So, I know a lot of people are freaking out about the corona virus right now, and I thought you might want to hear a doctor weigh in on it. I watch this guy’s videos all the time and I trust him as a source. He’s funny but honest.
The internet and the media are FANTASTIC at making a mountain out of a molehill. Getting people in a state of panic is not healthy, especially if there’s absolutely no reason to be frightened.
Me? I like to get the facts. Not someone’s take on the facts, not the most trending headline, or what the current popular famous person has to say about it. I want to know from someone who knows what they’re taking about. And I like to check multiple sources.
(I know, I know, I know, Dr. Mike is famous. But he’s a pretty interesting case. He didn’t set out to be famous but to show that doctors are humans and to spread help to others.)
But anywho. Here’s his original video and most recent update on the corona virus. 🥰 His name is Dr. Mikhail Varshavski and he is a real, practicing doctor.
This is me staring out into space, clicking on new song after song to the point that I’m so desensitized by the sound of new music that I’m not even sure how to figure out if I like a song or not.
This is me holding two different writing books, one of them open with the cover facing me, because I’ve felt inspired to read them. But I can’t quite seem to grasp much.
This is me watching re-runs of NCIS and wondering what I’m going to cook for dinner for the crazy masses. Because the Great Food Person is stuck on *blank*.
This is me looking at bookmarked quotes, and again, feeling desensitized to the point of wondering if I even like that quote. Does it have that spark? Or am I just losing touch?
This is me doing, I don’t know what.
I haven’t written in over six months. I’m finding it’s a good thing. I’m starting to see, in this non writing excursion of the brain, that it truly, really, desperately is a part of me. I’ve just lost how to take what’s inside me and to put it onto paper. I’ve lost touch with how to breathe life into the stories in my mind. Instead, I basically take a cut and dry plot of what I’m supposed to write and rigidly stick to it. I’ve figured that part out. Now the part I gotta jump on? The figuring out how to write like Daphne Shadows part.
I’ve lost touch all right.
What’s that quote? You are a soul and you have a body. I’ll have to look that up so I can give credit. And quote it correctly.
I’d say it’s been one of those days, but that’s all I’ve got to say lately, it seems.
“Been one of those days.”
What does that even mean, really?
That I’m lost inside somewhere, waving a white flag, hiding behind a rock, and wondering when the blood will stop pouring?
Maybe that’s not it.
Maybe I’m wondering when the blood will start pouring.
Or damn, just start bleeding at all.
Don’t they say you have to lose yourself, get totally, fabulously and hilariously lost before you can find yourself?
Whoever “they” are, they forgot to tell me about the ‘meantime’ in their little spiel of knowing everything about everyone, ever.
I don’t think they leave out the things we REALLY NEED TO KNOW on purpose… okay, yeah, I think they leave it out on purpose, just to torture us.
I feel like my days are a consistent, ‘still clueless, working on it, learning, figuring it out, but not entirely sure what I’m doing or when I’ll ever be healthy, but I’m functioning and life is getting better’.
That’s good, right?
It’s better than what was.
But what do you do when you’re throwing all the garbage out, day by day, as you find the things you’re thinking, the rules you’re living by are just that, garbage… what do you do when you’re just left only one honest thing: I don’t know.
It’s a sort of blankness.
An honesty which is asking a question, but knows it’s still too vulnerable to ask it of anyone.
And why ask someone on the outside?
Don’t I know me?
I don’t really know myself at all.
I’m in here somewhere, I’m certain of that. The tricky part is the finding of myself, one sliver at a time. It takes time. Ugh. It takes so much freaking time.
Who put a time limit on it?
I put pressure, rules, ideals, beliefs that do nothing but hurt me.
Who cares where I got them. I’m using them on myself. That’s all that matters anymore.
I’m not good with messy when it comes to my knowing, my ability to be a perfectionist in all that I do and all that I show the world. But that’s just so damn fake. And I am so very tired of fake.
Messy is how it is. It’s all I’ve got. And I keep fighting tooth and nail to be more, to be better, to be prefect.
I’m finally realizing that I can’t do that.
Can’t be that.
No one can.
I think I have this picture in my head of how this world is but it’s utterly and madly incorrect. Laughably so. So naïve. Or ignorant. I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
What do I want out of life?
I guess until I can answer that question, nothing will make much sense.
There are so many questions I’ve never asked myself. So many questions I don’t even know. It’s always been, ‘What does life want out of me?’
My advice? Don’t ask yourself that. It’ll screw you up in both the heart and the head.
Maybe, what do I feel? Or better, what makes me feel? No, that’s not the right wording. … Jeeze there’s a lot of these: …. What are those things called?
WHAT KIND OF WRITER CAN’T REMEMBER THE FREAKING LABEL FOR:
What causes me to feel something authentic?
There. That’s the question.
What causes me to feel?
