A Claytons Philosophy or What Should I be Doing Now

I've written about six sentences and cannot get a grip, spinning my writing wheels without a thought to hang on to.  I'm trying to elaborate on a thought about how each day is the same yet different.  An obvious truth.  But the difference depends on the colour window looked through.  Some days I spend being disappointed with myself.  Is that a common struggle with other people?  I know, know, not everyone is going to be an Einstein or Livingstone, a Mother Theresa or Mahatma Ghandi, I know that but much of my existence is coloured by the grey pane (pain?) of mild disappointment.  Is it really enough to be thankful?  Is that all that is required?  Or should I be stretching every ligament in my body to make every second of my existence mean something in the short time I am here?

How will I be at my death, if I have time to review this life?  Cranky that I wasted so much time, ashamed that I didn't use the talents given me?  I read the articles on the Rebelle website (http://www.rebellesociety.com) and even when the authors are bemoaning their faults or are struggling through difficult times, dangerous head spaces, toxic relationships, they still seem, somehow, to have it together.  They write from the Big Perspective, finding the juxtaposition of their unwellness with the cheer-squad wellness of their readers.  Their failings are their strengths.  Together, readers and writers, they are whole.  The mere act of writing their failings obliterates them.  They are complete because they can see the Big Picture.

Me?  I just seem to spend time moaning that I don't know what or how I'm supposed to be.  Or just moaning.  Maybe it's tied up with feeling trapped.  Wrote about that previously so won't go there again.  Maybe all that I do is all I'm supposed to do.  Being, wondering, doing, questioning, making bread and making beds, petting cats and spending time on the yoga mat, riding the hills and cleaning toilets, caring for R and wearing perfume every day because I can.  Maybe that's all that's required.  Without all the goddamn worrying about it!

So, now with that off my chest, I'll head outside and rake leaves beneath a vivid blue sky. 

Hung Up in a Dream

I got hung last night.  Just after seeing my friend hung.  Knew after watching her die that I would be terrified and in agony for only a short time.  It didn't make the prospect any easier.  Then I woke up.  With a terrible headache, like a hangover headache except I wasn't hung over.  My heart was thudding, in my head and in my chest.  I was dead scared.  Pretty foul nightmare.

So what does it mean, being hung?  Being hung up?  Being trussed and unable to move (forward) or at all.  Do feel that actually.   Being stuck, however, isn't terrifying.  I couldn't watch her die.  I did turn away at the last minute, coward that I was.  I was so full of my impending death I had very little emotion left for her.  Have no idea who she was.  An aspect of me I suppose.  She was about 20 feet away and something, a bookcase? table? blocked the view of her lower body  I could only see her head and shoulders. 

I got up and drank a glass of water.  When I woke in the morning my headache was no more.  Feel that it wasn't a menopausal headache, which I do get sometimes, blasted things strike in the middle of the night, but was related to the nightmare.

So I haven't worked on my drawing for days.  Have no idea what to do with it.  I haven't sketched.  I have finished an Elizabeth George book instead of doing anything creative myself.   Don't like  when I coast along, going through the motions and don't make anything. 

Ran into a ex-neighbour last week.  She separated from her husband and moved away.  She was visiting some friends at the end of the road.  She's getting a book published, she told me.  She's working on 8 books, the first one should be out by August.  She has a publisher and an editor.  She's had the manuscript read by a few friends and it makes them cry and laugh just where she wants them to cry and laugh. 

I was dumbfounded.  This woman is the last person I would think of as being a writer.   Shows my arrogance I guess.  What is it about writing that makes it an elitist activity?  If she has something to say, she doesn't need an Oxford Dictionary vocabulary to say it. 

She's using a nom de plume, she said.  So how will I know which book to buy and read?  She said she'd let me know and took my email address.  Part of me, the suspicious part, remembers the stories she told about the stallion she used to have.  This magnificent warmblood stallion  would set the show world on fire.  And that's all I heard about him, what she said.  Is this book the same?  She said the book takes place in reality and in fantasy and it bore some resemblance to 50 Shades of Grey except not so slutty.  Had I read 50 Shades?  No, I hadn't.  So I'll wait and see. 

I want it to be true.  I'm not a writer but I've written a book (bad) and a half (worse) so it can be done.  Another part of me, the green envious part, screams how is it SHE can write, is about to be published, and I can't?  Huh?

