Freak Thoughts

This is the beginning of a story in my head (somewhat negating what we had discussed in class, but I’m still rolling with it):

Sitting in a chair with my back hunched while my elbows balance on the quivering knees, my hands press against my face.  All the people around me converse, yet they seem so quiet.  All I hear are my tears hitting on the ground as I play back all that has happened.  Everything is still so vivid.

*     *     *     *     *

After a night of working, I come home and shower.  I stand under the faucet head as a pulsating blast of water rushes over my back, relieving the tension that has my muscles in knots.  I twist the knob and step out.  Steam clings to the mirror as I wrap a towel around my body.  One swipe on the mirror, I stare at myself.  My eyes deep, dark, empty have nothing to look forward to.

I enter my room to throw on my pajamas.  I go to my computer that sits in the far corner of my tiny room, which to me resembles a padded room.  Sitting down for no more than five minutes, I get an instant message over the over the computer from a random guy; stricken with curiosity, I talk to him.

“Who is this?” I inquire.

“I’m Dave.  I got your e-mail from a friend,” he responds.

“Which friend?”

“Don’t remember.”  Even though his last answer doesn’t settle well in my mind, I continue to talk to him for about and hour.  I yawn from a tiresome day of work and give him my cell phone number.  I can hardly sleep as I lie in bed, leaving myself to think.  I don’t know why I gave my number to someone whom I hardly know.  This guy plagues my mind.  Most guys who talk over the Internet only want one thing, sex.  We didn’t even mention sex at all; perhaps he was a sensible guy.

~This is just a work in progress

Opening section of my new novel….first draft:

Tears poured out of my soggy dark brown eyes, and proceeded to stream down my smooth, delicate cheeks mixing with my heavy eye makeup creating little muddy rivers. As I wiped the black, salty filth from my cheeks my puffy, sorrowful eyes surveyed the room for any signs of a tissue. When no tissue was to be found except for the small, crumpled piles soaked with bodily fluids from a night of artificial passion next to the bed, I sighed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. I sniffled. Grabbing a handful of fresh, white tissue, I stared into the mirror for a moment at my pale, heartbroken complexion as thoughts of rage, detestation, distress and desire rushed through my brain.
 How had I gotten to this point? I began to wonder what I was doing here. He was not who I thought he was….but how had he turned so suddenly? Of course, I had been slightly unhappy with his foul attitude and childish behavior for a while but the production he had just performed was completely unexpected. No man had ever spoken to me in that way before. What ignited his fit of wrath expressed just moments ago? It certainly couldn’t have been me…or could it? Is it possible that he knew what I had done….how I had wronged him so many times the nights he failed to call me?
 “Summer!” his whiny mother called from the top of the stairs. I choked back my tears as I heard her footsteps approaching the bathroom door. “Summer! Where are you?”
 I remained silent, leaning against the gray marble counter and staring at my toenails, polished a cherry red. Why was this woman looking for me? What could she possibly have to say? I wanted nothing from her, nor anyone in this house. I wanted to escape, just to run away and hide. To be home was what I longed for….but home was 360 miles away….

We’ve talked about a certain concept in class. You’ve heard it from others. You’ve read it in books, you’ve seen it in other media. You have to write every day if you want to be a good writer. Well, sure.

When I first met my wife, before we started dating, she asked me what I liked to do. Probing for a weakness, no doubt! I told her I liked to write and she asked to read some of my writings. I was confused, and I told her, well, I don’t have any. She was equally confused. How can you be a writer and not have things, y’know, written down? I don’t write them down. Just because I don’t write stuff down doesn’t mean I’m not writing. In fact, to some degree or another, I have a (maddening) habit of writing almost all day. I feel the compulsion to practically narrate my own day, no matter how banal the events are. If nothing is happening, then I make something up. Pretty simple concept. I consider this writing. I can revise it. I can edit it. I can go back to it assuming it was worth going back to. If it wasn’t then I wouldn’t remember it. I can do all of this faster than you can type, faster than you can read, faster than you can highlight underline cut and paste or anything and I feel it is effective. It’s also very green, and that’s the hip cool thing now. Double points for me.

I only bring this up (if you’re feeling bloggy, then jump?) because I’m sure a lot of you do the same. But I have a bit of a weakness in it. I have keywords. If I am talking to someone, completely distracted from my inner-narrative, and they say “you should write that down” it’s like my legs have been kicked out from under me and I tumble down a hill. I grasp and try to get a hold but it just isn’t there until I’m all the way down. The trip is in writing. I’m thrown into it like a trance and I’m mentally assembling words and tossing them around, visualizing concepts and stapling terms to them. Constructing. Sometimes all I get out of it is half of a sentence but it’s a nice little thing, shiny and new. Sometimes all I get is mental logorrhea but that’s okay, too.

You can tell when I’m doing this, too. I’ll be making a really stupid face. I’ll be staring at something, I’ll be off in the distance, I won’t be there at all.I will be repeating an action like clicking a pen, or I’ll be gnawing on something.  It’s a bad habit, sure, but it is one among many. The difference is that this is one that I don’t intend on changing because it gets me through the day. I just wish I had a bit more control over it. So, do you ever get this “tripping into writing” thing or am I just a freak in my thoughts?

