Tag: life

All Those Spectrums

Whenever I read about the stages of coping with grief, aging, or ASD, I think more generally about spectrums. My overall philosophy is that everything in existence is on a spectrum. Those spectrums generally have multiple sub-spectrums.

Fer instance, my body is on several spectrums. The spectrums are about my body shape, physical age, genetics, and conditioning. Some of the things are on spectrums that I can’t do anything about (genetics) and knowing this helps me adjust my other efforts and expectations.

The spectrum of time is fun to think about because now because the past in the same instant that the future becomes now. What a spectrum!

Emotions and socializing have multiple spectrums, too. I think of Johari spectrums instead of Johari windows. Nothing wrong with the windows, except for the conceptions that some have that these things are fixed within those panes, but my impressions are that we slide along, changing through the day, depending on circumstances, like whether we’re supervising, socializing, working alone, etc., but also circumstances such as who we’re dealing with, and our what’s going on with our body. Yes, it’s complex.

Naturally I think of these spectrums while writing. I appreciate that I have multiple spectrums about my work in progress and my writing prowess in general. My writing spectrums include ranking my grammar and punctuation, word-smithing, story-telling, and creativity. There are also spectrums for how well I create characters, portray action scenes, create settings, etc.  Yes, it’s complex.

Think about it came about because on the editing spectrum for my novel in progress, I feel pretty damn good. Meanwhile, on my story-telling spectrum, I feel far less confident. I’m anxious and worried about whether the story I’m trying to tell will emerge from how I tell it. I’m in the middle regarding its creativity and settings, because I see how I’ve built from the foundations that others have set.

But again, thinking of these things regarding my writing as spectrums enable to visualize my strengths and weaknesses, and helps me assess where I need to improve.

Enough of this stuff. You may say that I’m overthinking, over-analyzing, and over-complicating things. You may be right. It works for me, however, so who cares? Find your way — or don’t. It’s your choice.

Time to write edit like crazy, at least one more time.

0

One Million and Two

I have this analytical side that I can’t turn off. I often use it to overthink. You should see me trying to decide what to eat at a restaurant as I measure choice, mood, health, calories, fat in the food and fat in myself, and my weight and physical condition, against the satisfaction and pleasure found in eating while weighing what sort of event it is and how much I should be willing to indulge myself.

My analytical side is coolly, cruelly sharp. It sees and speaks whether I want it to or not. I try to pretend it’s wrong, but it’s generally right. It’s wearying.

Thinking about this today, on this cold fall morning, I think about Occam’s Razor, the sense that, maybe the simplest answer is correct. Maybe I’m a good writer but one that isn’t really good enough to be a professional writer.

I’m lured, though, by authors’ words, quotes like, “A professional is just an amateur who never gave up.” I’m lured by anecdotes where a writer was rejected for five years and then was finally published and scored the success that I seek as a writer, hell, as a person, as validation and reward. I remember how many times Theodor Geisel, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Stephen King were rejected, but that they didn’t give up, because they believed, man.

I know, too, that writers will tell you that they’re rarely satisfied with their own work. We are perverse.

I’m reminded, we’re always trying to be a better writer and story-teller, so who can say what I’ll be like in five years? There’s always improvement to be had, right? Write and read, right?

I write for myself, and I enjoy my own story-telling, but my analyst whispers, “So?”

I write for myself, but I suspect that the writing process, my writing habits and routines, are enablers, and that I’m addicted to that process and to the hope that this will all come to something.

My analyst shrugs. “So? You think this is news? Don’t you think that others go through this? Really?”

I write for myself, but I immerse myself so completely, I focus so intensely, that my life outside of my writing efforts is a shell. By writing efforts, I mean the creative process of conceiving, imagining, writing, polishing, editing and revising. I despise the business end, yet, perversely, without the business end, how much of this would I be putting myself and my family through this?

Yes, that’s how writers often are, I remember reading. Look what Stephen King put himself through.

That doesn’t help.

My analyst smirks.

Thoughts of giving up hit a hard internal wall. “Give up writing and trying? No. Sorry. Won’t happen.”

That reaction makes me wonder if my stubborn determination isn’t a facade for mental illness and emotional issues, perhaps giving me a rational for being aloof and leaving emotions and issues untouched, that I’m hustling myself to give me purpose so that my life might end up having meaning, so that I can eventually shout at others, “See? I was right.”

One of the problems with Occam’s Razor in my mind is that it’s difficult to test and verify that the simplest answer is true. I think, though, wouldn’t it be easiest to take a break, to stop writing for a period, take a time-out to see what develops?

It’s so tempting. I’d probably go through withdrawal. Withdrawal from anything has nasty side-effects. I’d probably be cranky and bitter, and spend some time and energy being bitter and resentful despite all the psychological tricks I’d employ to be happy and balanced.

Eventually, I’d emerge as a slightly different version of myself, model one million and one. Free of entertaining my writing mechanisms and the immersion I end up demanding of myself when I write, I’d probably become friendlier, more relaxed, and sociable. As I need the purpose, structure, and direction that my writing provides me, I’d hunt for a replacement and probably become more engaged in community volunteer activities.