I can draw, however.  If I have a talent and a strength, that's where it is, if I'd just get out of my own way and do it.  For that's the problem.  I'm so afraid of doing the wrong thing that I do nothing.  Silly, huh?

Tell Me The Story of Leaving

Years ago I read and worked through The Artists Way by Julia Cameron.  That book and that author were directly responsible for the writing of my first book.  Well, my only book.  The second book languishes somewhere in the guts of this computer along with essays and feline memories.  Have just stumbled upon a website called Writing From the Soul wherein you are urged to write for 10 minutes straight without editing.  Then, when finished, you are to read it aloud.  Interesting that, for if I read it as though I'm reading it for an audience; slowly and with soft but definite inflection, it reads well.  Do I copy it here?  Why not.  The prompt is:
"Tell me the story of leaving."  I leave when I need a break from reality.  Reality is right here, right now and sometimes it is too real, too now.  Not sure what I want to avoid.  I think it's the future but the future, if left alone by busym ind, remains the future.  I don't honestly know.  Am I bored?  How dare I be bored!  I feel guilty when I'm bored and do boring things.  It's the opposite ends of the spectrum; the thankfulness and *gladness* I felt this morning when returning along our road after cutting forage for the birds, and seeing the quarry mountain lit up with golden early morning light while the western side was clothed in blue and seeing this magnificent view punctuated by two birds flying across the sky - punctuation marks in the empty page of blue sky.  So all this beauty and gratitude, for I was filled with gratitude and then much later in the day after chores and meals and a trip to Toowoomba, I come in here and "leave" by playing one winning game each of solitaire, free cell and spider solitaire.  Why?  Why do I do that?  There's enough work to keep me occupied untiil the end of days.  I've a graphite drawing which has finally passed the difficult state and *invites* me to play with it - but no I come in here and park my bum in this too comfortable chair and bring up Games.

"Tell me the story of leaving".  Sometimes, although grateful and happy most of the time, I would like to trade responsibility, safety, serenity for a life on the road going solo, owing no one and no thing my allegiance.  But it is just a passing fancy.  I'm not 22 anymore.  I like routine and pencil sets and cleanliness and food and a soft bed.

Crows and other things

Reading Janet Frame's An Angel at My Table.  Have ordered Faces in the Water, a fictionalized account of her time in mental institutions (she was in more than one).  Her book shows how strong the human spirit is - even when she sabotages her own happiness, even when she's weak, even when she allows herself to be thistledown blown by the whims of others.  And her books make me ashamed.  I who have so much and do so little with it.

     Even now with Richard away, the perfect excuse to stay inside and create (a large blue band of rain is crawling across the weather map toward us) and this page before me for the first time since June, I am finding it difficult to settle and concentrate.  

     Often when I am walking I compose things in my head.  Observations to be recorded, thoughts to be considered but I do none of those things.  People write novels while working full time and raising a family.  What excuse do I have?  None, except when I look at the sites saved on this computer, even the blogs written by others, they are all about art, none about writing.  

     Isn't it odd how adept we are at beating ourselves up?  And how certain we are that we need to be beaten up?  So rather than carry on with the same old crap I'll write about crows.

     Crows.  I've been entranced by them for quite awhile.  They are so common they've become invisible.  We revile them because their song is more like dragging rusty car bodies across stones than anything resembling music.  Among other things they feed on carrion.  Although their black feathers are glossy we see them as dusty harbingers of decay.

      But they lead lives of mystery.  Each afternoon when I walk the dogs I watch them.  Sometimes they all seem to be heading north, the next day south, the next west, and finally east.  Flying in twos and threes (so as not to attract attention?) they make their way to what?  I have no idea but I am certain this casual gathering is deliberate.

      One day I watched two crows flying overhead.  They squawked and squarked while they flew a large irregular circle.  Soon they were joined by another pair of crows.  The four of them flew another circle.  Then two more and finally, two more after that.  The eight of them winged around this aerial circle and then, after a few turns, they drifted apart until two were left.  The original two?  I don't know.  Finally they too drifted away. 

     What was the purpose of that?  Was it a corvid version of afternoon smoko?  Was it a family gathering?  Friends catching up?  Neighbourhood Watch?  

     Yesterday I rode up the road.  On the way back I allowed Balthazar to graze while I crow-watched.  A 'murder' of crows had gathered in a tree halfway up Mt. Whitestone.  *Murders* are common around here.  They seem drawn to the flanks of Mt. Whitestone, or any good sized hill.  The gatherings are another mystery.  The crows all talk at once and at the top of their voice.  