I’ve always liked this short story ever since I  read it in High School. I really like some of the eccentric characters she comes up with in this essay: http://www.ninetymeetingsinninetydays.com/lorriemooore.html

I feel like if I write my lyrics without the reader being able to hear the accompanying music that it will be lacking. However, if I want my lyrics to be meaningful than I can’t be embarrassed of them without the tune. I shouldn’t need my melody to save the song. I will admit that I’ve attempted to be cliche, since that seems to be what’s popular. So, here’s my american idol experience song. Please tell me what you think, even if you think it’s lame. I can take it.

Step into the light. Figure out what’s right. Let no one keep you down. You don’t deserve to wear a frown. So raise your voice up loud, no matter what’s allowed. When everyone can hear all that’s left is fear.

And fear is undeserved, it holds you in, reserved. If you feel like it dance, your fear can’t stand a chance. So jump and shout and scream. Never give up your dream. If anyone says, “no,” find somewhere else to go.

Don’t be scared to live. You’ve got something to give. You may not know it now, but you’ll make your mark someday, somehow. Fear will hold you back from following your track. Be proud of what you do. You’ve got to let yourself be true.

And fear is undeserved, it holds you in, reserved. If you feel lke it dance, your fear can’t stand a chance. So jump and shout and scream, never give up your dream. If anyone says, “no,” just fnd somewhere else to go.

Your mind is nothing short of brilliance and that sort so don’t let it go to waste before you get a taste of life at its very best, after you finish the rest of this of this insanity, yet it’s all temporary.

Cuz fear is undeserved, it holds you in reserved. If you feel like it dance, your fear can’t stand a chance. So jump and shout and scream. Never give up your dream. If anyone says, “no,” find somewhere else to go.

Your fear can’t stand a chance.

Have you ever seen the comercials othe dying kids from other countries? Then they tell you to send money to help them? Well I think that this is wrong. For one, we should be helping people in our own country first. Did you know that not all of the money you send goes for the kids? So what’s the point of giving money to them if when you can  give money to people here,and they will  get the whole amount. We must help ourselves before we help others.
Because you don’t even know if any of the money you send is even getting to the kids. there are many scams coming out of Africa. Did you know that some countries in Africa on’y form of income is scams?
Some of those scams are in emails that you can get. Either to send money here, there, or any where. So think twice about giving money.

Let me know what you think, and tell me if you think I am wrong and why.

This isn’t quite fiction, but it can be if I pretend I am not the real narrator. Which I may or may not be.

I’ve entered a new segment of life today: I have experienced the process of purging someone from my life. I’ve never had an enemy before. Sure, people I don’t really like, or vice-versa, but never someone who actually despised me. Guess there’s a first for everything at every emotion, right?

I’m only on day one, but I already feel far more healed than I had presumed, especially considering I had not seen this one coming: I thought this was quite stable. Things definitely are never permanent. I will know not to presume. You know, for next time. De-tagging photos, deciding which mutual friends to keep, its all such a sober act. Of loss. But I realize I lost more than just the positive (a friend), but it is a loss of the negative as well: I lost all this person’s faults. After our final argument, I took the mile-long trek (exaggeration is one of my faults) back to my car, and I couldn’t help but laugh: it was over. I was out of purgatory. Everything can go back to normal now.

Balance. I strive to keep it. It’s tattooed on my chest, give me a goddamn break. And I lost grasp of it because I thought I had something good. Too good. I lost sight of myself, and turned away from all the stable love in my life. I told a friend that I thought this was not the radioactive sort of love that I have previously written about, and on my behalf it surely was not. That’s only my half, though. Reality revealed how erosive the friendship really was: I was the target for every ounce of unrest.

I am not mad. I never was. I never will be. If the person I loved is out there, that person deserves amazing things; however, the person I loved was not the person I was really friends with, and that person is an open wound.

I wish you all the best. I am so sorry you cannot handle our differences. But I am not sorry about the way I experience life. Don’t take me or anyone else so seriously. Life only sucks if you make it suck. Don’t judge me. I never judged you. And I won’t. You’ve got a lot on your plate and I am so honored to be able to help you for the time that I could. I don’t regret anything, why start now?

This has made me stronger. In the end, it is my own peace that matters.

Throughout all this commotion I have yet to forget at any moment that All Is Full Of Love, and although it has not come from the sources I have poured mine, maybe not from the direction I was staring at, but it IS all around me. Björk was right, it is all around me. Even if she plays all her songs in the same note. My doors will never remain shut.

Today I thought about most of society placing their future in the hands of a higher force. I thought about what that means to me. I, of course, believe it is important for people to have faith in something, anything. I do believe that people without beliefs find it hard to feel any remorse for their actions. However, I’m not sure the possibility that it can really change what is going to happen is true.

