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Philadelphia Row is a term used, not only in Philadelphia neighborhoods, but elsewhere to refer to orderly rows of regularized housing.  
But there is nothing orderly or regular about any of the goings on in a Philadelphia Row.


READ SOME FICTION

Rejection

5/27/2019

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I got another fucking rejection today.  It comes with the territory of being doesn't it?  I am alive, and there are some who will approve of me and others who will reject me. 

Putting my words out there though - the stories - Having my words rejected hurts.  It fucking hurts.  This wasn't even something that was written.  This was a verbal story.  I was critiqued.  I expected to be critiqued.  I was told I had erroneous information.  I was told that it was okay to admit that i didn't know something.  But i do know stuff.   i fucking know stuff.  So, i didn't get that job.  Big deal.  I don't get lots of jobs.  

I don't know why this is hitting me so hard.  I've been on a six month plus run of rejections.  People who have been in my life, people who are knew to my life.  And this job search is killing me - emotionally, financially, physically, and probably most importantly, intellectually.  

To sum up my job interviews this week past, I had one at a casino for customer service, I wasn't the right fit.  I had one at manufacturer where they claim I need a different skill set for an accounting position.  I have worked accounting for 20+ years.  I went to the supermarket to apply as a cashier.  I was told I wouldn't fit in.  And then the tour guide position that seemed promising but I was given an email bullet-pointing too many wrongs to right.  This is in addition to sitting on my computer and sending out resume after resume with responses indicating that i don't meet qualifications for one reason or another.   I sent out prospects for writing jobs - something I used to count on when I needed to busy my mind and earn some cash.  No responses.  I can't tell if the silence is better than the definitive rejections.  

i don't know why there is a perception that i hold my shit together.  i don't.  there are few in my life who know that i most certainly do not have a handle on anything.  I am useless and I am nothing to everyone i know.   

As a writer, I'm telling myself, 'rejection is motivation'.  But i'm tired.  I'm tired of not fitting in to the constraints of want in society.  i'm tired of being not wanted - for all of the reasons.  And to clarify, it's not a tired that makes me angry and change...  it's exhaustion.  i don't know what i am doing wrong to fix it. 

I can't take care of the things I need to care for.  I can't find purpose in anything that i am doing on a daily basis.  There is really nothing that I have experienced that has prepared me for this onslaught of rejection, and i'm not strong enough to weather the storm. 


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Scattered Thoughts on Perception

1/16/2019

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Yesterday I had quite an adventure and am uncertain if it was a setback or a push forward.  I drove an hour and a half to ask for the transcripts from the witch trial on which i write.  The story is almost finished and I really just wanted my peepers on the pages.  I wanted to see what actually happened as opposed to the fantasy that has piqued my curiosity for years now. 

Reality versus fantasy seems to be a theme of my life recently and I need to get a handle on the importance of both of these things.  In the past, I used to brush away any discord on the matter with the words, "three sides:  mine, their's and the truth."  But, is there something more? 

So, my book is told from a neighbor's perspective.  I want to get the details around the story just right, to give validity to the events I have determined happened, not to tell the actual tale, but to prick thought into motion warranting discussion.  And i'm going to say the word - important.  Important discussion.  

I have chosen support as my word for this year.  I want to support my writing.  And i want my writing to support me.  I have vowed to participate in a book sale and have thought about some ancillary materials to have available at my table.  I decided pins/buttons, partly because i like them and partly because it's easy.   And then I found an article about lovers in the something-before-now-century would make jewelry with images of their eyes.  I like the idea of an eye pin.  I like an idea of something emphasizing importance of perception.  I like the idea of remembering that everyone has their own eyes and sees things in their own way.   I'm making eye pins.  

So, yesterday I drove out to get my eyes on the words that were laid out before William Penn  over three hundred years ago.  I wanted to know the truth.  I spoke with three people in the museum and library and discovered the transcripts were not in the building.  They are in the University of Virginia.  Ugh.. or Yay! I haven't concluded if it's a step forward or behind. 

But I did have a wonderful discussion that furthered my thoughts on perception.  It was heavy on perception and this person with whom i spoke said  I need to know the reality, if I chose -  but more importantly it is the perception that should be owned.  And that's been my stance in the past few months.  If someone perceived it is truth, then it happened. 

There is a curiosity why one remembers in one way, and another remembers in another.  There is curiosity where reason comes into play.  If i can reason what another remembers or saw, then could I perhaps change my perception?  Of course I can.  

So, why is there so much of a disconnect between what actually happened and what one thinks happened?  

I don't have the answers to these questions.  

I keep saying I want to write something important.  I want to write something of importance.  I think it's important that those perceived to be abnormal are only viewed that way because there is a lack of truth presented to those being judged.  Maybe it's not for me to write about something important, but to write something that provokes an importance?  
 
