I pondered through some of my poetry last night.  I was told I need to put a few more on here.  I haven't been turning much out of late, and I haven't really felt much confidence in what I have turned out.  I should qualify that statement (for those of you who get upset when I self-depricate regarding my writing) by saying that it's not that I don't believe I'm a good writer, but that I know that what I'm writing right now is not for public spectacle.  It's more private in nature and more reflective and emotionally productive, as opposed to ... hmmm... how shall I describe that... I guess it's that I feel that what comes out onto my paper at the moment is more muddled and about my emotions of the past year than good quality, publishable work.  Much of it is personal and private in nature.

I've always said that I write better in NY than I do anywhere.  I haven't been to NY for a while.  Somehow, Missouri isn't working for the writing at the moment.

I haven't ever forgotten to breathe, really.  There have been days when things were so stressed I have forgotten almost everything else.  Maybe I'm just too hard on myself.  It's been months since I've written anything of note.  At one point it was like breathing.  Something I couldn't forget.  Now... I'm not so sure.

It's been a long weekend... but you know. I'm actually ok with it all right now.  I'm very tired and sick of working 7 days a week.  But, it goes on, and I have to know that it will all be ok.  Everything will work out the way it's supposed to, I just don't know how it's supposed to yet.  (That part really annoys me.)

Over all, I'm doing better.  I'm actually fairly happy.  I'm meeting new friends.  I'm enjoying myself.  I'm not so stressed.  I don't frown as much. 

I guess this is getting better.... now if I could just write again.

I wrote something yesterday.

Something about lines and metaphors and overuse, and feelings. Nothing that really spoke to me, or really that would speak to anyone else, I feel, but perhaps in that it is overused, it could be used.

Anyone who is fairly familiar with my writing will know that I strive to make it real. I see no point in creating something that cannot be understood by everyone who picks it up.

Maybe that's the problem right now. Perhaps everything is just a bit to complex for simple words. The images in my brain don't relate themselves well to symbols on a paper that represent sounds that can be spoken...

Perhaps, (an overused referrence, but an obscure one) I should go back to fingerpainting.

Actually, I think it might be a little less skewed if I took the full test that you have to pay for, but still, I'm sure the results would be similar. Actually it's quite funny. They have little dots for the ones that you answer closest to...

I only have one dot on type 7
Surprisingly I have 2 dots on type 8
I'm closest with type 9 which also makes sense (peacemaker).

Let me know how you all turn out. It's typical of these type of tests in that you have to answer a question positively or negatively, even though sometimes the answers don't really apply well. But it (as you can see) still has some validity.

free enneagram test


As if there was ever any doubt what I am...

I have a foot locker full of paper in my spare room. No really!! One of the plastic kind on rollers... It's full of old papers, and writings, and projects once started, never finished. One of the projects that I need to get around to clearing out. But there's just so much of it.

I guess in a way that's where my writing is. There's a big footlocker in my brain...(Blue, of course) where I keep my experiences and thoughts and ideas. Many never make it to paper and some are just buried forever. In the process of cleaning out and throwing away, shoved in between this pain or that joy, maybe I'll find the idea for a poem.

I think the stories would be too long.

I've really gotten away from writing. This disappoints me. I have talked about it, thought about it, prayed about it, dreamed about it, wondered, pondered... but it's still just not really coming to be a part of me right now. It feels sometimes like my foundations have been ripped out again and I'm starting from the ground up trying to make a house fit on newly built foundations without letting it shake apart. Lifting it up with ropes and pulleys, a spiderweb of lines trying to lift gently on the already delicate seeming structure and realizing that not all is at it appears.

Writing is what I want to base my life in. When it's absent I feel like half of my life is gone, and it is, unquestionably absent.

The end of the month is over. I didn't realize how crazy it would be this time of month. Too many closings all at once and I don't know how to do much of the paperwork. Well, by next month I will and I'll be able to help a little more after that. I don't like to feel useless.