Stream of consciousness
I want to do something similar to the five minute free write I used to do on here, but without blinding scraping at the keyboard and leaving horribly misspelled words in my wake that cast doubt in potential employers’ minds. The fan is going off in the bathroom, and it irritates the hell out of me, so I’m going to shut it off first.
I get these doubts in my mind about whether I really have any abilities that can be nurtured and developed, or if maybe I had something that went away years ago and was dulled by lack of discipline, growing resignation to a day job, and whatever. Waiting to stand still, and waiting to be happy. What is happiness, really? Is it this temporary feeling you get when some sort of craving has been satisfied, or is it something you get when you’re sure you follow all the rules? I’ve been reading a blog by a lesbian ex-Mormon who was writing about the attitudes she still encountered, that growth and happiness and self-fulfillment is discounted as not being true happiness compared to following the righteous path and waiting for something that you don’t get unless you 1) are dead and 2) have done all the “correct” things. I’ve been used to that kind of thinking myself. I’m not Mormon but growing up in a Christian household, that sentiment is somewhat familiar.
These feelings I have come and go. For the most part, what I really want is time away from the familiar. I’m going to see what I can do about that, but first, I have to define what it means to do that. Do you just do variations on the same theme your entire life? By thinking about these small changes I want to make by the time I’m 30, I’m thinking more about the bigger changes I want to make by 35…but how high to aim? Should I include goals that are somewhat out of my control, and fulfillment depends on the other person? Or should I just stick to things I know I have complete control over the outcome? What counts as an actual try?
Living vicariously through others’ blog posts and achievements. Change is coming in a small way. My headache and poor sleep schedule make me feel like I’m still in a cycle. The space caused by jazz piano, bass and drums under scat singing sounds. The verbs and nouns and my big toe. This is the grace of the clacking keys and the relaxed traffic going by the window. They’re heading somewhere, but it’s not important. The tube of ointment sitting on a shelf will be squeezed empty one day: try not to anthropomorphize the whole thing or it sounds really depressing. Is life good? I’m not being torn limb from limb by a hungry jaguar.