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Words… It’s all we have.

1/2/2019

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Quite a few years ago, a friend turned me on to a word of the year.  It’s a word to focus upon with mindfulness while walking through three hundred sixty five days.  A self-help technique?  Sure.  A change of habit?  Absolutely.  Sometimes, after reflecting on words, the significance of one over the other is quiet and internal.  Sometimes the words are necessitated to counter balance the garbage in my head from previous days.  This year, I had to look for the word. 

The words we use are important.  The words we tell ourselves and others have meaning.  It unnerves me when people say they didn’t mean the words that dove off their tongues into pools of auricular paths.  Words matter.  

Matter - substance inconvertible with energy.

December was a very difficult month for me.  It was full of words and actions that had me retreating to dark rooms of personal silence.  I was suffocated in an abysmal entanglement of bafflegag.  However, during this month, I was mindful of moving forward with writing.  There is an anomalous thing that occurs in my brain when I am feeling hopeless.  My brain counter-balances to equipoise with this idea of legacy.  I get this overwhelming internal push that all that I’ve done cannot be all that I do.  It could be a survival skill that is filed away in the trenches of my mind, and until I rip all the other useful pages of my thoughts to shreds, I forget that I need to leave behind something more than I have provided.  It also could be introspective personal browbeating.  Regardless, it kicks in when I’m lowest.  And frequently in these lowest times, the need to write becomes this unstoppable force.  I don’t always honor that need, but this past month, I did.  

I wrote quite a bit and read quite a bit and sought information to fill more pages of the files in my brain.  

And then I started hearing words relating to foundation.  In positive and negative tones, I heard people asking me for more or expressing gratitude for that which I had the strength to provide them.  I reflected on the word foundation for a few days.  I thought I need to start building this foundation in order to advance my writing to the point I can flip my days from numbers to words, which is my intention.  But that has been the intention for years.  And I realized while I was working through how to properly convey the image of laboring on this foundation, it occurred to me that the foundation is done.  I’ve been throwing words out around me long enough.  I’ve been stinging them together with coherent mortar and punctuation.  I have words I cannot recall writing, but in [re]reading, I can see that I have been tamping down a foundation.  It is time to make moves that will encourage a burgeoning of proliferation in story and thought.  I am ready. 

So the word support presented itself to me.  I feel I am not enough support for those who need me.  I have been told I had not provided support to others and have been called selfish.  I have felt unsupported by myself and even beat the parts of me missed by others.  Support is more than an unwavering base.  

I went to those crazy cats, merriam and webster to get their opinion on the word support.  They gave me the following: 

*transitive verb 
-to endure bravely or quietly; bear
-to promote the interests or cause of
-to uphold or defend as valid or right: advocate
-to argue for
-to assist
-to act with
-to bridge
-to provide substantiation
-to pay cost of  
-to provide basis of existence
-to hold up 
-to maintain at desired level
-to keep from fainting, yielding, or losing courage; comfort
-to keep something going 
*noun
-the act of supporting
-assistance 
-one that supports
-sufficient strength

After reflecting on this comprehensive list of words in its description, I understand that support is not just tamping the heavy stuff down to climb upon.  It’s not the foundation, but a breath as flexible as a rope bridge allowing sway as we cross the cavernous gorge of experience.  It’s the buttress providing protection from external elements so that security can be maintained within.  It’s a reception to carrying weight while those in need are fatigued.  

I have neither given nor received these things. 

In choosing these words, I always reflect on my first.  Vouchsafe.  I’m so in love with the reciprocity of the idea of vouchsafing.  To vouchsafe is to give freely and take gladly.  Many times those who give have difficulty taking.  Likewise, those who take have difficulty giving.  To vouchsafe is to give AND receive.  

This year’s word for me is going to be another reciprocal idea I need to nourish.
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​FOUND WORDS OF WANT AND NEED

12/7/2018

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​​I am writing today. And before I write what I want to, I think I should share what I need to.  

I pulled up the editor on these blog pages, and found a comment I had not seen before.  In reality, I found a couple.  I’m so lazy with looking to the response of my words.  Some may feel it’s with pretense I say, I write to get it out, not to have it read.  But, honestly, I cannot have the responsibility nor consequence of my words.  I don’t want to know anything more than the noise is no longer shuffling around in my brain.  

I had just finished reading a book I picked up in a library at least five years ago.  It chronicles a writer struggling with getting out of his ‘block’.  His friends Clyde and Fox force him into living in non-fiction, when he feels guilt about neglecting the fiction he has committed his life to.  

I was once told that I live in fiction.  I was once told that the fiction in my head filters my reality resulting in this hyperbolic, hypersensitive, state of chaos, from which I thrive.  And being as it is that we are what we eat…. 

