Face It

I want to live in a world where sunsets outshine stoplights.

Let thy goodness, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to thee.

I am unbalanced.

I can't express myself well.

I am hard to read.

I am not what you think.

I am everything you hope I am not.

but then we're together and all is right in the world.

Influences

This will be a running list:

Clive Staples Lewis

Annie Leibovitz

Dante

T.S. Eliot

Walt Whitman

Walt Disney

Mrs. Mizer

Miss Hendricks

Annie Dillard

Anne Lammott

Anna E. Mack

Donald Miller

Ansel Adams

Monet

G.K. Chesterton

Athanasius

Sheldon VanAuken

Leslie Feist

Benjamin Gibbard

Petrarch

Eusebius

Boethius

Thomas aKempis

Willa Cather

Laxatives

I've been creatively constipated recently, if you were wondering. I'm dehydrated and probably depressed.

That's alright, though, because I learned what it is I need so desperately.

I know what I'm not.

I know what I need to do for myself now, because no one else will ever do it for me.

No one person will ever be enough. No one moment will suffice for the duration of time.

I have to press buttons and throw paint and expose things.

The people I wish would understand this part of me never will.

It is so tightly woven through who I am, that I lose my whole self when I lose it.

Without it I cease to exist as I am, and as I am loved.

I wish I could explain what this "it" is. I wish I could introduce you and play a get-to-know-you game of some sort.

Sorry.

I'll never put my finger on it, all I know is I must keep it alive, don't let the fire die, as it has been said.

This should be cryptic, I'm trying to be clear.

"And if one day you should see me in the crowd,

Lend a hand and lift me,

To your place in the cloud."

Imogen Heap

Vinyl on laminate. I can be experimental if I want, but is experimentation scarified on the alter of explanation for the sins of the simple? I think so. I've grown much recently. Its killing me. I'm finding new pieces of myself, falling in love with the act of living all over again. Its like being reborn everyday. But sometimes I just want to sleep. Is that fair? No, no its not! screams the eternal producer of the educated population. It screams at me to not do the things that make me live. The machine tells me to wake up early and do all my homework on time. OR ELSE. or else what? will I cease to exist? I think not. However, I comply. Not for fear, but for complacency. I would rather not be noticed. I'm feeling freed but tethered, its a strange place to be in. Blood rushing to paint my handprint...

AND another thought: My insane desire for creative release, for an outlet for the spiritual explosions inside of me, is a desire for worship. My soul is providing me with a way for real personal worship.

some things must be done alone. being heartbroken is one of them.

Ambiguity

Today I endured a painful 3 hour discussion on the Aeneid. I don't mind the book or the discussion group at all. In fact, a enjoy them very much. However, the word "reason" came into use during discussion. Many different people began using the word in different ways. Reason, like logic? Reason, like objectified explanation? The definition of the word remained ambiguous throughout the discussion and I became so frustrated because there was a weird communication defect happening in the group. But somehow, I feel as though accepting the ambiguous is extremely important. Although the discussion would have been much better if the word had not remained ambiguous, but was defined, the ambiguity of the word allowed for a lot of otherwise impossible flexibility. Is it acceptable deny definition for the sake of flexibility? In many situations I think it is acceptable to allow the complete definition of the ambiguous to remain enigmatic.

On Promises

Promises are made to be broken. Right now I'm promising a promise to myself that I won't be able to keep: 350 words a day. Whether its a letter, a blog, a journal entry, or a prayer I will write it. So 350 words on something meaningful, or maybe something pointless. Yesterday I came home from lunch after church and my mother had made me a nook in my room. She's been promising me a painted, glorious room for years now, but life has been changing so quickly that it hasn't happened. Yesterday I came home and there was my long dreamt of armchair, a rearranged beautiful corner of my life. Its lovely and perfect and spacious and I almost cried. Its strange the things that speak to my soul the most. Funny, I couldn't write "touch me most." I wonder why. I suppose because being touched in the physical sense is either good or bad. When it is used in the spiritual sense it is always assumed to be good. In reality if a stranger pokes my head, I probably turn around and slap them. Silly, but true! However, if a close friend gives me a bear hug, I hug back. That is good, no slapping necessary. (By the way, I just learned how to spell necessary this weekend.) Words trip me up a lot, if you hadn't noticed, and I habitually use contractions and commas. I wish I had something more beautiful to say, but life is crude right now, and I suppose it produces crudity in me. Crudity: yet another reason to proofread, a habit that I should have that I hate. Moments pass, time for things that won't remain suspended as this blog will.

The Things That Frustrate Me

What's the difference between turning and spinning your mental wheels? I feel like I either spin out of control or turn as slow as molasses in winter. There is no happily-provoked medium for me. I get to face this head-on tonight, as I meet the creative monster inside of my skull for tea. I'm working on my first two Torrey papers, and I'm slightly terrified for a few reasons. One, I rarely say what I mean. Two, I don't write as if my life depends upon it. I write noncommittally, sometimes in a very well communicated circle around the truth I am attempting to convey. I've been thinking a lot about living intentionally, lately. This is part of the writing life, as well. Even as I write this, I am fully aware that I don't practice intentionality in my writing. However, I recognize the importance of meaning every word and phrase and comma. Every aspect of a sentence plays out the thought of the writer.

I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.

Annie Dillard