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Here I am, home with what is probably Covid (the symptoms have passed), gearing up to tell my boss I won't be in for a week. ( to spare you )
Why would I do this to myself
Dec. 28th, 2016 11:01 amEvery few years, I dig up my backups and move/copy over to new media, or cloud storage, etc. Recently I noticed that I haven't written much poetry, and what I write I don't type up or post anywhere unless it has some value (I think) to a broader audience.
So the project of yesterday and this morning has been to gather up all my available poems and start a Scrivener document to put them in. I had already been thinking of them in context of periods of my life. They are currently broken into: Caterpillar (1997-2002), In Chrysalis (2000-2007), Here There Be Dragons (2004-2009), Beauty Time (2007-2011) and Lucid Dreaming (2010-current). Eww, that looks pretentious, doesn't it?
A couple of my baby poems are corrupted files. I pretty much have those memorized, though? That's what happens when a short verse is your prayer to get through things. (Also, I have the originals, the double decades old pencil and paper originals.)
It seems like a thing to do.
The last decade has a lot of missing poems. That's because most of them are what I dubbed PFED, "A poem for every day." So, garbage, basically.
- - -
It shouldn't be so hard to write
a poem for every day.
Pen to paper:
wouldn't you like to say a few words?
So much starts to spill out of your head,
Your crowded, noisy mind,
So many things your spirit wants to speak.
So many complaints of the heart.
It shouldn't be so hard to write a poem
for everyday,
You do lesser things, and harder things,
You get up: that's something.
At least have a poem in your day.
One soft, crisp, uncomplicated thing
One thing that is only yours
Where to start? You wonder.
Just tell me three things that come to mind
and write.
4/26/09
So the project of yesterday and this morning has been to gather up all my available poems and start a Scrivener document to put them in. I had already been thinking of them in context of periods of my life. They are currently broken into: Caterpillar (1997-2002), In Chrysalis (2000-2007), Here There Be Dragons (2004-2009), Beauty Time (2007-2011) and Lucid Dreaming (2010-current). Eww, that looks pretentious, doesn't it?
A couple of my baby poems are corrupted files. I pretty much have those memorized, though? That's what happens when a short verse is your prayer to get through things. (Also, I have the originals, the double decades old pencil and paper originals.)
It seems like a thing to do.
The last decade has a lot of missing poems. That's because most of them are what I dubbed PFED, "A poem for every day." So, garbage, basically.
- - -
It shouldn't be so hard to write
a poem for every day.
Pen to paper:
wouldn't you like to say a few words?
So much starts to spill out of your head,
Your crowded, noisy mind,
So many things your spirit wants to speak.
So many complaints of the heart.
It shouldn't be so hard to write a poem
for everyday,
You do lesser things, and harder things,
You get up: that's something.
At least have a poem in your day.
One soft, crisp, uncomplicated thing
One thing that is only yours
Where to start? You wonder.
Just tell me three things that come to mind
and write.
4/26/09
I'm exhausted.
Nov. 4th, 2015 08:17 pmToday was a day to organize and clean. I'm signed up for Nanowrimo, but I haven't been able to concentrate. My desk has been full and cluttered, and the art/craft/jewelry supplies have been in a bothersome disorder.
( Picture for proof )It's a dramatic change. I'm physically very tired, but mentally energized. The cats were disinterested in what I was doing and stayed napping in their favorite napping places, and I was home alone to stir things up, drink tea, and vacuum without being observed/disturbing anyone.
All those file boxes (about 20) contain art & craft supplies. I have more... the quantities of beads... and boxes and boxes of letters and journals. One of us needs to become famous someday; my saved correspondence will be the joy of some biographer. Sometimes I fantasize about destroying it all, but then I think of that. And there's a kind of responsibility, too, that I feel to yesterday's me.
I finally took the furin (glass windchime) down, too. Like wearing white after Labor Day -- embarrassing!
( Picture for proof )It's a dramatic change. I'm physically very tired, but mentally energized. The cats were disinterested in what I was doing and stayed napping in their favorite napping places, and I was home alone to stir things up, drink tea, and vacuum without being observed/disturbing anyone.