So, of course the names Fox and Clyde are in my brain.  And in reality, I sat in my car this morning, waiting to unlock my door so that I could see a fist fight to my right amongst school kids.  With an alarming but monotonous beep, a dump truck backed into the street, with the blacktop granules he would soon use to fill the street. A parking authority officer fought the validity of a ticket with a driver who missed the cut-off to vacate the school zone.  Chaos.  It’s the same same chaos I had just finished reading to a degree.  And then again, in the same thought, I realize, it may be nothing at all like it.  The chaos in which these characters participated was premeditated.  It was fictitious.  Unless the writer wrote reality?  (Because sometimes we do that)  So, I sat wondering if, like the book, the noise was caused with intent, or a byproduct of living.  With a smirk, I call my days, ‘adventures with esther,’ because I can’t admit to the chaos and noise, both inside and out; and I certainly can’t admit that I have any control over it. 

Today I logged in to update my blog pages.  I need to write something about suicide and the question posed in my brain is a pretty hard one to unravel.  I’m going to get to that because I have a need for that.  And in recent weeks, I’ve explored need versus want.  Despite my historical opinion, it really has become apparent that want is greater than need.  In that vein, along with the trepidation I have of writing something I’m not certain I am ready to reveal, I poked around previous words and found a comment.  I found a comment, coincidentally labeled with the name of Clyde.  Clyde said my words inspire nausea.  And I’m sitting here with a lump in my throat and a knot in my belly feeling sick over it myself.  Again, I think I needed to see this effect of my words on another (or affect as it is).  Perhaps the important part of the fight in my periphery and the alarm to fix something torn apart and the discussion of right and wrong - perhaps the important part is the words.  I have a need to heave the noise from my head.  But I have an overwhelming want to get something important written.  I feel like I just spew words and fear they will be gibberish that no one will understand, but still feel the need to get them out so there is room in my head for the breath to keep the mechanics of my body moving.  

This person who presumably has no idea of my motivation said I evoke such emotion that they want to throw up.  Without confidence of the importance, I’m pondering if the moment my coffee cup is empty and my laptop is open should be pushed into the want or need column.  After all, he did say he wanted to throw up after reading me. 

AND THEN I FOUND THIS - 

I found, in my files labeled offline blog posts, I found the following:

Resilience

Resilience is the ability to recover from difficulty.  
One of my doctors mentioned the word to me today.  He said I need to be mindful of my resiliency.  After expressing confusion with a furrow of my brow, he specified what he meant.
“You know a thing has a flexibility and will bend,” he said moving the arm of his glasses to show me. “But if there is a rigidity, this will break.” 
Of course.  It’s simple and clear.  Have I said this?  Have I thought this?  I don’t know.  But a light bulb did shine this morning for me.  
We were discussing coming to more visits.  More analysis.  I’m probably going to accommodate his request, as it behooves me to take his advice en route to healing.  But today, I expressed hesitation and put off for one more week to the commitment of further morning meetings. 
But if I was in a movie, there would have been a freeze-frame.  He would have remained on his chair staring at me with the glasses he just used as a visual aide between his thumb and forefinger.  I completely went through an inner monologue comprehending my reception of the words he laid before me.
“I want to discuss your resiliency,” he said.
My resiliency? Do I have that? Negative. I have a brittleness that will break if one stretches me too much. 
A smile curled around my lips and I rolled my eyes.  He was talking about my avoidance of situations.  My inability to return after that avoidance.  Referring only to my health, he leaned closer and said, “Everybody hears these things that are too heavy and overwhelming to handle.  They take a breath and maybe step away for a moment before moving forward.  You cannot run away and not come back.  You cannot live with this sense of abandonment and disengaging with relationships.”  


It is, without a doubt, an unfinished thought.  Although, I could have very well posted this in a moment of who the fuck cares, nobody reads this anyway.  And if I did, I can’t remember; but, it’s timely for me this morning, so it will be here again. 

I have these people in my life who may not understand their importance.  

I say, with every experience comes pleasure or knowledge.  It is the rare instance that I am given both at the same time, so I savor those moments.  It occurs to me this week, that I take pleasure in knowledge and grow intellectually with pleasures.  It also occurred this week that I lost hope of experiencing this ever again.  I reflect on those who I push away and who have pushed me away.  We all have our reasons.  And if I’m pushed away, I’m not going to hold onto guilt for pushing someone else.  (if this is my story, then that is their’s…)  But then this resiliency popped up.  And I stirred vomit in the belly of a reader.  So struggling with a scene in which I have forgotten all the things that I think I need to remember to get an effect I want - well, I’m hopeful about the progression.  And I’m hopeful that this introspection on desire and my new perspective on the importance of wanting something so much more than needing something will manifest itself in the right kind of noise I can sort through for meaning.  And I’m hopeful that all the anonymous characters for whom I’m in the periphery, can sort through my chaos to find the importance to move them forward. 
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Writing

