my blog isn't scary

There's ocean and seaweed and surf. Greyness and blueness and wet sandness. And foam rushing forward from the water, up and up the beach. I run away from it, screaming and laughing and grabbing the hem of my blue shorts like it's the only thing that will save me.

Those were memories. I was six or so, at the Oregon Coast. I really, really want to go back. I have pictures of it too, of me running away from the surf.

I keep up my writing on my Morning Pages. It takes a lot of emotional and physical and mental energy, working through all the drama that's going on, longhand. But I'm glad I'm writing them because it helps me figure things out.

Leanne read Twilight and really liked it. I'm still not sure if I'm going to read it. Eddie and Bellie are weirdos. I like vampires though, I love vampires, at least Scott's vampires. (Yay Scott! You could totally take down Stephanie Meyer!) Especially because they drink coffee instead of blood. I know the feeling... sometimes I wonder if deep down I am a vampire too and don't know it. Me + Espresso = GRRAWRR.

I am very happy, and my blog is not scary.

Love,
me.

do you mind if i'm a geek?

off to the wedding!

Off to the wedding today but must finish my morning pages first. If I don't finish my morning pages, no wedding. If I don't finish my espresso, no wedding. So I must hold up under the ginormous pressure and finish my two necessary arts.

I will see you all...

later.

Love,
me

(Oh, did I mention that it is my sister Tara's wedding and not mine?)

rehearsal

Wearing my grey scoop-neck AE shirt (the silky, artsy one with the eagle on it), my skinny jeans, light purple nail polish, and bare feet!

In trouble because I didn't write my morning pages yet, and because I want to do the tango but I don't know how to do it or who to do it with.

I love frogs.

I love little lumps of clover in the grass.

I love angel clouds.

I love my bare feet.

Love,
me.

new post

I got a little kittie! In my dream. The kittie wasn't black but he was a grey tabby and his name was Little Sausage (of course...) I got to carry him all the way home curled up against my chest. He was purring.

Writing my resume to drop off at the little expresso stands around town.

Also sticking up little post-it notes on the wall above my desk. Each little postie has a quote about creativity written on it. I'm going to go through The Artist's Way today and copy out some more quotes.

One of the exercises in the book is to choose five different occupations you'd like to lead in five different imaginary lives. You could do anything. Then you choose one that you want to "live out" this week. I chose to be a famous chef.

Like Anatole.

kittie kittie

I got to hold a little kitten tonight.

Makes me remember how much I want a kittie of my own,

which is very badly.

I would like a pure black one,

with soft fur,

that has many kittens;

many kittens that I can hide in my valet's bed.

(Because my valet will not like kittens so much;

his name will be Jeeves.)

the sound of paper

Last night, through exercises in "The Sound of Paper" by Ms. Julia Cameron, I made a list of what I thought of God in my childhood, and what kind of God I would like. I was not doing this in any sort of blasphemous way at all. Here is what I wrote, longhand, in my notebook, honest as myself:

Childhood God:
1. Wrathful
2. Cranky
3. Jealous
4. Up in the Sky
5. Demanding Obedience
6. Judgmental
7. Boring
8. Strict
9. Stuck "way back then"
10. Picky

God I Would Like:
1. Modern
2. Forgiving
3. Creative
4. Charismatic
5. Extravagant
6. Down here with me
7. Encouraging me in my pursuits
8. Willing to share secrets
9. Stylish
10. Knows me totally and likes me

Like I said, don't get mad at me for being "blasphemous"... I needed to know what false misconceptions I have about God, and I find that so many are wrong! I still have such a hard time shaking those. I want the God that King David had, not a God that is stereotypically "middle-class American Christian". I want a Spiritual God, not a Stern, Male God.

HE MADE ME CREATIVE.
HE LIKES ME CREATIVE.
I LIKE MYSELF CREATIVE.
I LIKE HIM.
HE LIKES ME.
HE HAS CREATED ME IN HIS IMAGE,
TO WRITE.
WRITING, THEREFORE,
IS A SPIRITUAL ACT,
THE ACT OF PUTTING YOUR SPIRITUAL BEING,
WITH ALL IT'S BELIEFS,
ON PAPER.

picture of my purple piece of art...

yes, a shirt. Art.

Why can't clothing be art?

tazo zen tea

it is quite late, say 12:00 in the... morning. Well I'm sorry about that mistake, I meant it is quite early. You see I wanted to stay up because I found a little green packet of Tazo Zen tea in my bedroom, which I have such a heart-tug for, even though I've never tried it before tonight. I think my friend Amy sent it to me. And I drink tea sip by sip, very slowly, so it has taken me a long time since I made it an hour ago. I am about halfway done with the cup.