Bloody hell – what do I feel? When do I feel?
My fingers are freezing. My hands are freezing. Maybe I am feeling a little cold. It’s strange to be a stranger inside your own skin. I think that’s a song or something. Whatever. Its true.
Do you ever think we’ve over used and cheapened things to the point that what is cliché shouldn’t be? It merits being real but we’ve killed it. Buried it. Laugh at it. I think the only thing that’s real that isn’t cliché at this point is love. And even that has spins and takes that are cliché now.
Anyway. I don’t know what’s going on in my head. Everything inside my chest is confused, conflicted. All the wires are crossed. What’s supposed to be beautiful is sticky with blood that hasn’t dried yet. Lines are being drawn inside me, and they’re not where I thought they’d be. Maybe they are. Maybe I knew this was coming. Perhaps that’s why I pretended not to see.
Does that mean the pain of denial is simpler, easier, than the pain of learning to live?
I don’t want it anymore.
My heart pounds and I’m so unsure, uncertain. But its better this way. It’s right.
So what if I make a fool of myself. At least I’ll feel something along the way.
By the way, here’s that quote: “You don’t have a soul, Doctor. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily.” It’s by Walter M. Miller Jr. and is often mistakenly said to have been said by C. S. Lewis.
HONESTLY, I wouldn’t wash my hair if I didn’t have to. It’s so annoying, hair gets all over, I have to wait eight millennia’s for it to dry, and brush it out at just the right time or it sheds more hair all over and drives me insane. But, if I don’t wash it I begin to look like I could squeegee my hair out and oil your truck… so I figure it’d be a good idea to wash it. Plus, I look less naked-mole-rat and more human when it’s clean. But Jeeze! I’d love it if hair just stayed clean.
I absolutely love waking up sore from a good work out. Absolutely love it. So then, of course you see me walking around all weird-like, stretching limbs out in odd places, stretching my back, arching my back, leaning forward, stretching my legs out to the side…. Randomly. Because it feels good.
Because that doesn’t totally look strange.
“Forgiveness doesn’t make the other person right, it just makes me free.” Anonymous
I love going to therapy! That probably makes me sound like more of a crazy person than I am, but it’s so true. If I could joyfully yell it from a hilltop, head thrown back, arms stretched skyward, I would. Except, then people would probably wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have left therapy, and I don’t want people thinking I’m a different kind of crazy than I am.
But yeah. I love therapy. I don’t want to stab people as often. 😉
Humans are so impressionable. No wonder it’s so easy for the monsters to win us over, to get us, to sneak up and slip into our skin or rip it open.
But humans are the monsters.
Exactly. There’s one in all of us. And we let it take over without much of a fight, now don’t we?
HONESTLY, the truth of the matter is really quite funny.
It’s the reality so many don’t want to accept. Don’t want to see. We They don’t want it to be real as they cling to their chains and shriek out the pain, woe is me, where is the answer? as they hug the cold metal harder.
There are no rules.
Where does this puritanical urge come from to believe I must be miserable, suffering, in pain – or I must be doing something wrong? If I’m not in agony, I’m not a good person, I’m not fighting the good fight. If I don’t burn with the angst of never-to-triumph fire, I must not be trying.
No one is holding a gun to my head, telling me I must suffer.
No one is threatening to burn my family alive and rip my heart out while I scream and thrash in some Mayan ritual.
So why the bloody hell do I feel the need to suffer?
Life isn’t fair because everyone plays by ‘life isn’t fair’ rules.
Human choice is an underappreciated privilege.
I looooooove chocolate. Does anyone else put chocolate in the fridge or freezer before eating it? That doesn’t count for things like oreos or hohos though.
Also… I no longer like cake. And who doesn’t like cake? Well, my papa doesn’t, but he likes pie and ice cream, so it all evens out. Anyway, I don’t like cake anymore, not of any kind. Really freaking weird.
I am finally understanding that no one is perfect. No one has it all under control or is at the point where they’re like people in story books, fairytales, or movies: 100% sure of themselves and handling challenges perfectly.
No one is, by my definition, someone I agree with and want to emulate 100% of the time.
Everyone makes mistakes.
It never occurred to me. Some people, I’ve been believing, are people they’re not.
For some ridiculous reason I thought they never royally messed up or lost their cool, handled things poorly or made mistakes. I thought they were agreeable all the time and never said or did (or even thought) anything I consider judgmental or careless.
I mean, I knew they had challenges and trials – every human being does.
But I honestly thought they never made the “I screwed up” kind of mistakes.
It’s finally sinking in that everyone one of us does this. We’re all totally human and struggling to do our best (well, those of us who are trying). We’re all messing up and trying to get back up and do better.
It’s helped me see more people as beautiful and good. They’re trying. But they’re human, just like me, messing up and learning. No one has got this thing called ‘life’, down.