11/9/2018

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     A few weeks ago, I met someone who said he was swooning over my words.  Swooning!  I got tingly in my middle and thought perhaps the words I string together are not gibberish.  Maybe somewhere in the morass of my thoughts is something important.  Something meaningful that just needs to be sorted through.
     Today, I received an email with a request to join my email notifications and updates.  I used to do these emails from mail chimp.  The templates were groovy and I could string even more words together to send out to the handful of people I decided wanted my messages as well as the few strangers who sent me their addresses through this site.  I haven't done the emails in years. 
     The fact is, it's a big deal to get the thoughts I have in my head to come through my fingers recently.  I blame whatever i can - my job, my meds, my home.  The common factor there is MY.  I am the only one responsible for keeping my words in my head instead of letting them flow from my fingers.  
     I'm participating in Nanowrimo this month.  But, the fact is, I've only signed up and announced my November novel.  I wrote day one and two.  I did not even reach the word count goal for day one.  I wrote on an old project, blaming it for not caring for my Nano.  I started four blog entries that were little more than three words each and then poured a cup of coffee waiting for the WiFi signal to fail me. 
     I need to write.  I need to honor the people who actually read my words.  But, I feel small now.  I feel the impact of what i have to say is either little in the way of importance or nothing at all. 
     I have been reading a book about a novelist who feels guilt about not writing his fiction because the non-fiction of his life has gotten in the way.  I do not have that.  I am a lump on my sofa.  Maybe I am a lump of the sofa.  Maybe i am an ugly growth on this, once lovely and comfortable, piece of furniture.
     I'm going to write today.  I am going to get some words from thoughts strung together so someone other than I may read them.  I am not going to compose a welcome email to the new name that found it's way through the world wide web.  I am not going to distract from the word count.  (I never stress over word count and I usually don't outline, but i have a total outline and just need to pull it together for the numbers.)
     I think that's all, i'm just going to write.  And maybe later today, I will update the fiction page here so it makes more sense, and add the play I've wanted to add for a while.  -- when i need a distraction again.
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fired

10/23/2018

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     i got fired yesterday.  today i am free.  it feels pretty odd to be at peace with what could be interpreted as being labeled unwanted, dispensable, irrelevant.  
     i was mad - crazy and infuriated - when the *insert yosemite sam-esque expletive here* said the words, '-so we have to terminate you.'  and i exhaled, already having expressed that he was lying, then said, "have a good day," and walked out.  Now, i had this brilliant idea to throw a dildo/vibrator on the termination table to exclaim, 'go fuck yourself!'; but alas, i was unprepared.  Am i disappointed?  Not really.  As he took a breath to say other words, i walked out of his office, gathered my plants and left the building.  That was enough a display of strength without the vulgar insult.
     Today i am free.  I woke without pain in my belly and head.  (Literal pain.)  I'm concerned that my medical needs will not be met, but i am certain i will work that out in the coming days.  Today though, i am not in pain.  I'm not walking around wondering why i cannot get the job of a monkey done, forgetting that i didn't have experience throwing shit on others. 
     Today i am free.  I'm breathing and exploring what could be next.  I have resumes out already, because i don't think i know how not to work.  I applied for unemployment compensation, which was a whole thing - so i'm proud i got through it.  But i feel like i can write again.  In less than 24 hours, my brain is back and i feel as though words are coming out from hiding. 
     Is it lucrative?  ha!  Will my bills get paid?  I always figure a way. 
     I feel like i just recovered from rock bottom and can finally rebuild my life through words.  I cried in the past three years because i had no time to put thoughts swirling in my head onto paper.  I cried because i was being intellectually abused by my workplace, that honestly, i was so excited to go to three years ago.  Reason had no place in the office.  And now...   
     So, why am i sharing this?  Well, i'm going to take a couple days and clean up this site that has been neglected too long.  And then, i promise i'm going to write.  I'm going to write every day!  I had been given the tremendous experience of living what i don't want to be for years.  And now, there is nothing left but for me to release the person i think is hiding in my brain.
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OFF