My dad use to tell me that we go to church to make a better future for ourselves. We believe in God because he is capable and more willing to help us out when we are believing and behaving.

But, the thing that always gets me is repentance. Now, I know this is probably a ridiculously touching issue with anyone that is a believer and I may sound ignorant. I am well aware. So, if you don’t want to read about me working through these thoughts, it’s probably best to stop reading now. I don’t want to step over any boundaries. There is my disclaimer.

Now, here is what I believe. God is forgiving which is why we, as humans, are able to repent and be forgiven. Clearly. Which in turn means still be able to live the life we are suppose to because we understand our misguidance and will never stray again. We are allowed to do this as many times as necessary until we don’t have any more mistakes. We will repent until our dying day.

So, this is where I get stuck. I think that our fellow humans play more of a role of God than anyone else notices. As humans, we are not forgiving by nature. We are at a constant judgmental stance on everyone. I can’t tell you how many times in even the most superficial circumstances I hear from a professor or even one of my parents, “Well, from your track record…” I remember my advanced history teacher in my senior year of high school wrote a quote on the board by some famous guy, I’m assuming, who said, “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.” Wise words, in my opinion. However, in all my 22 years of living I have not once seen this quote eligible for any unfortunate situation I’ve been in. In reality, I feel that the actions I make in life, aren’t of any importance to God until I die. Until that happens, everyday is judgment day to anyone I encounter. I will be the first to admit that I probably get along with six people in life and that isn’t to say it’s been like that my whole life. Growing up, I use to love being around people and had many friends. However, growing older and experiencing life as it typically is, a form of suffering. Friends have screwed me over as much as I have probably made things worse for other friends. Saying, “I’m sorry” on either end isn’t going to change anything that happened. For anyone. You are suppose to accept what happens for what it is and forward, which isn’t easy to do.

Not to change the issue at hand ,but I feel like this also brings in the idea of karma. To what extent does karma take a place in anyone’s life? I have been trying to maintain a state of enlightenment for almost two years now and it is virtually impossible for me to do this. But, within the time I spent researching, karma is the ultimate decision as to how you will reincarnate. Pretty basic jest (from my understanding, which may not say much): If you are a terrible person in life (basically breaking the same ideas as the 10 commandments) you will reincarnate into a worse version of yourself (uglier, fatter, poorer, unhappier). Basically, how we are living now is a product of our choices in our past life. Which always has me thinking, “Could I have been worse off? Or is this an improvement?” Anyway, people are always saying that karma will get you, in regard to the life we are living now. Which is contradicting the after mentioned definition of what karma really is. People say that and I sincerely believe it means that, depending upon what your actions are and what sort of damaged people you meet in the future, will determine whether or not you are punished. Meaning, will you meet someone along the way that feels you should pay now for your mistakes? Furthermore, what them deciding your fate could mean for the actions you decide to take afterward.

This is what I’m trying to get to. With all of that said, what if the people around you decide your fate before God/higher power has a chance to? Every person you meet will mold your life towards a certain direction. The way people react towards mistakes you’ve made has you left wondering to what extent can a person have you punished for it. I know mistakes I’ve made two or three years ago keep haunting me. At this point, people start to think that, “the only person that can make you feel guilty for something is yourself. Only you can decide how you feel.” True, but that is easier said than done.

Pretty much what I’m thinking is an idea for a story. Potentially involving a homeless person. Let’s be real here, homeless people usually have the best of advice (or the worst.) This will be based off all the above mentioned ideas. Centered around the homeless person and his/her story about how he/she got to living on the streets completely alone.

I’m not sure. Just a couple of fleeting thoughts.

I found out today that there is going to be a nationwide ban on the sale of Flavored Cigarettes. This ban includes my favorite kind of smokes, which are cloves. While this may seem unimportant to most people, to me it is a huge issue. But it also brings some questions to mind.

1) Can this be used to prompt some writing?
2) What kind of story ideas can come from this news?

I am thinking I am going to do a brain dump of sorts and see what kind of word vomit I can spew out on the subject….stay posted for the results.

I don’t remember his exact words, but in ,Dean said something along the lines of– You will never be a great writer if you only do it ever so often, to be a great writer you need to do it every day. It kind of made me cringe with guilt because I have been very very bad about writing anything for about a year. I knew I was doing myself an injustice, it felt wrong, but still I never picked up a pen or opened a word document and started writing. I have realized that I am very rusty and I hate it, not to mention that I forgot that I actually have skill.

Yesterday, my mom suggested that I send my grandparents a short story I wrote in my last creative writing fiction class. Before sending it, I thought I would look over it since I hadn’t looked at it in at least since months and as I was reading I thought, Wow, I wrote this? I am not trying to pat my own back, I am only trying to say that I forgot a piece of me (also note that what I was reading was in it’s final draft after 5 rough drafts). I just hope that writing is like learning to ride a bike and that once you get back on, you realize you never lost your ability to do it.

Never again will I stop writing regardless if I am happy, sad, bored, busy, or even dying. Don’t make the same mistake I made, especially if you feel like writing is apart of what defines you as a person.