Since I was a child, I’ve been fascinated with rocks, crystals, gemstones. When I was a kid, I had a huge tub I kept under my bed filled with rocks I found. I couldn’t even lift it towards the end there, it was so heavy. I don’t know what ever happened to all those rocks.
“Writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.” – Charles Bukowski
“We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back.” Malala Yousafzai
HONESTLY, I am tired of this. I do not care that you are black and I am white. I do not care that you are male and I am female. I do not care that you are Mexican, Guatemalan, Puerto Rican, Japanese, Chinese, Persian, Apache, Russian, British… and I am white. I do not care that you are twenty-nine, seventy-eight, ninety-three, twelve… and I am in my early twenties. I do not care if you have less or more money than me. I do not care if you have red hair, dyed hair, or fake hair.
I do not care.
I do not care.
I do not care.
We are all human. I believe all human lives matter.
I am sincerely tired of hearing that only one kind of life matters.
I believe we should all be fighting for each other, fighting for humane treatment of human beings, regardless of color or gender.
We are all human.
Let’s just get this straight. When I refer to ‘monsters’, I’m talking about one of two kinds of monsters.
One, bad people.
Two, creatures from stories and movies and myths which are dangerous and I absolutely love.
“I have nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” Jack Kerouac
“We are all brothers under the skin – and, I, for one, would be willing to skin humanity to prove it”. – Ayn Rand
That’s what writers are supposed to do – skin humanity. But how can I be realistic in my writing, how can my novel be meaningful if I’m too afraid to be honest?
Lately I noticed that I’d started doing something I’d never done before – I found myself editing what I said or wrote so as not to step on any toes, hurt any feelings. And that’s just stupid. Everyone is going to hurt someone, piss someone off, at some point. It’s part of being human. We all think and feel differently.
I’ve never done this before, never been afraid of what others would think of me or my thoughts.
“We are all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love”. – Dr. Seuss
Everyone is different. But underneath, we all have similar parts. We hurt. We love. We breathe and we die. We try to find hope in everything or we fall into dismay and suffer in all things. We struggle to find our place in life and then struggle to keep a hold on it, on ourselves.
Identity is such a strange thing. It sneaks up on us. Not something measured by strict parameters or rankings, but instead it’s a balanced challenge, something we fight to discover. Its ever changing because we’re always changing.
How we define ourselves is altered by others and our own thoughts and opinions, desires, weaknesses, and strengths. Our loves, our obsessions. The reasons we fight, cry, smile. Scream.
“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”– Cyril Connolly
We’re all so wrapped up in ourselves or in the social popularity we wish to achieve or impress that we forget ourselves in the process, ultimately cancelling out any “us” there is to find.
And if we’re going to “skin humanity”, regardless of how we’re going to do this, we first need to skin ourselves. Who are we? Why? Is that something we’re okay with?
Yes, if you skin yourself, flay the lies and deceptions and fake skin away, you’ll have a “you” which might hurt some feelings, might be a bit too harsh, blunt, honest. But I’d take being myself over faking it so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings.
I may be blunt, but I’m not cruel. There is a difference. You have to learn to be okay with being yourself, even if that means not everyone likes or agrees with you.
That’s the only way to write (or sing or create whatever it is you create) and have some meaning glare up from the pages and smack the reader in the heart with something that means something to them.
“I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everyone.”– Bill Cosby
I love reading a good book, hearing a great song, finding a new artist. And for me to fall in love with them, they have to have some kind of spark that stabs me and keeps me wanting more. A good story has to touch on the truth of a subject people otherwise wouldn’t touch. People don’t like complicated, sticky subjects. Give that subject immortality and a girlfriend who likes to set things on fire, and hot damn – they won’t just love you and your work for it, they’ll think about what you really mean in the back of their minds, when no one is around, and wonder if that’s what you meant.
And that’s the other great thing about hidden truths in all great books, songs, etc. – they have more than one meaning, one truth, one thing to say. They mean what you need them to mean. They point out the harsh reality that you’ve been ignoring. They tell you something, they get under your skin and breathe life into you.
“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”– Elie Wiesel
Don’t be indifferent. Be yourself. Or else, really, what’s the point? Live for yourself or you’re not living. You’re just here, going along with others’ lives, a shadow of yourself, emaciated and struggling to exist.
I hope your ears aren’t bleeding. I love hearing a good quote and sometimes I feel like blabbering on about them. So I know that was all a bit scattered and random, and vague, but hey, that’s me in a nutshell.
Not really – but that’s my current mood. 😉 If you skinned me, you’d probably get lost in the crazy. I balance being blunt with weirdness. That’s just how I am. It’s working well so far, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have disagreements or people who don’t like me because of how I feel.
But I refuse to blow rainbows up your skirt. I am who I am and I feel how I feel. And when I write, it is to skin humanity.