6/12/2018

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    I feel off.   I keep saying it.  Or thinking it, since I haven’t spoken to many about it.  Today, as I usually do when a word is so prevalent in my thoughts, I looked up the definition. 
    Off . [awf] . adverb . (1) so as to be no longer supported or attached . (2) so as to be no longer covering or enclosing . (3) away from a place .
It’s accurate.  I’m feeling off.  And yes, my feelings should be over there with heating a house… but when I feel this ‘off’ I feel like I either need to write or give it up completely.
   There’s been some suicide in the news and the media has a frenzy of concern.  I really wanted to reflect on that a bit.  I went to a show celebrating some bravery facing mental illness.  I wanted to write about an incident and some introspection that occurred during the show for me.  I’m writing an historic novel about the one and only witch trial in Pennsylvania and found some interesting information to include and cannot organize my thoughts to move forward in the story.
   Last night I was on the way home from work – actually I was on my way to the gym.  Last night I was on my way to the gym, when I saw someone for whom I wrote a book.  I was the ghostwriter and before me on a city bus was the corpse for whom I pieced together words.  Corpse?  Yes.  If I am a ghost, the soul with the eloquence to put thoughts from pen to page, then the remainder is a corpse.  I looked out the window and if he called over to me, I would have pretended I had not seen him. 
   When I think about my writing recently, I think it’s just never going to be a thing from which I can make a living.  And when I realized why I didn’t write, it was all I could do to convince myself that I wrote because I need to write, not because I need someone to read it, or get published, or have notoriety.  But seeing the years that have passed without making a dent in projects that are whims in my head and no closer to calling myself a writer who counts instead of the other way around, it occurs to me that I may never become… whatever it is I was before being squashed. 
   Off.  I’m no longer supported.  I’ve isolated so much and find myself without drink and with meds to be intolerant of the effort it takes to feign interest in that which I don’t.  The sobriety of treatment is startling on a daily basis. 
So I saw this corpse and I thought of words a friend said to me quite some time ago when I was in the darker corners of suicidal thoughts.  He said, ‘you cannot let [book title] be your legacy.’  My name was not even on the work.  I was anonymous, and it was fine to be that while I worked on all the ghosting I completed.  I blamed the time I extended to the ghost jobs for the reason I did not complete my work.  I listened to the stories that the characters in my head were weaving and I didn’t know where they would end.  I became obsessed with numbers while writing, looking constantly at the bottom left of the screen as I typed, wondering if there were enough or too many.  I was contrary to the craft, telling other writers how I wrote by the seat of my pants and then went home and plotted.  I told others I outlined for days and then opened my laptop and wrote freely, not knowing where the tale would take me.  I am no more disciplined in my writing than I am in the rest of my life.
I sent in a play to a competition.  It’s a fun story with no vulgarities.  I wrote it during a manic weekend and edited/rewrote it in another two weeks.  When I question characters’ motives, I write their back-stories in the blink of an eye.  I wrote a horror [short] story where pizza is a killer and had so much fun with five thousand words in the course of two days to submit for inclusion in an anthology.  I can do the work.  I can complete work.  Except when I’m off like this.
   I feel no longer covered or enclosed.  People who are or were the closest to me have probably heard that I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin.  I’ve said, I want to scratch my skin off my body.  I wear acrylic on my nails so that I don’t.  A doctor told me that when one is mal-nourished, as I became when my pancreas revolted, a survival mechanism kicks in and one scratches their skin to get blood flowing to the extremities.  Is this habit a part of mental instability or the physical?  I don’t know. 
   Off.  Definition three.  Away from a place.  Away from one place is in another, is it not?  I understand how to use off in a sentence with this one but the literal thought of the words used to describe it have me wondering which of the places I am.  Am I in a place or away from it in another?  Of course when I dissect definitions and morphemes I am reminded of the statements from Stoppard, “Words.  It’s all we have to go on.” 
   I’m disappointed in the devolution of communication, even though I am one to acquiesce to the theory communication is a means by which to convey a message.  Even still, every day I do not put my fingertips to keys, or a pen to page [as another friend told me - the only tool I needed.]; every day I do not string words together for another to read, I am not a part of preserving language.  I definitely am no closer to being a wordsmith as I aspired to be a few lifetimes ago, than when I lived in that lifetime.  I am a bum writer. 
   Still, I look at the compilation of unfinished work and the small pieces I’m finally submitting for another to read and I think that I can become more than a ghost.  If I can fix a little bit of me as I move through my days, I can fix this neglected piece that is pushing me off the route I need to follow.
And then there’s my brain.  And if I want to be completely honest, I’ll say my belly too.  My physical and illness seem to be forks that are presented to me in my journey.  At the least, I fall down and consider what I need to do to survive the journey for one more day.  At the most, the fork pulls me in and I’m lost winding through places that I have no business being if I want to get to my destination.  I become off track.  Off route.  Off task.  Off target.  I feel off.  I cannot write when my body or mind is off on another route.  I cannot be me when I am off.  
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Delay Because of Madness

4/12/2018

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Picture
Picture
I like calling my mental illness Madness.  ​

Madness (as defined by Merriam Webster:

the state of being mentally ill, especially severely.
synonyms:insanity, mental illness, dementia, derangement; More
extremely foolish behavior.
plural noun: madnesses
synonyms:  folly, foolishness, idiocy, stupidity, insanity, lunacy, silliness; 
informal craziness

a state of frenzied or chaotic activity.

synonyms:  bedlam, mayhem, chaos, pandemonium, craziness, uproar, turmoil, disorder, all hell broken loose, (three-ring) circus


My April writing project this year is entitled Faith in Madness.  I feel like the only thing that has been constant in my life, long-term as well as short, has been the chaotic spinning in my brain.  I'm currently in treatment, and truth be told, I am terrified of getting well.  I am frightened of being boring, both inside and out.  The medication i am on does not let me skip doses.  I am without a doubt, in need of the chemical change that occurs in my brain and body when i take my meds.  So it was my intention to journal daily about the trek through my moods and my mood disorder.  I, of course, have a disappointing word count and many blank days between the productive ones. 

