Posted November 30th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, since my husband has taken my spot on the couch, and I’m up anyway, I might as well see what comes out of my fingers tonight.
Midnight confession[als]. We’ve all got colds here, and I think a slight fever is leaving me susceptible to doom and gloom. Playing beautiful music isn’t helping. It seems to be a catalyst for emotional "outbursts" (overflows).
Everywhere I look, in everyone around me, there is corruption. Bitter or jaded hideousness, even in myself. How can it coexist with beauty? Not as contrast…they seem almost like alternate realities, ghosts in each other’s world.
When I’m feeling all "morose" like this, I am overcome with the need to spill out what is really there; it looks like emotion, but feels like meaning. I don’t think there really is anything there anymore. When I was younger, I thought there was more to me, I had so much…so much I wanted to do something with, to share. Now I am only a shell; anything that was inside is paralysed or stunted, or has atrophied by now.
My inability to face or accept reality has left me with the grief of time lost, things I haven’t done, and by virtue of that, things that have been done, and that I can’t take back.
A different record drops on the turntable, and the mood changes. A sweet tune about nothing in particular, but the notes bring on an overwhelming amount of emotion. Music can carry us or drown us. Why do we let it?
I am saddened by words spoken tonight. But how can you blame someone for speaking their truth? It may even be your truth, as well, only unrecognizable because of the lack of mask.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Thanksgiving Leftovers...
From A Wren's Nest
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Posted November 25th, 2006 by JennyWren
Thanksgiving is already a snapshot in the family photo album, even though we’re still sitting at the table, gorging ourselves on the third or fourth piece of pie.
For some reason, at family gatherings like this, I can see my children as what they truly are: a moment that’s here and gone. I watch them, take in their shining faces, their exuberance, their natural ease with joy. (When’s the last time you felt at ease with joy, really at ease? Able to let it wash over you and through you until you gave a yell and a jump, and took off running, laughing, just “because”.)
I can see how they’re growing, what we haven’t done that I thought we would. I can love them without anxiety here; we’re separated from real time now, suspended in that glow of a holiday at Grandma’s. None of the day-to-day guilt, pressure, worries or disappointments can penetrate that temporary armor to touch any of us.
Sitting at the grown-up’s table, I hear the usual chatting about nothing, everything’s nothing. And yet time is flying past us so quickly, and we through it, that I wonder we don’t wear seat belts, and clutch onto things, for fear of being blown away or thrown from the vehicle. This may be the last time we see each other. But we talk about after-Thanksgiving sales and football games, and play a game of Uno.
Sharing the here-and-now is sharing connection, I know. It just seems so unreal. I check occasionally, but the plaid tablecloth and the fork in my hand seem solid. The iced tea in my glass still reflects light in the same way, as the ice cubes swirl lazily around. We’re here. It’s real. I look up again, and watch my cousins’ faces moving, talking. I can hear my children shouting, outside on the swingset; it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and the windows are open. People’s voices are humming around me…in fact, everything becomes a hum as I start to contemplate Iconoclast’s clock.
It’s ticking. What am I doing? What am I being? Okay, fair enough, I’m “doing” a family gathering, I’m being human. But beyond that…
should I be thinking beyond that? Is the big picture more important than any given moment? The actions of a moment determining the bigger outcome, while our perception of the big picture drives our actions of the moment… blah, blah, blah. My stomach’s too full for the inevitable spiral of thoughts like this, which normally require lots of chewing. Darn you, Icon.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
A New Day
Posted November 9th, 2006 by JennyWren
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Well, that didn’t work. So much for stream of consciousness. I guess my laziness outweighs my fear of sounding like an idiot.
Instead of working on the piece about the chair, I found myself writing about a beat-up, uneven dance floor in a seedy part of Buenos Aires, tango music cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, that kind of thing. The trouble is, I know nothing about any of these things…can’t dance, have never been to Buenos Aires; it was almost completely inspired by someone else's travel adventures. Doesn’t that constitute plagiarism? Ack!
I will try something again later, during human hours. So glad this blog is here to document my insanity. LOL
*Time passes…*
Okay, here’s something that popped up. Since the number one “rules” for starting out seem to be 1) don’t write in first person, and 2) Don’t write in present tense, I thought I’d go ahead and show what a rebel I am. Not. Anyway, here it is, with standard disclaimers about insanity, sleep deprivation, etc.:
My daughter is here, asleep under her fleece blanket. Three years old and still able to sleep anywhere, she’s perfectly comfortable with taking up most of my spot on the couch. She came in here while I was writing, and curled up against my back.
She has her arm around a Curious George book; at one point she woke up and demanded that I read it to her. Her eyes were still drooping, and I promised to read it when it was “wake-up time”, stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
She looks so delicate, so perfect. People say she reminds them of a porcelain doll, rosebud mouth and all. Her face is calm and smooth, too young for worries. One hand is curled, but relaxed, near her cheek. Occasionally her fingers twitch or her eyes seem to dart under their lids; is she dreaming?
I’m done working, but I decide not to move her, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, and sneaking in a quick kiss of her hair before going back to bed.
———————————————————————-
Yes, I know those aren’t real paragraphs! :)
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Scribblings
Posted November 7th, 2006 by JennyWren
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
Okay, this is a test. This is only a test. This is a test to see if writing for writing’s sake will produce anything. I will not be saving this, I can tell myself, so we will see if it makes it any easier. I do not need to worry about grammar ( can’t help it with the spelling, though!), so I should be free to just type whatever comes. It’s just words. Kind of like self-hypnosis, this, only I can’t type as fast as I am thinking the words, and so quite a bit is “lost in the translation”. Again, this is only a test. Just an exercise, getting the mind turning in those old, dust-filled ruts that used to lead to a story. Wow. See? Things are looking better already. Nope. Don’t look back! I only have a few minutes until lunch is ready, use any chance I have to practice putting the words down. maybe I will use something like the line about the ruts in an intro to my blog on the new site.
Okay, enough prattle, we need some fiction, here. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s too soon, I’m not distracted enough, still too aware. But I can feel it loosening, so that’s good…breaking free from its moorings, yeah, that’s it, let the cliches pour out. Reminds me of the moor, and the heather, ah, will I ever write anything with those words in it? Doubt it. But maybe.
Right now, I think I am working on a piece about a rocking chair. Well, okay, it’s not really about a rocking chair. It’s more about a woman, her life, her loves. Probably on a farm. Probably older and alone now. Probably depressing? Or maybe not.
The three year old leaned up against the couch, carefully pressing the crayon’s waxy tip onto the paper, drawing, she said, a smiley face. She added a few dots and loops for emphasis. Okay, time for lunch!
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