About that inside my head thing…

I read a lot of what others write and I voice small comments here and there; dispensing little crumbs and bits of opinion and rumination here and there, but I don’t give voice or life to the words of my own. I see lives being lived and expanding into new horizons and I feel mine becoming smaller, the borders of it closing in on me. I’m beginning to feel suffocated.

This is not what I imagined my life to be but I somehow feel helpless to do anything about it; I’ve been rendered immobile. Still I find myself unable to move from the sidelines and onto the playing field. Every new week I make small new resolutions to myself…Eat better, exercise more, get up earlier, leave the house but I am so busy getting in my own way stubbornly, like a reflex, I turn away or push back against the very thing I want to run toward. I’ve been working on how not to behave this way but instead of pushing through I feel as if I am receding further into a small prison of my own making. 

I’m not going to wax much anymore about this, for now. I’m putting it out there, for myself, to remind myself not to double back and backpedal but to slowly inch forward. Keep pushing. Put the words down, put it down there and dare to dream out loud.

What is 500 words

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 

Ponderances

I got the urge to sit down and write and it’s just because. Nothing is going on. I feel good, for the moment. I just want to set some words down, however meaningless. Perhaps it is because of this Mindful app I downloaded. It asked me to choose 3 items from a list of goals or life changes that I wanted to accomplish and one that immediately leapt at me was commitment, which I have not been keeping. It’s not easy, I’m a chronically ill procrastinating dreamer who hasn’t been able to stay committed to a lot of resolutions and positive life changes I’ve tried to instill into my life. Maybe I am tired of the constant struggle. It’s all work. Sometimes I would just like things to happen if I do what I am meant to do, run smoothly, but they don’t.

I’ve also been doing a lot of thinking about my future and what it holds.  I’ve done it often and it held different forms. I alternate between hopeful and catastrophic. I know what it won’t be the OK I used to envision. It has always been in the form of simplicity and humble which is fine by me because I am realistic about the provisions I have made for it and what I want out of life. Satisfaction imbued with a feeling of worthiness. A small home that is mine. I hope that it will be on wheels so I can go wherever I want. That is reaching I know, but it is certainly more likely than brick and mortar. Then, of course there are the medical considerations. I beginning to think my GP regards me as a hypochondriac. They seem to present as mysteries to neurologists, internists and some other “ists”.I’m beginning to think that these professionals may think I enjoy the rarity and mystery as if they make me special. I never wanted to be special like this!

I think about what I can do in this forum. I want to create a niche for myself, but my thoughts are scattered, everywhere and nowhere at once. I continue to ponder but first, the words. They are in the box. That’s a beginning.

begin again again again…

 

OK. Let’s try this for the thousandth billionth time. The last time I sat down to write a post I ended up doing some writing alright, but I merely acquired another post for the drafts folder. I looked at the number of posts I had and was shocked to find I didn’t have 35 but 106!  What to do with this confluence of writing? Should I just delete it all since it seems I have no intention of posting them? It would seem they won’t live up to their intended purpose and that they’ll merely languish in the drafts folder, tormenting me when I do stop in to write something.

I’ve been doing some mulling about the sort of blog I want to continue writing. I don’t want a blog that merely chronicles my experiences or serves as a forum for my occasional rant. The way I understand it, one should have a niche. I suppose you could say there is nothing more niche a subject than oneself, but in someway this just doesn’t satisfy. I’m stricken with an extreme case of “Seinfeldism” and I’m not sure how to shake it off. Questions abound. Is it necessary? To whom am I speaking anyway? I look at my life, of late, judging it through a critical lens and finding myself feel insubstantial somehow. (I’m working on this). As a commentator of sorts I do wonder about the value of this. Is it helping me or encouraging this perpetual navel gazing?