Physical illness has me changing my diet and I've joined a gym to combat a few physical changes that have happened with age and the meds.  I even found a group situation with which i feel comfortable discussing my madness openly, although i have only been to the meeting once. (I will be back though.) 

In registering for Camp Nanowrimo (the month of writing), I see plainly some of the projects I abandoned.  I blame.  I blame the lack of writing on exhaustion, or life, or time, or the dogs, or my ex, or my job, or whatever else I have in front of me on any given day.  

My doctor asked, "Why now?"  Why is it that I seek mental health treatment now?  I have no one else to blame.  "Why now?"  Why have I beat myself up for not writing enough?"  I have no one else to blame.  I'm fixing my broken house.  "Why now?  I have no one else to blame.  I am fixing my body.  "Why now?"  I have no one else to blame.  And yes, if you're reading this on the Writing in a Row House page, thinking it should be over on the Heating a Home on a Hot Plate, you'd be absolutely correct.  

I have a ton of guilt for not being my best in my past, but it was the best i could do in my circumstance.  I have to become comfortable with that acceptance of what's done is done, even though i feel like a tremendous failure as a mother, partner, sibling, friend, employee, co-worker, writer, home-owner, bike-rider, and anything else i have put my hands upon in my life.  The word sorry falls from my mouth so often, I've become an apologist, truly seeking exculpation, with every expression. 

I made this website to keep me on track with my writing.  I want to move from working for someone else full-time, and myself part-time, to working for myself full-time, and someone else part-time.  I've neglected this site.  And maybe part of the reason, is that I have this fear of failure, or even worse, success.  I am afraid if there are people who like my work, i will change.  I have been writing.  Still in a chaotic fashion - not keeping to one project for completion, but at least ten manuscripts.   I finished a play in a weekend and edited it over the course of a few weeks to sit on it.  I found a play-writing contest to which i submitted the piece and i'm waiting to hear from the organization that put out the call.  I don't know if i want acceptance or rejection. 

Every day, i think about the words that will come from my fingers and when i have the time, I sit and turn on someone else's story (TV, Movie, Book...) instead of writing my own. 

So why today?  Why today did i open this neglected website and put this declaration that i'm going to do better today?  I feel empty.  I finally feel like i'm just sleep-walking through my days.  I've become boring in my brain.  I don't want to be boring in my steps.  So before that boring becomes a veil around my need for exploration of my world and my thoughts, i want to revisit the creativity i know remains. 

I saw a lovely dead bird yesterday.  It was a reminder of finishing something.  Sevy's Cosmica Sidera mentioned Dead Bird Season and i needed a reminder of that.  In the moment i photographed this hollow passerine, i wanted to revisit the ending of Sevy,.  I wanted to edit it for the eighth time, instead of working to finish Defame Thy Neighbor, about which I'm really excited.  There is no reason i am not finished the writing on that story.  I've even commissioned a cover artist and I could not be happier with the progression of the artwork.  I want to push myself to finish the compilation of words before they become as boring as I. 

I need to set aside time in every day to write.  I need to get back on track with journaling on this website.  I need to get back on track with making notes everywhere and then making sense of them later.  I don't want to blame my madness, but explain that the delay has been the attempt to ease some of the internal chaos so i can function in the outside world.     

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Dr. Nolan

9/10/2017

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​Today I had brunch with my first grade teacher.  She’s an absolute rock-star!  The woman who organized it was in her first grade class in 1957, before she was a missus and before she was a doctor.  I was there 20 years later just after she earned her doctorate.
 
I was honored to say my name and have her remember me before she turned to someone at the table  share about the two weeks of indoor recess while I recovered from my tonsillectomy.   I was even more amazed when I extended a hug and a message from another classmate and without skipping a note, Dr. Nolan shared with me more stories of Grace and her sister.  Dr. Nolan remains sharp as a tack and I’m just stunned.
 
Dr. Nolan was truly the first person in my life who I felt believed in me.  Distinctly I recall a meeting between my mother and her – I sat at a little table we would use for SSR and listened intently while I pretended to be occupied in the book I thumbed through.  “She’s really quite special,” Dr. Nolan said.  My mother pursed her lips and nodded.  “Her stories are wonderful.  Have you considered …”  Dr. Nolan already wanted me to be the best I could be.  My mom declined even entertaining the idea of me doing any more than was required.  At home, the comics I made were crumpled papers and the stories I told were frequently regarded as nonsense. 
 