     Trying to understand them as a human I cannot help but put a human interpretation on them.  If people got together to discuss something and all of them shouted continuously no one would understand anything and nothing would get done.  But understanding crows I would need to be a crow.  Maybe they gather to shout with the joyousness of being alive.  Maybe it's choir rehearsal.  Or a contest.  Whatever it is, it is meaningful. 

It's ten after five. I've been awake since 4. Mosquitoes. The hole uncovered in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the cat pee saturated carpet, is a portal for all the blood denied mozzies who sing at the screen door every night. My body was safe beneath the fan but my hands, dangling over the edge of the bed in the heat sprawled posture of insomnia, are pebbled with bites. Damn them. The cat pee? Never a problem until we had the termite men clomping around looking for damage. Since then someone has lost their map to the three kitty boxes. Not always but enough that I've removed two squares of carpet. The culprit remains a mystery. I am pretty sure it's not Nairobi. That leaves Natalia or Matisse.

Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,

Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.

Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).

A Doggone Week

The dogs have been gone a week today. Ads came out in the Lost section of the two local newspapers yesterday. It's getting more difficult to be upbeat. Coincidentally, when checking that our notice was in the Star saw an ad for three male whippet puppies, $250 each. We have decided not to get another dog if Radar and Jamaica don't return.

After getting the computer up after the crash I downloaded yWriter again. Have a couple of projects in mind. One of which is to tell the story of the cats I have known. That idea came after reading about Norton, the Scottish Fold that turned a cat hating man into a felinophile. Unfortunately, as usual, the name of the book and author are forgotten. Gave the book to someone else. Anyway, some amazing cat characters have shared my life since I was literally in the cot. They deserve to be recorded, if only for my benefit. The other idea is an article for yoga magazine about cats and yoga but I'm not so keen on that. Then discovered that yWriter wouldn't work. Don't know why. The cursor is there fluttering away but nothing writes. Went to the instruction page, can't see what I'm doing wrong.

So here I am finally hot to trot and haven't the means to start writing. Of course I could use the office software but it just isn't the same. Did a search for free writing software and found WriteMonkey. It's the zen writing software, very little in the way of bells and whistles and when you write, it's full screen so it's just you and your thoughts. A nice lime green script on a black background. So I've started writing.

I hope that because I'm writing about cats for me that I won't get bogged down in the writing itself. I sabotage myself to the point of catatonia because something I'm working on isn't perfect (or as near as I can make it). It's a sad trait to have for rather than do something that isn't good, I'll reserve my high opinion of myself and do nothing at all.

Speaking of which, the latest drawing project is crap. Started with this amazing dream image and wound up with something that is so far removed from it in scope and detail as to be laughable. Want to draw something because I feel good when I'm drawing but I want it to be from my imagination, not copying photos from a book. I know that's crap too as anything worked on will teach me something but it's a quirk I kind of cherish. I have copied things from books, have quite a nice drawing of a hyacinth parrot that I copied from a parrot magazine - but it's still someone else's idea and work that I'm drawing (?) from. Sometimes when I'm drawing I can clearly see the image in my mind and so the drawing itself comes along. Other times I need a model, it's there but it's not there.

Up early this morning, now it's light enough to feed the birds and do the chores. It's rained a little overnight and another light shower just passed over. With every turn of the weather I think of the dogs. Jamaica feels the cold and hates the rain. Radar is a bit more rugged. I hope they are okay. I wish they'd come home.

What if instead of trying to impose rules and regulations on people to make for a better more peaceful world they were taught how to be happy.  I know some of my present peacefulness comes with age. With age comes the ability to be happy with what I am, where I am, what I've got right now.  Perhaps this is something that can't be taught but can only be gained by experience.  I just know that without being wildly happy with that feverishness which is half fueled by hormones, I am quietly peacefully serenely happy.  That could change tomorrow with the vagaries of fate - some horrible accident or disease or catastrophe and the proof of the depth of peace would come with my ability to cope with such a thing.  Still perhaps it is something that can be acquired.