I can spin this into so many different directions at this point. I can take on any of the directions, step away and put on my writer’s cap and my analyst’s cap to encourage me in any direction that I choose. I can find justification in any one of them, along with hope, and reasons for taking and sustaining that direction.

Thoughts of surrendering my writing ambitions terrify me, because I might be wrong, but also because I might be wrong. I think, all that wasted time and energy, but I think, yes, but you wouldn’t have known, if you hadn’t tried.

I think, there’s probably another path, like, okay, treat writing like a nine-to-five Monday-through-Friday existence. Take the weekends off. It’s easy to say, everyone needs time to recharge. And time away might give me fresh perspectives. (And I think, look at you, intellectualizing these processes and putting them into convenient silos.)

That could well be true. In the end, I’m amused to discover, I’m afraid of who I am, who I might be, and who I might not be. Who isn’t, right? I can imagine words that I can read, suggestions given about what to do, encouragement not to give up.

It’s all games. Some embrace those games and work it out better than others. Isn’t that what life, the time between when we’re born into a physical existence and then die and leave that state, what it’s all about, to find which version of the game you’ll play and how fervently, how ardently, you’ll play it?

The analyst’s side whispers to me. “Ah, you’ve fallen into your monthly dark cycle. You know you get like this. Endure, endure. Don’t make any decisions about anything now. Circumstances are accumulating to make this period a heavy one this time.”

Reflecting on all of this, I sip my first taste of the day’s coffee and think, why post this? Why share it with the public? To garner pity? To announce to others, you are not alone? To draw attention to myself?

Posting it — hah, sharing it – feels like a compulsion. I’ve written to understand what I think. That’s completed. Sharing it feels like an act of desperation.

Sharing it also feels like an act of therapy. Sharing it feels like a cry for help.

Sharing it feels like another person trying to understand their life, sort feelings, and work through existence. Perhaps I’m just showing off, telling others, see? See how I can think and write? See how complex I am? My analyst whispers, “Yes, and you’re also exposing your shortcomings, vulnerabilities, and ego.”

It’s all madness, overthinking madness. From it, I emerge again, resolved and unresolved, conflicted but certain and doubtful, Michael, version one million and two.

Meet the new me.

4

I Live In My Writing

I live in my writing,

an odd place to be,

but you’d be there, too,

if you see what I see.

 

I live in my writing,

and lose track of time,

at least in this world,

but, to me, that’s fine.

 

I live in my writing,

enjoying the ambiance of life,

it’s an unlimited existence,

and has far less strife.

 

I live in my writing,

and some are dismayed,

so am I, really,

because I never get paid.

 

I live in my writing,

it’s a solitary existence,

and maybe existential,

but at least it’s consistent.

 

0

Let Go

There had been decisions before, but things change, so new decisions were reached and accepted. What had been important became meaningless as priorities sifted like sand dunes.

Others ran into him, exchanging greetings, but then, privately told one another, “He’s really changed,” “Yes, he let himself go.”

They saw it as a bad thing.

0

Life Song

Your life’s song flows through you, notes and chords struck by your routines and emotions. Sometimes, though, in your life of bent notes and thundering crescendos of cymbals and drums, you hunt different notes, just for a day, something to hear so that you can appreciate your life’s song more when you resume it, like maybe a piano concerto.

It’s like an interlude.

0

An Old Dream

I think of it as the old dream, but I recall it, too, as the star dream and the blue dream. I’ve had it, or some variation, since I was a teenager, at least in my mind. My memories can be faulty, but I seem to remember being in basic training and having this dream, and remembering that I had it when I was in high school, after I moved in with my father. That thought also brings the dream a new label, the transition dream. I seem to dream it when my life is going through a change. I haven’t had it in a long while.

Roughly, because there are slight variations, but this is the dream experienced or remembered last night, I see a ridge of purple-blue bare mountains. A clear sky is shifting from azure to indigo.

At first I see a single, amazingly bold, bright star above the mountains. Then, I’m on a mountain.

I’m looking at my hand. I’ve made a fist around a cold chunk of lapis lazuli. A large piece, although it’s been tumbled and is smooth, one end is rough. I always think, it was tumbled, and then broke in half.

After seeing the lapis in my fist, I look up. The sky has darkened into a shade of midnight blue. Millions or more stars and galaxies light the sky. It’s so amazing, it transfixes me into staring and wondering about all the existences beyond now.

The dream ends.

I always feel young but pensive in this dream, and elated but thoughtful when I awaken. I don’t know what change I’m going through now. I’m not moving or starting a new job. One of my cats is probably dying (I’d be surprised if he’s alive when this year ends), but that change affects him more than me. I can argue, though, no, it’s the survivors who remain behind after another dies who are more affected (as far as we know), because we, left behind, are dealing with a void.

Writing about it helps me think and understand. I remember thinking the other day, in a moment of pique, crystallizing a decision that I am re-inventing myself. Perhaps I’ve triggered some internal change, summoning the dream.