I thought I was walking around for years holding on to this affinity for someone in my memory with importance, while in her thoughts, I was just another student.  And for crying out loud, I was six years old!  Did I have a personality then?  How could I be memorable?
 
I sat in a room today with others who had stories of Dr. Nolan.  Dr. Nolan was important to each of them for their own reasons.  It was lovely.  I spoke with ladies who were in her class 20 years before I was there and 10 years after me.  Filled with emotion, I cried twice when I spoke with her.  I gushed with gratitude for being a part of the afternoon. 
 
I was in the fortunate position of telling someone how important they were to making me the woman I am.  
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​I also sat next to a woman who -  one of my surrogate big sisters.  I adore the person she is.  I sat next to a woman who is strong and smart and I would say brilliant, although she kept saying gifted.  She is brilliant -  Smart and a shining light.  Another teacher.  Another of my teachers although I never sat in her class. 
 
I am lucky to have these figures in my memory and in my life.  The importance is in me because of them.  I wish I could gather all the important ones together and just say thank you to every one of them.
 
So, I’m an accountant.  And I answer the question, ‘how does an accountant decide to write creatively?’  Well, I’ve always written.  But it was never good enough.  I realized that the only person my dad spoke of with an inkling of respect was his accountant.  I work with numbers.  It is not who I am but it is my skill.  Is this because from the start, I worked with numbers for that acceptance?   Is It because there is no question if my number work is good?  It’s not a subjective art.  If the bottom line makes sense, I did a good job.  My writing doesn’t always make sense.  And it’s not as easy to take criticism in my writing because there is not a definitive way of fixing mistakes.
 
I started writing seriously again about 10 years ago.  I’ve gotten credit for my writing in the past five years.  I’ve even made some money from it.  Dr. Nolan is a reason I write.  Ms. Beverly Carmene, my chemistry teacher from high school is yet another reason.  I didn’t think I would have the opportunity to thank them in person for being so important.  Sadly, Ms. Carmene passed away before I was writing again and it may have been the news of her death that triggered a surge in my story.   Today I was able to personally give thanks to Dr. Nolan.   
 
I’ve become more comfortable telling people I write.  I used to be the accountant who writes.  Now I am the writer who works as an accountant still.
 
Why am I writing today?  I walked through the morning with an intention to announce how important it is to tell those who are just how.  But there’s something else at play in my thoughts.  I’m thinking about my cub scouts.  I’m thinking about my kids and their friends and everyone with whom I connect.  I’m thinking about the friends we played with in the schoolyard and which ones remember me and which ones don’t. 
 
This winter past, I met up with some kids with whom I went to elementary school.  The first girl I smoked with.  My first drinking buddy missed the night.  The boy for whom we met didn’t remember me.  It was – alarming.  It could have been embarrassing or humiliating if I was a different person.  But honestly it amused me that he did not remember me.  I considered then his importance in my memories.  The importance of how he made me who I am now.  I considered then, as I’m thinking now, who remembers me that escapes my mind?  For whom was I important?
 
For whom AM I important?  Not that compassion and care we have to check on our fellow human beings – but who has contributed to the attributes I have and who has discouraged poor behaviors of mine?  Who left a piece of them with me that I can’t ever return?  For whom am I that type of important? 
 
I’m a different person than I was at six years old, of course.  (Mostly I suppose.  Maybe there is some six year old me left inside?)  I’m in a different place in my life for sure than I was then.  (I’m in a different place in my life than five years ago, for crying out loud!)  But in seeing Dr. Nolan today and talking to many people who also were influenced by this amazing woman, it occurs to me that every moment of importance makes me who I am.
 
Thank you to all of you!  Everyone in my past and present and those of you I haven’t met yet.  You make me me.  And that’s a pretty great thing to be a part of.   

