#17 Grateful for BLAH days

Yep, as a writer, my words have been boring me, I am boring me.

I’m writing stuff that when I read back I think ‘Borrinnnggggg… I don’t want to read this, so I can bet my socks that others won’t want to read it either.’ I am feeling in-between. In-between what? I do not know, I guess that’s the lingering mystery of life, we’re always in-between something but where we’re headed, who knows.

Some days I don’t feel in-between, I feel very accomplished or satisfied or even when I have days of pure hell, it’s feeling something. In-between is like a walk in the mist, not sure which direction you want to take but you don’t want to stay put, who knows what may be lurking behind the bush!

So I went for a walk and boy, does nature sure know how to soothe. No matter the problem, nature goes… ‘stop, watch me instead’.

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And watch I did. I watched and smiled and realised that who cares if I find myself boring, I might find myself the most boring person in the world but someone out there will find me less boring than I find myself. ‘Blah’ days happen.

Take the forest for instance, there are days I go for a walk and things look the same as the day before. Sure, it’s beautiful no matter the weather but when I go say three days in row, I notice less than if I go once a week. Today was my first walk in the forest for over a month! The change was immeasurable.

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The sun was low, the grass was delicately frosted, trees were almost bare and birds were perched on icy waters. There was nothing ‘blah’ about it. The animals may have felt a little ‘blah’ because they gotta survive the winter, everyday they live amongst the violent beauty of this ever-changing landscape. So to them, it’s ‘blah’ because they’re in it, they’r breathing it, they’re habitually living inside the means of what is familiar to them.

So I skimmed my ‘blah’ across the frozen waters, leaving behind ideas that have stagnated from stamping over and over in the same spot. Ok, so I still feel a little boring in my writing endeavours but I know that will pass, I know that for a fact because if a blade of frosty grass can capture my attention than I’ve no doubt I’ll find something about me inspiring soon. We are, after all, beauty in the making, all of us. Nature is who we are and if we can find beauty and brilliance within our surroundings then we can absolutely find it within ourselves.

YES to BLAH days, they make me appreciate the inspiration when it comes.

Simple

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To the moon

Said the sun

‘Begin us some fun

Let such rules be heard

That all shall submerge

In the wild, to be free

Precariously

Doing all to survive

Roaming far and wide

Thinking they may control

How it works

But they don’t’.

Said the moon in return

‘But what should they learn?

If they stride too fast

What lessons will last

How will one reflect?

Acting circumspect

And driven by fear

Keeping hate too near

And they keep themselves going

But where do they go?’

A confident sun

Said ‘free will has begun!’

They’ll follow their call

Choosing big, choosing small

The truth will be theirs

And we’ll comfort their stares

As they pray for our voice

To guide their next choice

But deep down they know

Which way they’re to go

And they’ll do what is best

For their soul

To grow

‘Gosh’ the moon sighed

A worry reply

‘We’ve not thought this through

For what should we do?

If the soul of the meek

Should faintly speak

And reflection dies

As lies

They rise

And time drives a need

To travel with speed

From one place to another

To only discover

Dissatisfaction

And plan further action

To plough much more

Than they managed before!’

The sun scratched his head

‘Let’s try this instead

We work closely together

With land

And the weather

To us all may ponder

Their faith growing fonder

In what we create

To be loved’.

‘Agreed!’ said the moon

No moment too soon

When life

Gives life

All reasons to be.’

Found

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She sings to caged bones, lost within the mist of belonging.

She dances bare foot upon moistened earth, praying for understanding.

It never comes.

She bows to tradition, seeking ritual to carve truths. Surface wounds bleed, iron seeping into her receptive soul.

With open arms she calls for the owl at midnight hours.

Yet hours mock, the clock is no friend. Ideals from childhood still haunting present fascinations.

No owl spied. Only paper reflections are points of reference for her, landscape fantasies gracing daydreams.

Traffic echoes.

Mechanic limbs constricting her breath. Machine realities play vividly during meditations. Her world is one of construction, built by green-fingered desires.

Stung by tastes of metal and chemical pastes, smeared across her pastel complexion.

Her skin is worn from tired work. Decades never to resurrect.

Her hair knotted.

Her vision hovers below sun kissed horizons, counting steps to avoid straight lines in pavements.

Her nights are late. Conversations with electric devices partner imaginings of community. Muttering of others existence to be one full of wrongs.

Her life is lost.

Mystery cradles tearful days. The moon ignites primal blueprints and wants of change that never come about. She sits, palms connect to ancient chants, wrenching her from modern chains. Fearless commitment is more than she can fathom.

Yet commit she must, to save a soul not yet broken.

