humans like you. And when you want to be alone, spend some time massaging my keys. Type away at my keyboard and create stories and think about your day and analyze life and do that thing I love that you do-write about something.