Some of this new found happiness can be attributed to where I live (and of course to the fact that I have food, shelter, a companion, pets, etc.).  I was walking the dogs the other day and just marveling at the complexity and beauty of the world I live in.  Would I get that same 'oceanic feeling' that Jung writes of if I lived in the city or the suburbs?  I don't know.  One tree, one blade of grass, a patch of sky, all of it can instill that joy if it is seen for what it is; a true miracle.

I keep returning to this theme and I imagine anyone reading this would get a little bored (unless they were experiencing the same thing and comparing my poor words with the richness of their experience).  Yet it is important.  We take this earth we live on for granted.  We aspire for things (me included) which matter not one whit.  We project our energy and ourselves out there when the richness and the mystery is within.   Right here right now all the time forever.  It is our present experience in this moment.  The very act of breathing,  the fullness of our senses, of our thought.  The difference between life and death.  Life is majesty and magnificence.  Death is null and void. 

Now, for something different.  Was thinking about my poor abandoned book last night.  It's unfinished, it's not very good but worth trying to resurrect at least to finish it.  Saved it to this extension drive from the old computer and now I can't access it.  The thing with changing computers is you can save data but you can't save software.  Makes no sense to me.  So the book is written on yWriter, which is a great little program except I can't use it.  Wonder if I could download the yWriter software onto the extension drive and then get them to meld.

But then why not start another book?  Have just finished reading Philip Pullman's Dark Matter trilogy.  What an amazing writer.  Perhaps he's considered light writing, like Rimsky Korsakov compared to Mahler but I found his writing extraordinary.  The characters are alive.  They are human and foible but glow with the humanity of their being, the essential goodness which glows as an inner spark in each of us.  Some writers are uncomfortable to read.  I can see them toiling behind the scenes, grinding out plot, character, scenes to some recipe they've picked up somewhere which they take for gospel rather than writing from their hearts.  When I get the sense of that writer behind the curtain, like Oz in the Wizard of Oz, I can't read it.  It's just too cumbersome.  I feel I have to carry the weight of my failed suspension of belief.  Formula writing, that's what it is.  Others, like J.K. Rawling and Pullman and the best of Holly Lisle or what was her name, Sara Douglass, they get it right sometimes.  Found these writers, read a book each and was delighted.  Found other books by them and was disappointed.  Anyway, so I was thinking about Pullman's books.  There are other books, many books written into the trilogy.  Whole worlds to explore from a few casual observations.  But that is his territory and his treasure.  Still, it started me thinking about another book. 

I've just found my book, in MS Word format, on the extension drive.  I can't see any way of turning it back into yWriter format.  It seems I can't download yWriter onto the extension drive.  Perhaps I can download it onto the hard drive and then transfer each chapter onto it.  Guess I'll give it a go.

In the meantime the drawing is nearing completion.  There is a show open to local artists in November.  I'm going to get the information and enter at least one, perhaps two drawings to see if they'll be accepted. 

Jackpot Dimitri and the Faf-about

Banner day today. Dimitri, after deciding to have a pellet breakfast, was still interested enough to come down from the tree perch and make straight for the ball. Jackpotted him for that. Oh happy day! He did it a few more times before wandering off to climb the T-stand. But that was enough, after he'd eaten too. What a smart bird!

Have started the PBAS mini lessons finally. Didn't want to start until after the holidays, then my monitor died, but we're up and rolling. Even the first lesson I found hard. The use of language is such a habit -to define behaviours with vague descriptions instead of what is actually happening. Made me really think about what I've observed with Dimitri and then to put those observations into a language that wasn't one of constructs (see I've learned a new word already!). Then the final question, with some observed behaviours and what our construct might be - had two different answers with opposite meanings. Thought it could either be happy or aggressive. Am sure I will be set straight.

Very hot today, sweat pouring down my face as I write. Haven't done any yoga for 2 days and feel it. Was ill day before yesterday (menopausal cluster headaches-damn things) and still a bit seedy yesterday. No excuse today however. Must get into good habits. When I'm working I'm up at 5 and into a yoga session. When I'm not, as I haven't this entire week, I sleep in and when I do get up at 6, the animals are clamouring for breakfast. Then I have breakfast with R and the day is well and truly started. Have to lift my game and get some kind of program going. Have been good and answered unanswered emails (still working on a snail mail to my aunt) and tidied up some loose ends. Haven't touched The Book.

Quite annoyed with myself too for in that halfway state between waking and sleeping I thought of some device that would move the book forward. I was excited enough with the idea that I didn't bother writing it down as I was sure I'd remember. Wrong! Been bugging me ever since. Guess the only way forward is to start writing and see where it leads.