All those file boxes (about 20) contain art & craft supplies. I have more... the quantities of beads... and boxes and boxes of letters and journals. One of us needs to become famous someday; my saved correspondence will be the joy of some biographer. Sometimes I fantasize about destroying it all, but then I think of that. And there's a kind of responsibility, too, that I feel to yesterday's me.
I finally took the furin (glass windchime) down, too. Like wearing white after Labor Day -- embarrassing!
From ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bhagwanx, 5 Q. The rules say that I must provide five questions, for you to answer in your own journal space, upon your request.
( Frogtown Riverside; the ones you choose; girl-on-girl; loathsome tonight; the worm will turn )
bhagwanx, 5 Q. The rules say that I must provide five questions, for you to answer in your own journal space, upon your request.( Frogtown Riverside; the ones you choose; girl-on-girl; loathsome tonight; the worm will turn )
(no subject)
Feb. 1st, 2007 04:58 pmAnger is an acrid smelling torch. I have to restrain myself from using it like a club, but as long as I keep it burning, it's heat and uneven light give me something other than cold darkness. Without it, I have the rags of my strength and an oily sadness. And a stick. For measuring?
I don't have to always be doing. I can just be. There's lots to do, too much, but I don't have to be the one to get it done, or to see that someone else gets it done.
I need to find some magic.
I don't have to always be doing. I can just be. There's lots to do, too much, but I don't have to be the one to get it done, or to see that someone else gets it done.
I need to find some magic.
That thing I experienced yesterday was either a nervous breakdown or a panic attack. Because I still feel the residue but I am otherwise quite functional today, I'm thinking panic attack -- and while I'm no stranger to crying jags and occasionally feel an intense need to run for the hills or crawl under furniture, a panic attack is something new. And not something nice.
One of the things I did to deal with it (and I didn't deal well) was to spend an hour knitting, then I frantically searched my cabinets at home for chamomile tea. WE HAD NO CHAMOMILE. Unbelievable! But we did have some white chrysanthemum flowers. I steeped it, covered, and it helped quite a lot.
I need to ruminate on this more, but right now I'm at work making up for freaking out and leaving yesterday and my break is used up.
One of the things I did to deal with it (and I didn't deal well) was to spend an hour knitting, then I frantically searched my cabinets at home for chamomile tea. WE HAD NO CHAMOMILE. Unbelievable! But we did have some white chrysanthemum flowers. I steeped it, covered, and it helped quite a lot.
I need to ruminate on this more, but right now I'm at work making up for freaking out and leaving yesterday and my break is used up.
Making Peace with Silence
Oct. 18th, 2006 07:22 pmI'm house-sitting, or, rather, some kind folks offered their empty house for a respite. My home is so noisy, but I've become more accustomed than I really understood.
It was better with the music on, but the house still felt silent. Not just quiet. Silent, the way only houses can be. Going home, after all, instead of staying the night as planned seemed like the more comfortable option. ( But )
It was better with the music on, but the house still felt silent. Not just quiet. Silent, the way only houses can be. Going home, after all, instead of staying the night as planned seemed like the more comfortable option. ( But )
I am not a Woman of Color.
Aug. 30th, 2006 11:58 amI am not my gender, my race, or my age. I am not my sexual orientation. I am not my religion, my political affiliation, or the my shoe size.
Neither are you, in my eyes.
There will be things with which you feel an affinity, and your background, history, and upbringing will influence who you are, but they are not all that you are. Assumptions based on appearance are a social norm, but they are not good. It does a subtle kind of damage when you encourage others to categorize you. It perpetuates an acceptable level of agism, sexism, and racism. It promotes cliqueish behavior.
The facets of what we are should enhance us, as jewelry would. Our differences should not create barriers between us, because every one of us is a minority of 1. It's hard enough to bridge the basic barriers of running around in our own skins -- why must the tone of that skin complicate understanding? Appearing to be alike doesn't make two people alike.
I live the way that I want the world to be. That may be naive, but I accept my naiveté. How can anything exist if you don't believe in it? I live in the world I make, as much as possible. I think it's important to shape your world into the way you want it with everything you do. Everything matters. Actively participate in your life.