Here’s a thought: let’s worry about that less and just get ‘er done. There. Success. Tomorrow is another day, I’ll deal with this ongoing writing dilemma then.

this thing

drip drop

I haven’t found the voice that will allow me to craft a story in a way that I would feel compelling. Maybe it’s not really in my wheelhouse. Right now I scribble down this and that from the place that I know best. It’s not that I’m not interested in the world around me, on the contrary. I want to know everything, but what I’ve discovered about myself is that I’m not wired that way. I’m a generalist. I am knowledgeable around many subjects and continually seek to know more about any variety of topics that cross my path and pique my interest; constantly curious. You could view my assertion as a self serving excuse or something more but I am an intensely private person and engaging in this bloodletting is uncomfortable, as much as it is cathartic for me to set it down.  I apologize for this if you don’t really give a crap, but just pass it by if that is the case because I don’t give a crap either. This is my process, and yes this is a public forum, but I’m working on something here.

Getting on with it

This morning I decided to go clear out my yahoo mailbox. Since i don’t use it at all I tend to find a lot of mail piled up in there, most of it duplicated in my primary mailboxes. What I do find are notifications about visits to my blogs (I have two of them), which gives me a pang of guilt because I don’t really post that much anymore though I often resolve to be a more faithful contributor to them. Really, the only reason I keep that mailbox at all is because of my flickr account. The big beast Yahoo swallowed up flickr and insists on members using their login. So there you have it.

I often think that I should merge them and that would make it a little easier for me to maintain them, but that just seems like a cop out.  You see, I want to write more and take more photos worthy of space in those blogs, but I just….don’t. My photoblog has the nifty title of a photo most everyday, which has become a complete misnomer because of my recent sloth. I do have a partial excuse, sometimes I just can’t because I am down for the count. Dizziness, nausea or the inability to see actually the screen very well completely preclude me from being able to sit in front of my computer. I thought having an ipad and not having to sit on an uncomfortable (but beautiful vintage) chair would help, but then my excuse is that I don’t like having to tap out my spinning thoughts two or three fingers at a time. Truth is, when my body allows and the inertia lifts I run around like a maniac, making busy doing other things.

There’s a pang between my shoulder blades right now. When I first opened up this window (because RaynaLele liked a picture on the other blog) I was attempting to sit on a ball to write, but then I discovered what I already knew, that the ball was too low for me too do that. I should have gotten the largest size but then it would have been too big for its intended purpose, which, well, completely defeats the purpose.

So thank you to those people who remind me of these pastimes that are important to me however much I neglect them. I am both inspired and prodded by your praise.

i wonder wonder wonder

 

 

i’ve got, count ’em, 10 drafts sitting and gathering dust, haunting me. i see them every time i launch my dashboard. 10 posts i stopped writing for whatever reason. 10 posts i didn’t have the guts to post. 10 posts where i just ran out of words or just didn’t have the heart to finish and post out in the world at large. some are very personal, but i’ve tread into sensitive territory before, letting my ass hang out there without proclivity. for some reason with a couple of these posts i simply just didn’t. now, after some time has passed i feel like i can’t, even though they aren’t time sensitive. and now what to do? do i put my nose to it, finish them and put them up or give up on them entirely and delete them?

the last of those posts i started today and i think i just won’t get to the end of that one either, but i am not inclined to do anything about it just yet. i’ll make up excuses. i’ll say to myself that it’s silly or pointless, that my to-do list tells me i’ve got a million other things to do, that my shoulder is beginning to ache (which is absolutely true) and i need to get off of this chair for a spell, or i’ll just not do anything about it until a morning like today where i will open it read it and ponder it some more.  the great canadian novel isn’t going to get written this way, but then how would i beat myself up for being such a procrastinator or gutless wonder?

i suppose i should i feel accomplished that i did write this contribution and post it, a whining, driveling addition. it’s something, even if it’s not very much. i did, however, take this picture recently. this counts as something, right? it’s completely unrelated and irrelevant insofar as this post is concerned, but it’s kinda pretty.