While on holiday I've done a little backsliding re spider solitaire. Have played my last game for awhile (gosh, I hate admiting in public, and even though no one reads this but me it is still possibly public, that I'm such a slouch. Here I had a week off and I could have written another 5 to 7000 words - but nope, I just faffed around and tryed to look languorous - course the monitor died but that's no excuse as I wasn't without it for more than a couple of days). Anyway, my goal today is yoga and writing and now that I've bared my soul in here I may as well get to it.

To cuss or not to cuss

July 31, 2009. Tachimedes is perched atop the CPU. The mickey birds are shrilling alarm calls. No way will Tach relax while so much danger lurks outside. This office has a large bank of windows facing onto a spreading poinciana tree (one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house). Jamaica, the black whippet, is soaking up the warm winter sun. Ah, I just got a glimpse of the threat; a snowy ibis. Anything large which glides rather than flaps is possibly a predator at least in the minds of small cockatiels and mickeys.
Having trouble settling to anything today. Been to the gym, done yoga, should write but as I haven't written in almost a week I'm having trouble. Even here. This warm-up is a stuttering mess. Keep referencing yoga sites (wish there was a decent yoga class in this tiny town!) to avoid facing up to stiff stilted writing effort. Insomnia too lately which doesn't help. Beating myself up while at the same time letting myself off the hook. Master of self-sabotage. It's already 3:30 in the afternoon and I've written nothing. Ack! I really could scream I get so frustrated with myself at the same time as I know frustration just shuts things down. It's not a positive anything! R in and out banging doors. Should've tried to meditate while he was gone but didn't do that either.
Some positive things, have been off the spider solitaire for a couple of weeks now. I feel cleansed, like an addict kicking heroin. No more cards floating behind my eyes when I close them at night. When I do write I stick to the task and write. No more switching windows between the book and the spread.
I suspect yoga practice is having an insidious unexpected effect. Just little things, like trying to clean up my act a little and not swear so much. Working at a veterinary clinic is no excuse but it can get somewhat stressful. I blow stress by swearing, mostly under my breath but out loud too (not in front of clients however which shows I have the willpower and focus to control it if I want). I haven't thought about swearing for years. It was just a fact. Now, however, I think it's not such a good thing. I could still swear but swear creatively. Or bring back into fashion some of the old swear words from generations ago. Like jeepers or criminently or even blast it! Swearing is really lazy thinking, a refusal to find an appropriate adjective to describe something troublesome. Better yet would be to be in that state of mind where I am no longer troubled. But until I reach that sweet spot I will try and curb the cussing or at least cuss creatively.

The Blog, the Journal and the Painting

Haven't touched the book yet (warm up here) but will get to it later. Last week I wrote heaps. With one and a half glasses of wine, enough to censor the internal censor but not kill her, the words and ideas flowed. It was great. And as much as I love R, it is SO much easier to write when he's not home. He has gone to T'ba today and won't be home until this afternoon so I've a few hours in which to get stuck in.
I was thinking how different my writing is here than in my handwritten journal. As much as I would like to say I write as freely, I don't. Although no one has read my blog, it is possible they might. Writing for an audience is one thing but trying to write as if you aren't is another. Writing fiction I write for myself. I am trying to write the kind of book I would enjoy reading. It isn't possible, at least for me, to write as if a potential publisher was looking over my shoulder. I guess that means I'm not writing for publication -- but of course I am. Just not now. Like painting for a potential buyer. I paint for me. If someone likes what I paint and wants to buy it, then that's a bonus.
I had a show with 3 other women many years ago on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, Florida. I don't know if it's the same now but back then it was Florida's version of Rodeo Drive. Posh. The opening was very swish; chandeliers, black baby grand, wine and cheese and classical music. Lots of people. I sold nothing. My teacher at the time said if I painted using a different colour scheme I would probably sell as it would fit in with client's decor. He was a portrait painter for the hoi-polloi. Very successful. Lovely house in a ritzy district. His lover would pose for us while Queen blasted out of speakers on the garden studio walls.
I remember having a conversation with him about the satisfaction his work brought him. It didn't. He was a very good artist but he'd decided on a comfortable living rather than exploring his artistry. Perhaps he had a room where he painted for himself, paintings which never saw the light of day. I don't know. I do know he was sad. Successful but sad. I never did re-paint those paintings.
I don't regret not chasing the sale. I would be nice to sell some but I'm just not motivated enough to get myself out there. HOWEVER. Saw a program on the ABC how a group of artists in Byron Bay got together and had a speed dating event, only it was a speed artist-meet-gallery event. Four minutes to present their paintings and then move on to the next. What a brilliant idea. I could go for that. Get someone to photograph my paintings, make prints to put in a binder and present them that way. Four minutes is not enough time to get nervous. Well, not too nervous anyway.
Part of the problem is framing. I've so many paintings stuck in one of those huge ledger things. I just can't afford to get paintings framed and again, am not motivated enough to teach myself (I really am quite lazy. I like doing the things I like to do as there are so many things I have to do, adding another project just overwhelms me). R would be willing to frame my work but he has so much on his plate it would not be fair to slop on another helping.