That's not everything that I want to say, just a little of it.
Neither are you, in my eyes.
There will be things with which you feel an affinity, and your background, history, and upbringing will influence who you are, but they are not all that you are. Assumptions based on appearance are a social norm, but they are not good. It does a subtle kind of damage when you encourage others to categorize you. It perpetuates an acceptable level of agism, sexism, and racism. It promotes cliqueish behavior.
The facets of what we are should enhance us, as jewelry would. Our differences should not create barriers between us, because every one of us is a minority of 1. It's hard enough to bridge the basic barriers of running around in our own skins -- why must the tone of that skin complicate understanding? Appearing to be alike doesn't make two people alike.
I live the way that I want the world to be. That may be naive, but I accept my naiveté. How can anything exist if you don't believe in it? I live in the world I make, as much as possible. I think it's important to shape your world into the way you want it with everything you do. Everything matters. Actively participate in your life.
That's not everything that I want to say, just a little of it.
Overly-Sensitive, Emotional Girl
Aug. 14th, 2006 07:40 pmThis is my punishment for mocking my sister in her teenaged years. The mean brother would tease her because she was so quick to cry over it. It annoyed me. If she had ignored him or appeared not to care, he would have left her alone.
Now I annoy myself. My feelings get hurt far too easily. I also think of myself as the stupidest person I've met all day.
I'm pretty sure I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I also have LJ guilt. I skim -- I am always feeling that I've missed something. There's nothing to be done; I simply can't keep up and get the laundry done.
Now I annoy myself. My feelings get hurt far too easily. I also think of myself as the stupidest person I've met all day.
I'm pretty sure I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I also have LJ guilt. I skim -- I am always feeling that I've missed something. There's nothing to be done; I simply can't keep up and get the laundry done.
Conversation with Myself
Jul. 26th, 2006 05:38 pmsecretagentlost told me about a way to journal that can be revealing. I'm giving it a try.( Conversation with Self )
...and an ice cream cone
Jun. 14th, 2006 02:48 pmWhen asked the question "What do you want out of life?" the inclination is to answer quickly and off the cuff. Instead of saying that I want a full night's sleep or always to enjoy chocolate, I've given my answer some thought. ( answer )
From stormflare
Jun. 4th, 2006 03:02 pm1. Grab the nearest book with a blue cover.
2. Open the book to page 86.
3. Find the first full paragraph.
4. Post the text in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find, just the closest blue book.
Friendships cannot go one-way. I deserve to be treated according to how I treat others. Dignity and pride are things that I should have in any relationship. He wasn't good for me. I put him on a pedestal and it made me feel low.
The closest book with a blue cover was written in ink by my own hand. ( litera scripta manet )
2. Open the book to page 86.
3. Find the first full paragraph.
4. Post the text in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find, just the closest blue book.
Friendships cannot go one-way. I deserve to be treated according to how I treat others. Dignity and pride are things that I should have in any relationship. He wasn't good for me. I put him on a pedestal and it made me feel low.
The closest book with a blue cover was written in ink by my own hand. ( litera scripta manet )
Something like Lucid
Mar. 2nd, 2006 04:48 pmLast night/this morning I did something I have wanted to do since I first heard it could be done: lucid dreaming. Or something like.
( thirst )
( thirst )
An entry like the ones I used to post.
Mar. 25th, 2005 02:23 pmPretend that this is a locked post. Pretend it's readable to everyone *except* those I'm having dinner with. Because otherwise, I'll just be embarrassed.
( Because given the choice, I choose you. )
( Because given the choice, I choose you. )
Twelve Year Symmetry
Feb. 10th, 2005 05:38 pmAsk permission, not necessarily with words, before removing eyeglasses.
Little cat,
Little cat,
Little cat in the road!
Who's cat are you?
Who's cat are you?
--Damn it, I'm my own cat.
("Roadside Conversation": Piet Hein)
( Somethin's Gotta Give )
Little cat,
Little cat in the road!
Who's cat are you?
Who's cat are you?
--Damn it, I'm my own cat.
("Roadside Conversation": Piet Hein)
( Somethin's Gotta Give )