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Exhaustion

9/2/2017

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I have an opportunity to connect with about ten more people who may be interested in reading my words.  Today I mailed copies of Sevy's Cosmica Sidera to Connecticut.  I'm exhausted.  
This totally could be filed under Heating a Home on a Hot Plate instead of over here on the writing side of it, given that it is probably a bit of mental illness.  But in my reflection of the moments, I think it should be parked right where i put it.  
I'll take you through this journey.  
A facebook post from a literary agent calling out for writers with whom she is connected to submit copies of their books for sale at a market.  Excitement that I can contribute to an organization for which an acquaintance holds passion.  Then immobility.  
I did nothing for months.  Well, i talked about it and thought about it and then took no physical action to bring my books into her hands.  
Finally when it was clear that the calendar was churning along, creating nights that turned into days with a threat of the word September rounding the bend, i panicked.  i had again done nothing to move into a lifestyle in which i may wake up, drink a cup of coffee and write.  Sure i do that now, but not to pay my bills.  Not to support my health insurance and fancy dog food.  At any rate, i thought i had missed this very lovely opportunity.  So i emailed the acquaintance, expecting a very professional, 'yes honey, you have gloriously missed out!'  But, i received an enthusiastic message of acceptance.  
All i had to do now was sign each of (only) ten books, slip a card in each copy, and then pack up the box to ship. 
For another, this may have been an easy task.  It's a flow chart for crying out loud!  Are the books signed?  No?  sign the freakin' book!  Yes?  put the book in the shipping box.  Are there more books?  Yes?  Go back a step!  No?  Seal the box and get to the post office!
It was hard! 
So, i signed half the books last night and half this morning over coffee.  I packed up a tote with the books and other stuff needing to go in the box and walked out of my house without my wallet to pay for shipping.  Seriously - I walked out of my house, thought, i have to sweep the front steps.  Maybe i should do that before i walk to the post office?  Walking along my street and seeing debris from the week, i thought i would sweep the street before the morning turned to playtime for the little ones who live on the block.  Then, thought about NOT putting my wallet in the tote before leaving and turned back to start all over. 
I was in a loop.  Where was i in the flow chart?  Do you have everything you need?  No?  get it together girl!  Yes?  Move on - TO THE POST OFFICE!  No where on my flow chart of productivity was, interrupt your journey to sweep the street.  I had to regroup.  I had to breathe and focus on the goal.  
What is the goal?  Wake up, drink coffee, and write.  Easy.  I can do this.  
I went home, put my wallet in my tote and started again.  'Don't look at the trash.  It's a distraction.  Stay on target.'  At the corner of my street where i only need to turn left, i notice my feet.  Clad in flip flops and in need of a pedicure.  I'm making myself sick looking at my unkempt toes with the audacity to show themselves in public.  How is this the image that I am portraying with this giant leap into the path of grahaming?  I resisted the urge to turn back and pressed forth.   I just had to make it to the post office.  
Walk, walk, walk.  I should have brought a coffee in a travel mug.  I should go two blocks further than the post office to get a coffee.  Clearly, i cannot stand in line without caffeinated motivation.   My legs fatigued.  I was three blocks away from my house.  Two more to go to get to the post office.  Maybe I should have brought the shipping box i had from home.  I hope this branch has not run out of supplies.  
One block away.  There are an awful lot of school buses on the street.  I wonder if there is an event around here for the weekend holiday.  It's a holiday.  The post office is probably not open.  I should just go home and mail these out on Tuesday.  How far away is the dunkin'?
The post office had plenty of boxes.  I packed up the books neatly and made sure everything enclosed.  Sealed it tight and waited my turn in line.  The postal worker told me the zip code was wrong.  I said the words, "Oh give it back to me.  I'll just mail it later."  He assured me that he could look up the proper number.  I stood to the left.  I couldn't even be present while he was keying in the insurance and providing me a tracking number.  I was ready to exit stage left.  He asked what the contents included and i took a breath.  "It's books,"  i said with a smile curling around my lips.  I was doing it.  I was shipping books with my name on them.  Words that i grouped together to tell a story.  I was giving a box of books to reach out to folks intrigued enough to turn a page holding my words.  
While walking home, i got to the corner of the post office.  Four blocks away from my home and i was ready to fall down.  I  was exhausted.  I was sweating in my hoodie with the fall air crisp against my cheeks.  I wanted nothing more than to fall down and rest.  I was certain this whole excursion could have waited until i had the energy to move.  I did not need to get these books out today.  
In the next block, i thought i should have spent more time on the tasks.  perhaps wrote less when i signed them?  Maybe just my name on the page?  Did i really refer to myself as an independent?  I walked along my block and saw the trash lying at the curb again.  I need to sweep.  I can't leave this trash outside.  
And i walked into my house to find the dogs lazing on the couch and waiting for my return.  I just mailed my book for people to read.  
There is a fear in exposing myself like this.  I tell friends who want to read my work that i can be critiqued, but not criticized.  (Unless you're mad at me)  I stopped writing for years because of criticism.  It was dished out brutally and drawn in with ferocity.  
There are days i feel like a writer.  I'm growing more and more comfortable with that designation.  And still finding the strength to move forward as a writer is terrifying.
Today was a baby step.  But it's farther than i've been before.    

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    When Sevy realizes the pharmaceuticals keeping their bodies young are weened from those deemed to have exhausted their usefulness, he believes he must delve into the purpose of this synthesized society believing it is not much different than the life he lived on earth. 
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    Esther Elizabeth Buck 

    i'm halfway through my life with the stifled stories stirring.  i should have done it earlier, but i am on the
     write path finally.

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