First post on blog site

I've started another blog space for those times I don't feel like physically writing. I can type far faster than I can write longhand. Of course, the urge to journal has dissipated with the searching for and creating this space. I mean, the initial impetus. That was this morning when I had a few dreams and awoke feeling very sorry for myself, iow didn't like myself much. Happily I pulled myself out of that and have had a pretty good day. What gets me about me is that I waste time on trivia when I could be; writing, painting, riding, doing yoga, going to the gym, walking the dogs, digging out lantana, cleaning up the yards, the list goes on.
Then there's this sense of solitude, which I crave and find necessary, but which also keeps me from talking to like-minded people much. Suppose the one being who would really understand me is the person who is almost always with me in my dreams, there but just out of sight, standing to my left or right. Strange that. I've questioned a few people about that but haven't met anyone who has this *shadow* in their dream although I think it's a common experience.
And then, writing here I think, I should be working on the book. Did bugger all yesterday and nothing today either. Ack! I'm my mother's daughter in some ways. Dad complained she started many things and didn't finish them. I made certain I broke the mold by completing one book. Just because I love to read and started with an idea, thought I'd try to write another. Of course the motivating buzz has long since died with the hard grind of writing. The initial idea even changed when I found it unworkable, altho the second idea hasn't worked out too badly. I just finished reading the last of the Vampire series. I procrastinated for a couple of weeks. A friend had lent me the book. It was like having a yummy chocolate bar in the pantry. Once I bit I'd have to finish it. I didn't want the book to be over. Now it is. Sigh. Should re-read it as she makes the writing seem so effortless, so natural. Like JK Rowling. Now you know (is there a you out there?) know what kind of writing I'm attempting although it is for adults, not children. I'm not even jumping on the bandwagon as I've been attempting this sort of book for many years until I finally finished the first one (don't ask, it was a learning experience). It's easy to say next year, after I've finished work, I will be able to devote more time to it but good habits start now, don't they? I'm a master procrastinator (God curse Spider Solitaire!). And that's a funny thing for once I've actually opened the ywriter software (brilliant writing software and it's free) and write the first word, it isn't that bad.
Then I beat myself up for having an unfinished painting lounging about the lounge room. I know I go through phases. I'll want to paint again but am put off when it doesn't go well. That's a self-defeating exercise. Who wants to be perfect from the get go? (me).
Our entire lives are learning experiences. Learning not to self-destruct with self-loathing. Learning to allow for oneself as one would make allowances for others - which I usually do. With the animals (birds, horses, dogs, cats) I am very patient usually. With myself, not so much. And I've so much to be grateful for. The six o'clock news is a grim reminder of how easily one could lose everything or even never have had anything. I AM grateful. Truly I am. You can hear a *but* in there, can't you. Maybe just best to leave it at that. I am grateful.
Good things: I'm getting fitter and more supple. The yoga I'm doing is making a huge difference to this 53 year old body. Wouldn't have believed it possible, but it's true. Perhaps not changing my shape so much but, for instance, I can bend over and lay my hands flat on the floor. I can finally do the cobra pose without pain. Other things too. Just by being consistent and working within my boundaries, not making it hurt. By breathing. It's wonderful. There's hope. I'm still smoking, darn it. 7 months now after 2 years smoke free. What a silly thing to do but there you go. It's a learning process.
Drinking a glass of red wine and listening to the masked lapwing creaking in the darkness. Life is good. And I have that different kind of glow from having written, even tho' it's not The Book. There's something that stretches and breathes inside when I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.