Maybe it’s all just wistful thinking and vivid imagination. Perhaps that’s all life is.

0

Multiple Dreams

I had multiple dreams last night. Most remain in pieces in my mind like debris after a storm. The essences:

  1. I was plotting a murder and intent on carrying it out. I don’t know who I was killing or my motive.
  2. A cat was the size of an American nickel. A happy little animal, he was kept in a jar. I watched over him, ensuring he wasn’t lost or injured, and played with him.
  3. The third dream found me playing a game that may have been a show on television. I was winning by answering questions and advancing through levels. It seemed to combine physical prowess and the ability to answer questions.

Not much further information is available on the murder dream. Awakening and thinking about it, I attribute it more to my writing muses than an intention to kill another person. I’m always thinking about escaping, surviving, killing, investigating, flying, traveling, exploring, and robbing places. They’re exercises for my imagination, IMO.

The cat dream was a simple anxiety dream. Quinn hasn’t been well. His breathing bothered us. We’d endured a summer of wildfire smoke and hazardous air, so I put his breathing problems down to that. We’d been keeping him inside and addressing his breathing issues. When he didn’t improve after the air improved, I thought I’d take him in for an antibiotic shot.

But the vet found a lump on Quinn’s neck, so we’re going through the challenge of treating him, keeping him hydrated, and feeding him. We’re not certain of his issue, yet. Never a large cat, he dropped two pounds and now weighs just five. He’s mostly perky, though, but not eating and drinking enough on his own. I take comfort and hope in signs like him rubbing up against me, jumping on my lap, stretching, trying to claw furniture, and yawning.

Meanwhile, I’m going through the process of letting him go. I’ve endured this with other pets, so I understand some of the emotional, physical, and intellectual dynamics. It’s always different, of course, and it’s never easy.

I enjoyed the game show dream. First, you’d press a button to start the big wheel spinning, and press the button again to stop it. The big wheel had activities and numbers. If it landed on the activity, you did it. Doing the activity, such as twenty push-ups, authorized you to rob a competitor by taking a token or moving them back by a spin on the punishing wheel.

If the big wheel landed on a number, that was the number of spaces you’d move. Climbing, crawling, jumping, and swinging on ropes were required to move along squares. After moving forward and stopping on a square, you were asked a question. Fall to answer it correctly — it was timed, but you had three chances — meant you faced the punishment wheel.

Come to think of it, there was a television audience cheering us on. Writing about it today prompts comparisons to an updated game of Life combined with Trival Pursuit, which sums up my writing life, I think.

Spinning wheels, killing time, chasing trivia, and hoping to advance, it’s a writer’s life.

2

Wednesday’s Theme Music

This song’s release and popularity in 1975 began changing my thinking. While I’d always tried to see others’ point of view, I often failed, and slipped easily into the comfort of being me, sure of what was going on, and surer about how others live. I had some inklings that all was not as I thought from newscasts about riots, war, politics, and social upheaval, and I knew from friends, movies, and reading that lives often appear to be fine on the outside but it was rank darkness behind the scenes.

Then came this Janis Ian song, “At Seventeen”. As a boy, I thought the girls had all of the breaks. They controlled it all. We boys were the ones struggling with social graces and talking to girls. I didn’t know what it meant to a girl to meet a boy who seemed to like who and said he would call her, and then didn’t. I didn’t know what it meant for her to watch others being chosen, or how difficult it was, coping with body changes, and struggling with social perceptions and self-perception.

Life is usually more nuanced, layered, and complicated than many realize. We think everyone is the same, that all words mean the same, that every action carries the same weight. That these things aren’t true are lessons I keep learning and forgetting.

0

Killers

Emphysema, they told him. Eyes twinkling, he chuckled with charming nonchalance (gasping for air when he did), because that was his style, and because he already knew. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said after the chuckle, although the panic in his gut said, “This is no joke.”

They put him on all that shit, and gave him oxygen to suck on, and advised him of the things that he must give up. He gave up the shit and kept the rest. Yeah, there was unbearable pain every day and hour, but it was the loneliness and regrets who were the killers.

1

Our Twinkling Star

We’ve lost our twinkling star. It came (at last, we thought with some relief even as we mourned, because the last few years were so difficult for her and her family), but it came at last, a few weeks short of her hundred and first birthday.

We think and talk about the amazing person we knew, and all the things she did in the thirteen years that we’ve known her. She’d wanted to be a comedian when she was in her teens — that would have been around 1935 — and loved hamming it up for us, and we loved her for that humor.

She also loved ice cream, and family. If you wanted to fire up that twinkle in her eyes, just ask her if she’d like to have some ice cream.

She marched in parades for social justice and equality. She put her name on petitions for change. We thought about all the change and upheaval she saw in her hundred years, the wars that she witnessed, and the others that she lost through death, and wondered if upheaval isn’t our natural state.

She was such a cool, friendly, and happy person, but this is life. You meet people, and eventually one of you goes away, leaving the other to remember and wonder.

2

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