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Of this i know

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Of this i know

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Maybe today is better suited to twitter

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You know. The less said the better. I feel the dark descend down on me. It fell heavily and took me surprise. Thing is, I really shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know how it snuck up on me. I’m vigilant. Usually I can dodge it with some “glass half full” mantras.

It’s grey and raining outside so that doesn’t help. It’s oppressive, but still I hobbled out for a bit of a stroll as the rain beat down on me. Maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Still I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here. I’m having trouble even finding the words to express. I’ve fallen down a very deep dark hole and right now I’m just standing here transfixed, unable to move and the hole is filling up with water. 

Here we go. I agonize, should I post this and let people in or do I add it to the 20 or so posts gathering dust in my unpublished folder.  I’m breathing deeply. In….out….in….out….in….out. Ah what the hell. You only live once right? 

Ad nauseam

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As everyone knows, my blog has always been part confessional, part rant, part general ramblings. I have wanted to focus in on one subject for some time but that seems impossible for me. And while I ponder this, in my head, always in my head, I find myself procrastinating to the point of complete excruciating idleness. I know what stops me from writing about certain subjects. There is shame and embarrassment surrounding the subject matter and that prevents me from letting go of it and pouring it into these blank white boxes as cathartically healing that may be. 

I’ve had enough of that, I think, and it’s about bloody time. Most of what I am is comprised of are those personal experiences. They have defined who I am, much as I’d like that not to be true. It’s not likely I’ll change that much at this point so I’m going to continue to gaze inward through that navel of mine but with a more studied gaze…hopefully. The when and the where aren’t important. Afterall, that’s what causes me to stop and clutch those words possessively to my chest. It’ll happen when it happens and most likely because I am releasing the hounds and giving over to some truths more will shake loose more often. 

Sure I’d still like to focus on subjects and throw down matter that folks want to read, but that’ll take some practice. I’m cracking the door open just a tad for now and see where that gets me. 

What is 500 words

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I remember having to write essays of this length. Those tedious report-like stream of words we churned out for the interpretation and acceptance of someone else. Someone whose world view might not match your own, probably skews far away from you. I want to try to write something every day, perhaps even babbling drivel like this just to get something down. As much as essays are subjective discourses, they are also injected with some opinion on the part of the writer. I does, afterall, have something to do with perspective.

 Is that proper form however? I’d have to look that up but I’d probably forget it. I have spent some painstaking hours trying to remember people and situations; fleeting flashes of an idea that I lose within a few footsteps. I used to dismiss these lapses and carry on, but now I wrestle with my grey matter in an effort to recall. This only affects what is happening here and now or within the very near future. I guess that’s the long way of saying short term memory. Stored in my memory banks I discover memories so vivid it is almost like experiencing it all over; the good and the bad. I went to an event and an infuriating man I knew arrived on the scene. He is still the same person, not bad, but definitely on his own planet orbiting his own sun. Later, when I got home I tried to remember the short relationship 

The fall

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I don’t remember the fall itself. I remember the panic of feeling myself unable to stop it but I was unconscious for the ambulance ride and delivery to emergency. When I came to I found myself on a bed not really aware of what had happened. I knew that my body had betrayed me but it was more an unfortunate case of being unable to stop momentum when I’d stepped on my shoelace. The last thing I remember is leaving to go home to feed my cat and to gratefully slide between the sheets of my bed…

There was a friend was there with me and I knew she should be at home as well, miles away with her boyfriend. I have the usual impression I do while in emergency on the occasions I’ve been before. I’m sure it’s the impressions of a lot of people do when they visit the emergency ward. It’s that of feeling being ignored and somehow less a human being because you happen to find yourself there. I did get some perfunctory if almost downright rude help but my major wound was taken care of, nothing fancy. No ice or cleaning, nothing to soothe the scrapes. I get it though, resources are slim. After a time–five hours or so–I was sent on my way, shooed out into the cold to find myself a cab to take me home. I arrived home to a very hungry cat and that bed I so craved and climbed in, but not before I survey the damage; scrapes, swelling, stitches. Luckily for me my teeth are intact (again unlike my pride). My glasses took the brunt of the damage. I would once again find myself having to throw myself on the mercy of my local optician to get the lens fixed.

The next day as I was squeezing blood out of my clothing and taking an Advil hoping to aid with the swelling and residual pain, it was driven home that a cat can’t feed you or baby you and that’s really what I wanted. I wanted somebody to fuss over me and tell me” it would be OK, or anything….It’s not the first time I felt this way annd I’m sure it certainly won’t be the last. But that lonely feeling that feeling when you feel truly alone doesn’t feel very good. I just wanted one of my nearby friends who’d witnessed the fall to come over with some chicken soup or buzz at my door and offer to make me tea without me asking, but they didn’t. I couldn’t help feeling abandoned when I needed. It stung almost as deeply as the tears streaming over my split lip. If there’s ever a moment when you realize you’re mostly alone, this was one of them.


Dialing Back the Word Count: A Life Without Letters

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Pondered this a great deal. The mere act of sitting down to write and focus the mind to do it and then sending it where you want it to go.

Justine Leonhardt Broken letters. 2014. Web. 28 Feb. 2016.

By the time I got to the age where I wanted to write letters – the really long, philosophical ones – the glory days of letter writing had long since passed. When the close associations of adolescence came along and all the preoccupations with preoccupation made putting pen to paper feel like a necessity, email had already obscured the utility of the letter.

From Sylvia Plath to F. Scott Fitzgerald, Vincent van Gogh to George Orwell, a sizeable collection of letters is a staple of many artists, writers and philosophers. It was in the looseness of language, where the slow development of true talent was revealed, that the every day person could be seen. While a work of art has been expertly crafted and put forth, only letters have the ability to capture what has merely been contemplated for posterity.

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Writing while swooning

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Monaco Sidestreet

(I wish I was here)

My head is swimming but there’s something I wanted to write. Yes, insignificant but words in the box. This is important right now. “Room to Write”‘s first lesson is to take a word that has two meanings. What’s the term for that again? Anyway, you are to write and keep writing for 20 minutes I think, and don’t stop even if what you’ve set down is nonsense. No stopping and going back to edit and no pondering over what the words are or if they are the right words. I suppose I could do this most any day without much difficulty but I don’t because it’s important to me that they are the right words. My mind keeps jumping back to the question of what the grammatical term for those words is. “Homonym”….? I think I might be right. Look, I’ve got one here: right and write. Brilliant. I’ve actually forgotten what the thrust of the exercise is. Once you have those two words what do you do? Babble on with the words in context? Yup, this is fascinating stuff, but this is my mind at work. If I wrote down everything that ran on my cerebral highway there’d be volumes of nonsense. Sometimes when I sit down to write, I find myself lapsing into inertia. I’ve already done a lot of writing. Texts, messenger messages, responses to emails, some tweeting and Facebook posting. I’ve even responded to messages on OK Cupid. Yes, I know, we’ll get to that another time. The Stories…!

I’ve got to go lie down. My fingers are shaking and I can hardly sit upright. My vision is mushy in front of me, but the thing is I wanted to stick to the discipline. Good thing I can type quite quickly. I’ve incorporated some pauses and short spurts of meditating into my life. It might be doing some good.

But then there’s this, this is what happens when your brains on drugs. Not those drugs, but the pharmaceutical. In the morning I swallow 3 tablets, 4 caplets and 3 capsules. In aid of what I don’t know because the problem, she definitely aint solved. OK, that’s it. My meanderings of today.


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