I am considering staying up the entire evening, to see the sunrise and write of it. There is something so special about staying up, waiting and waiting for the sun to rise. Unfortunately it is difficult for a person such as me. So I may fall asleep on the living room couch if I cannot make it.

Dr. Greene said I'm trying to live a 26-hour day, which I think is so funny. He also said he is not concerned about my caffeine intake, which is "only" four shots a day. I am relieved.

I can see the moon from here, behind a pine tree, and it is white.

Great book, by Ms. Julia Cameron... "The Artist's Way". Yes, go get it from your library, it is very popular and you should be able to find it. I am going through the 12-week course. It is these kind of books--the open, dreamy ones--that really get my heart pumping to write. And they are the only ones that actually encourage me to write better, and in my own way.

Nothing is more important than that. If you don't write like yourself, you'll never be original. Think Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Stephen King, James Joyce, Ray Bradbury. Completely different styles. What if Fitzgerald wanted to write just like Hemingway? or Stephen King wanted to write just like Ray Bradbury? You would just have books flat and dull and untrue stocking the bookshelves. Not that there aren't already millions of books like that out there, but we would really miss the true gems. The long, waltzing, fantastic sentences of Ray Bradbury... the bold starkness of Hemingway.

And,
to leave you with something of Ray Bradbury's to chew on,
from his incredible book "Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity",

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."

"Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down."

asked out to coffee...

by a gentleman today. Quite the surprise. We met online, and he's in the military, though he's back in Spokane now. He is also 5'8", which makes me three inches taller than him. Of course I said no. (Not just because of the height, and it's not because he's ugly; he's actually quite the dashing figure.) After going through the regular little marching men order of subtle questions like "Do you have to stay in tonight?" "You doing anything fun tonight?"... he asked me if I, perhaps, "would like to go out for some coffee?"

I said right off, "'Tis a busy time for me, with my sister's wedding coming up." (For I like to make up excuses, they are fun. You get a lot more life and spontenaety out of them--more writing material.)

"You're busy right this moment?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I promised myself a couple hours of creative time tonight. And my artist dates are not to be broken."

It took him a while to respond, and he finally said, a little stiffly, "Um... yeah. Have fun with that."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Right."

"Don't be angry," I pleaded. "I'm not saying no because I don't want a coffee! In fact, I want a coffee right now... very badly..."

And he did not reply.

You see, men are quite jealous of girls dating anyone else, even if it is their inner artist, their poetic genius. But writing takes priority over this Mr. Man. Until I am engaged, I don't think anyone is qualified to interrupt my artist dates. Hopefully my husband (if it ever comes to that) will be willing to give me alone time with the page.

P.S. I would not have said yes anyway.

apologies

I apologize very much for my use of a controversial word in my previous post--one that begins with D. I forgot that not everyone thinks that using that word is okay, and to anyone who thinks that, I'm very very sorry... and don't worry, I'm still a Christian, albeit one who is trying to decide what she believes about God and legalism and such. I did not mean to disturb or offend anyone, and as you can tell I was in a very distressed state of mind yesterday.

Take my apologies, and anyone who can, I need you to pray for a 15-year-old girl named Sara who is in a very bad situation with her dad. He beats her and threatens to kill her. She tried to shoot herself today. I am in contact with her over the internet and trying to make her get help, but she is too weak and scared. Please pray for her... pray that she will get help somewhere, and that her dad will be thrown in jail as he deserves.

phoenix from the ashes

I hate to say it but this morning I was obsessed with dying the death of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a man whose writing I greatly admire, and yet a man I have sympathy for because of his van-Gogh-like death. You know, the hurting, sick alcoholic, struggling to turn out typewrit page after typewrit page; alone after dozens of failed relationships and many affairs... yes, this morning I woke up and it felt like someone had prophesied my life to be like that. It was a weird, not very comfortable feeling.

However hard my life is right now, I feel as though I am rising up through it all. I'm writing like mad, accomplishing dozens and dozens of things in a day, scraping away at papers that fly about me; I am doing more work and chores than ever, and drinking more espresso than ever. I have started to take Vitamin B halfway throughout the day, just so I can get through without falling asleep.

Then at 10 o'clock PM, I have an espresso in my bedroom, so I can stay up till midnight and write. Oh, writing. What I would do to write. It is my life, it is the very cord that connects me to my sanity. Or perhaps insanity, depending on your viewpoint. It opens me up. I must admit though, that true writing is very painful, oh damn it is. It hurts like hell. But if it does not hurt, there is no truth in it, there is no meaning and no self in it... it is all fluff, nothing worth keeping, nothing worth publishing. You might as well have been doing cleaning or such.

Oh tut! I'm starting to sound like Brenda Ueland. (Though that may not be such a very bad thing.)