Tag Archives: journal

Journal – Grace

 

When I run out of poetry I just start posting my crazed ramblings.

My personal rule is, if I want to post it, it’s probably well written, and worth posting. If I don’t want to post it, it’s probably true, and worth posting. If it leaves no impression in my mind, it’s probably trash.

So. Here we go again!!

 

 


 

 

Grace
Give me grace
I had it briefly
I had it for six months, twelve months, not enough months
I want it for a lifetime
I thirst for it
Grace
Sweet on the lips and the soul
Cool water
Fresh and cleansing.
I don’t want to forget that happiness

I know how to be happy
It’s an art
A difficult practice and an art
It can be done.
We are fools
We can be worse
We can be better.

My art is improving
I’m starting to see things I like here and there
I’ll never be like my idols
But I can be someone I could enjoy reading.
I need a break
From my own neurosis
It can be done
I’ve done it before
I can do it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – Jacking trades up

 

I am afraid of work. I am afraid of art. I am afraid of failure. I am tired of being hurt by my own inadequacies.
I suck. I have to be fine with this. The only solution is to remain in motion.
Jack of all trades master of none
This is me
But when I dedicate ten years to something
I still cannot master it
I begin to wonder why I came
And why I haven’t left yet

It’s easier to jack trades up
Than it is to master them
A master never actually masters his craft
A master only ever gets good
If you want to lead your field you must dedicate everything
Sacrifice everything
And risk still being outdone by somebody
With easy natural talent
Who is fifteen years old.
Leonardo da Vinci bemoaned his lack of knowledge
On his deathbed he faulted himself
For never having learned it all.
He was a perfectionist
He is the standard for half a millennia
And will be for another millennia more
But even he
Was dissatisfied.
Why do we push ourselves
When there is nothing at the top?
Waiting for us is emptiness
The goal is a hollow point
So what is this drive
This need
This greed
I want to kill it
I want to feed it.
So I fight myself fighting it
And get
Nowhere
On either front.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – The Girl with no Fear

 

Here’s a funny thing about myself. I always have majorly overblown confidence about a thing until I’m halfway into it.

“I’m not afraid of people. I love talking to people! I can face down a crowd.” Then I blithely stand up to tell a story about a coworker at a small friendly retirement party. I am shocked when, halfway through, my hands are shaking hard. I have to breathe and calm down but my punchline falters a bit. Am I afraid of public speaking? Looking back to when I did theatre in college, it was the same: one hundred percent confidence followed by shakes on stage.

“I like rock climbing! I like nature! I’m gonna sign up for this little class and learn the knots and then I can hang (get it?) with my rock-climbing big brother and sister.” I take the class, start climbing the first little practice tower, and hit critical mass. I am shaking so hard I don’t trust myself to climb any higher. My hands have locked down on the rock climbing nubbins. “I forgot I’m afraid of heights!” I call back to my bemused classmates from a whopping ten feet high.

I got to meet a new friend on videochat recently. No fear there. Slept like a baby. Excited, happy puppy enthusiasm. “Yay, a new person to love!!” We talked, and she was awesome, and the conversation was easy, and everything was fine as long as I didn’t get distracted by my own reflected strangerface and lose track of the conversation.

After I hung up, I started making some oatmeal. As I stirred the pot I thought, “Where is that quiet screaming coming from? It’s getting louder. Oh, right! My own head.” After some puzzling I figured out that it was latent anxious adrenaline rush from meeting her. DID SHE LIKE ME WAS I STUPID DID I HURT HER FEELINGS???

 

Anyway, I thought it was just a funny character trait, but now that I’ve written it down, I see it’s my old friend Emotional Repression popping up. Hello again. Let’s never talk.

I have definitely gotten better, but digging my emotional core free is a slow, slow process. Sometimes Repression pops up and bites me in the ass, just like old times. It bites less than before, but it still bites.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

How cold is it?

 

It’s so cold outside.

“How cold is it?”

It’s so cold, I couldn’t go for a run, or even a walk, without turning right around and going back inside.

It’s so cold it was not a one-pants, not a two-pants, but a three-pants day.

It’s so cold that my house window was iced shut.

It’s so cold that Cowdog Creatives’ car refused to open its door and afford me shelter. 

It’s so cold that I could lean my weight against the bitter wind and lose my eyesight at the very same time.

It’s so cold that if I opened my mouth to talk, the wind on my teeth felt like biting ice cream.

It’s so cold that work sent an email blast giving us tips on how to dress warm. Apparently layering is key?? Do I wear my waterproof jacket on the inside or the outside layer? Are gloves a good idea? Still confused on how to dress warm, need more help.

 

And it’s just. Getting. Colder.

 

When I was a kid, I loved the cold. I was just brimming with vitality, and layered with brown fat, a little living toaster. I always warmed my friends’ hands for them. My resistance to cold was a point of pride. But I’m just getting older and wimpier with each passing day. I prefer bed to everything. Bed is warmest. If I must leave the house, you’d better believe I’ll be wearing my hat and scarf and gloves and several outfits.

I blame the cats. They sleep on my feet every night and keep me warm, thus raising my heat threshold. In the words of every old man I’ve read about but never met, I’m gettin’ soft. Need to start sleeping on the floor, it’s good for the back.

Oh God I just aged again didn’t I?? It happens when you stop paying attention!

I tell Cowdog Creatives that we must never let errant gas escape us without the other calling us out on it. I don’t want belches and farts to stop being funny. I don’t mind the wrinkles and I really don’t mind the cold but please, don’t let the farts stop being funny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Journal – On fearing death

 

I am afraid to die.
I am afraid to live.
I love life but it is never enough.
If I had kids I could say, there, I did that, I made something good.
If I were a real writer I could shake the world up a little.
But I’m just normal
Trying to be happy.
Having achieved happy
I fall out of happiness
And must work my way back up again.
What if I get sick.
What if I only have twenty good years left.
What is the difference
If I only have fifty years
Or twenty years?
Either amount
Is nothing
Nothing
A wisp of dandelion
The heartbeat of a gnat.
We are born of an enormous universe
We are fleas
Specks
Motes
Less still than that.
Our time is tiny.
It is easy to forget.
Our time is a splinter of ice
That melts the moment it exists.
Time is my enemy.
Time is my friend.

I write in dichotomies.
I write about time.
To live in that moment before death
To never forget where you’re going
To never forget where you are.
Every second
Must
Be
Savored.
I read a story about a man
Going to his execution.
He tried to split every moment in half.
He hoped that by doing this
The last moment
Would never arrive.
Today I breathe
Again.
A victory.
Today I remembered
What yawns before me
Is an open grave.
How soon will it accept me?
How soon will I accept it?
And when I get to the edge
I want to look back and say,
Yes. I savored those moments.
I squeezed more out of life
Than anyone.
I never
Never
Took what I had for granted.
Everything was precious.
Everything was vivid.
Everything was loved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

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