Confessions (#15)

Another Sunday night, another blog post to write. That means reflection. Tonight's introspection revealed a series of minor regrets.  Most of which centered on two habits that I have struggled with all my life. And how they interfere with other habits I want to build, and a few I want to restore. Like reading. I want to read more books, especially works of fiction. A few days ago I took a big step that I hoped would motivate me.

I let those two fucking habits get in my way.

So here I am bitching about it.

Sigh.

(At least it inspired a post.)

(I do enjoy looking at Edward Hopper paintings. They make me feel better. Discovered this one today. Maybe not his best, but I like the colors, and the simplicity. Something about that figure, too...)

Meandering Thoughts #11

I almost didn't blog tonight. However, around 9:30 pm, I began working on a Facebook post that would explain my unwillingness to blog. What I thought would be a brief apology, began to evolve into a long winded explanation of a television series I enjoyed watching on Netflix. Then someone's voice whispered "by the time you are done writing, you could have turned it into a blog post."

So, I grabbed the laptop, signed into Blogger, and began typing. It is not much to look at, but it may become an introduction to something better.

Most importantly, I sat down and wrote something.

Confessions (#14)

Skipping two weeks has its price: over compensation. So instead of writing one long post, I end up with three short ones (EDIT: a short one, and two longer ones). However, there is a theme. Therefore, reading all of them should be rewarding.  

TL/DR: I skipped two blog posts, despite writing enough on Facebook to make up for them. I tried to build a new writing habit: I failed. Then I went on vacation, and read a book that was out of my comfort zone. It made me envious, but not jealous (I wrote about this before, but I do not have the energy to link to it now). It inspired me (the book, not the link). But not in the way that you think (you will have to read on to find out how). I am still daydreaming (and I share a few with you). But I am trying to write them down (blogging does not count--actually, it kind of does). Oh, also, I really want to learn how to draw better. That way I could produce my own images for my blog posts instead of finding them on the internet (among other reasons for drawing).

(Some day I will finally edit and proofread my blog post before clicking "Publish", I promise...)    

On How I Became a Writer (Part 3)

What I am about to write is not what I intended for this evening. While the content will be about my writing journey, it will not be the one I initially envisioned. Instead, I will be sharing a short piece of fiction I produced in high school. 

Earlier today, my mind snagged itself on a row of barbed wire surrounding a minefield of controversy. My thoughts were entangled in several social media posts and the ensuing comments. Their ignorance and resentment ensnared me, and I lost myself in rage and resignation, but also self-doubt. That these people were so unwilling to accept the possibility that they may be wrong, or admit that they lack the knowledge to be so certain about their opinions, while I spend everyday questioning my own beliefs, frustrated me. And the ease at which they recite verbatim the talking points of those whom they never bother to question or critique, then call their opponents sheep while ignoring the irony, drives me towards despair. Finally, I begin to doubt my own beliefs, not because they lack evidence or validity, but from exhaustion. 

So, I squandered the time, energy, and focus for tonight's original content on a rant that played out in my mind. A wasted moment. At the very least, I could have written it out. Used it for a future post.

Sigh.

(A "Portrait of a Cossack Woman" by Serhii Vasylkivsky. Why a Cossack woman? Why not. Also, I needed an image.)

On How I Became a Writer (Part 2)

When I was young, I attended two separate Catholic elementary schools. From kindergarten through fifth, I roamed the halls of St. Michaels in relative bliss (at least that his how I remember it). I have this vague memory of the first day of third grade, in Mrs. Murphy's classroom, and remarking to myself just how green the light shown through the trees bordering the the large stretch of windows. Also, of Mrs. Murphy physically demonstrating how babies enter the world, by spreading her legs and making a downward motion with bother arms. Then from sixth until eighth grade, on the second floor of St. James, I was awakened to harshness of judgmental peers and frustrated teachers. During that time, I learned how bullying and pecking orders worked; the power of humiliation, from both children and adults; and how to stand up for myself by quietly rejecting the Church on Ash Wednesday (I refused to walk up to the altar and receive ashes, and I responded quietly to my teacher's stern inquiry, because, well, it was in the of Mass--even when protesting, I still behaved).

On How I Became a Writer (Part 1)

The first post in a series about how I discovered writing as a powerful form of self expression.   

During a text conversation with a good friend, the topic of children's books came up. At some point, I confessed that I had written one for a ninth-grade English assignment. Through the course of the exchange, I attempted to outline the story. It is a rather sad, disturbing tale. By texting the details, I began to unravel quite a lot about the emotions behind this attempt at storytelling. Later on, I began to analyze my responses to her questions, and realized I needed to find this assignment. Furthermore, the discussion pried loose tucked away memories of other creative writing assignments from high school and college. However, I did not act upon this nostalgic feeling right away. Instead, I let it linger, like pieces of a nearly finished difficult puzzle scattered in frustration across a table top. I yearned to pull the pieces back together and finish it, but the bad taste left by my irritation discouraged any attempt to restart the process. 

Meandering Thoughts (July 4th, 2021, Final Version)

Sorry, I skipped last Sunday's blog post. This past week was spent in Atlantic City, NJ, at a dance competition. Most of my readers (six out of ten), will understand what that means in terms of time and commitment. Some day I will  explain to the rest of my weekly audience (the other four), all it means to be a dance parent. Just not today.

Instead, I am going to try and reflect on this most sacred of days in the US calendar. Because of procrastination, I will not be able to present anything involving in-depth analysis. And my lack of confidence in my intellectual prowess and writing ability prevents me from declaring any bold political or cultural proclamations. In the end, dear reader, you will have to be satisfied with a short reflection on July 4th nostalgia.

Scratch that second paragraph. This is nostalgia, with a hint of philosophical revelation, and political cynicism.

Many apologies.

Bittersweet Musings (#1a)

I will keep this post short, and bittersweet. Back in January of this year I made a difficult decision: I was no longer going to volunteer at my daughters' dance studio. This past week, I tied up all loose ends. And that included a final solo visit to the storage unit. 

[Addendum: It is not short, and more bitter than sweet. However, it is lyrical, and, if you read it carefully, you may detect the sweetness. Maybe.]

Confessions (#13)

Sigh. It is the middle of June. This is my garden. That tall, green thing is a lettuce plant. It has grown from seeds I put in the ground a year ago. At the beginning of the pandemic. Now, it has decided to grow. And I have done nothing to take care of it. Nor have I decided to harvest it when it would have been at its tastiest. Most of the leaves are now bitter.

It is a metaphor. 

However, so is the fact that it is still the middle of June, and most of my garden has been cleared away--except for the grass. If I act this week, I can still get some good harvests before the summer ends. Especially of cucumbers. So I can make my pickles. Which would make me very happy. 

Again, all this is a metaphor.

Meandering Thoughts (#9)

Yet, again, I am not going to write what I intended to say, because I did not take the time to plan it all out. The subject matter is complex; my skills, not quite up to the task. It would require several drafts, maybe even a few rewrites, in order to get my thoughts across cohesively. Otherwise, my words would have been a hot mess: an incomprehensible rant of a middle-aged man.   

Sigh. I procrastinated, and with only one hour to put something together, the following is the result. 

(Actually, I have wasted another ten minutes since typing that last line. So, fifty minutes to go.)

(Yes, I am recycling this image. Not just because I have run out of time, and need something. But also, it is a good metaphor for my current situation. However, I can't decide if I'm the girl, and the boy is Procrastination. Or, I am the boy, and the girl is you, the reader. BTW, it is a Norman Rockwell painting.)