Responsibility

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Hate

Stems from me

Shredding judgement

Grows inside my pocket

I held so hard onto thinkin’

Knowing I knew rights from wrong

But shit, I know nothing

Days are a chalkboard

Smeared by grasping fingers

Blowing upon words to disappear

Within the breeze

Is dust

From us

Defiant in belief

‘Wrong you say?’

‘Fuck off, this is my way!’

We justify

And outright lie

Everyday doing something small

That needs not to be done

Because it eases

Softens the separation

I cry for a turtle bound by plastic

As I open a packet of fruit shipped from afar

It’s fucking bizarre

Consequences pave the decline

Labels of ‘mine’

Our mother

Her Earth

Heals without our pity

But hate we hold

And selves we scold

Kills her softly

Nothing lightens until the load is shared

Wake Up

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I woke up this morning to the foulest of dreams

Where poison pollutes once vibrant streams

And war has begun, but not as we know

Much worse than the tanks and bullets we throw

Now breaking of dawn is forever broken

And words of final are faintly spoken

Hearts are rotting inside out

And hope is drenched with crippling doubt

Forests are dead, no jungle sounds

No celebrations painting towns

Hiding souls are shaking away

Our innate sense of dance and play

Numbness dissolves upon our palm

As frantic breath disruptes the calm

I wept this morning for what could be

If alone we stand and fail to see

That destruction has not once settled the score

And seizing beyond makes us crave even more

We have something rare, to look within

To soothe our battles before they begin

And ask such questions of how we forgot

To love all we have and not need a whole lot

So with swollen eyes this morning I pray

That love is the step we next take, everyday.

#16 Grateful for Not Achieving 1,600 Words per day

So yea, as the title explains, I am wayyyy off my 1,600 words per day to write my novel in the month of November.

I have two options, I beat myself up about it, cursing the fact that I haven’t done what I set out to do when I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, or I can accept that I although I am not on course to write a novel in a short space of time, I have at least started the novel and also written some poems that I think are pretty good (self-expression is self-expression and I’m happy that at least I’m doing it). I’m going with option No.2 because nobody likes a bruised body from internal battering so hold fire personal attack and welcome to the creative process of writing.

Creating is a strange process. You plan, you plan to stick to the plan (or so you hope) but the planned form of expression turns into something completely different and you end up with something that is most probably more true to you than the original plan. This has been my whole creative life. I began as a dancer, then went to drama school then ended up at university specialising in Playwriting and now I am here, still writing but not plays. The twists and turns in life are what make it so… well a combo of so fucked up and so glorious all rolled into one.

The controller in me wants everything to go according to how I’ve rolled my time-line out in my head. I’ve done this ever since I was small, pretending I know what the outcome is most likely going to be, saying ‘oh I know, I have this feeling’ and although I consider myself an intuitive person, we can never know what is going to happen on every path we venture down. LET GO OF THE WHEEL. I write that in capitols for me, not to preach. I am the giver of advice and the worst receiver. My own advice comes from a place within that I know I need to listen too. I’m pretty much advising myself with the advice that I give when I’m asked to give it (as listening is most often the best help we can give) because I only ever know my perspectives, my own interpretations of my reality.

I am grateful that I am not on track with NaNoWriMo because it’s making me look at myself, hard… Through those truth lenses that I like to keep in my pocket and pretend I’ve lost them when pretending seems like the most fun game in life when truth is hard to accept. I’ve also realised that maybe this book isn’t a long winded intricate novel. I’m writing a teenage fiction book, it’s the diary of a girl who has been made to live with her difficult aunt after loosing her parents and coming to terms with this, if she ever does. It’s character driven and now, the more I write, it seems to be crossing into fantasy too. So I’ll keep going and see what happens but I’m relieving the pressure of 1,600 words a day as this was stressful rather than encouraging. We all work differently and part of the process is finding your own way.

Writing is so enjoyable yet so challenging all at once. I guess like life, the perfect combination of contradictions. As you ride the wave you get wet, so you get out of the water, dry off, then get back in the water again.

 

 

A little bit of Everything

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Nothings fixed

My toes wiggle

My breasts jiggle

If I sway my hips

From left to right

One of life’s delights

Is to ebb and flow

And no thought will stay

As laughter delays

The onslaught of crap

I give myself

For not fixing

Or medically mixing

To balance each second

With pleasure and pain

Counteracting the main

To numb

Splitting two from one

Bullshit!

When I feel, I feel

The rawness is real

And I’m moody

And fear

Sits comfortably at the wheel

Until love appeals

To my court of soul

And I relinquish control

Morphing again

As nothing is fixed

And I pull out my hair

As I hatefully stare

In the mirror

Face to face

Boiling distaste

As one second I’m rotten

But the next it’s forgotten

And I smile

For the all while

I’m a little bit of everything

All rolled into human