Basics: fed and watered. The sun shines.
I can feel the bobbing of this uncertain sea. When I come to the surface, I breathe in and if – if – I can stay on the surface a while, I remember I am breathing and isn’t it pleasant to have the sun on my face and how cool is it not to be drowning?
I have been more me this last month than I have been this last year. In hindsight, it was a bad year for being. I will admit to wondering whether or not living is a worthwhile thing, it seems so much work at times.
I did not contemplate suicide. Just in case you wondered. Just in case some future me wonders how bad it had been?
But back to basics: I am fed and watered. The sun is shining.
And today I am myself.
What does that mean? It means life is worth living. It means I am thankful for what I have. That there is clutter and that is okay. There is a normalcy that is a comfort. That I would be pleased if not merely acquiescent to have a visitor. (Not normal is feeling angry that some “other” is invading my space).
It means the slings and arrows are manageable.
Well, Kim is on her way and I need to pick up a bit. Just thought I’d check in.
Summer does not mean free time and a break from work. Professors still have things to do. It’s just unstructured…not really the best environment for me. There’s that thing-I-have-to-do and the-shiny-thing-I-wanted-to-do and the-house-that-is-chaos.
But the paper is done. I just haven’t hit “send”. Leaving it until I forget the sentences so I can see it with unclouded eyes.
With that done and after investigating where else I may submit it, I will wholly devote myself to doing the kind of “scholarship” that is in keeping with my nature…that is, animations, and drawings, and models, and sculpture, and painting, and drawing and drawing and drawing…oh, and writing.
- 6/13 groggy, aimless, in-serious-need-of-coffee
- 6/11 grounded, cheery, motherly
- 6/10 forgetful, okay, task oriented
- 6/9 pensive, absent minded, flailing
The protagonist is the one from whose perspective we get the story.
Just came back from Maleficent. Eye candy and a layered retelling of Sleeping Beauty.
Someone I knew murdered his wife. He strangled her. It was one of those, “He seemed like such a nice guy” kind of stories. T said it takes a lot of anger to do that. I said, “He is terribly broken to have done something like that.”
This was no excuse; just an acknowledgement that one had to have been some other place and taken a variety of paths to end at this moment; this time; this place.
Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” begins with Maleficent’s curse. “Maleficent” is about what brought her to that point, and fills what happens in the after. No easy love-at-first-sight; no kiss-from-a-stranger solves all.
There seems to be a trend of reimagining old stories and making them less tidy, more layered…more interesting. Perhaps, despite all the fantasy, more real.
Beatrice, a capuchin, says, “You are insignificant.”
Beatrice says, “No one cares about you.”
Beatrice says, “They expect nothing from you, why bother at all.”
Beatrice is pissing me off. Adder, the lemur, thinks this is just fine. She rejoices in rage. She whispers, “Anger is powerful. Fuck that simpering bitch. Stoke that fire. Let’s get it on.”
I’d rather that they both shut up and let me sleep instead of replaying the days’ minutiae from one point of view and the other in repeating loops of increasing exaggeration until I don’t even know what happened.
tick tick tick
If I go to sleep …n o w…I can still get five hours.
How do I work this?
Struggling with the storyboard and the broad strokes of the piece I am working on. Got the ending (I think) and the introductory shot but am uncertain about what I want to say and how I want to make you feel.
I have no doubt of my ability to make pretty pictures, but there should be a there there. No hook as yet. No takeaway. Still cooking.
Ah, words: solitary, pensive, waiting
Manually transferring years of blog posts in an effort to find my monkeys.
I did write daily for four years starting June 03, 2003. Or was it 2004? The timestamp on the entries say one year and the comments say another. I am made aware that the writing is inconsistent. Some of the posts are just stupid. Some are surprisingly good. That’s the whole point of writing every day, isn’t it? By sheer volume, one is bound to make something that nails it.
It’s tempting not to post the subpar bits, but I’ll do it anyhoo. Gah, there’s been a lot of living in a dozen years: an ending of a marriage, a string of lovers, growing children, there was that stroke, there have been losses, and new loves.
I’m reading a story from a point further on. It’d be sweet to be able to tell one’s self that there will be something else beyond the tribulation of that moment. Or maybe it’s good to say hold onto that thing as long as you can.
Words: productive, awake, alive