Writing and the Art of Meditating....or is it the art of writing and...

The faithful black and white composition book I scribe in is AWOL. Now there are not too many entries of anything vastly personal and the jots for my novel are so disjointed I doubt anyone but I could hook them together into a viable tale. But the absence of this little book is nonetheless disconcerting.

I took my coffee and ventured outside armed with a fancy tome for writing. It's my 'mediation' journal (see the corresponding pic)--for those Zen Nirvana realizations that sprout when I successfully quiet the imperious piece of pink tissue between my ears, when I succeed in getting into the moment and truly living. And according to one of my absolutest favoritest writeress in the world, Natalie Goldberg, writing is a form of meditation...so here I go....

The day is blue and bright, a gentle contrast to the overhead humming birds zipping by, their throats a shimmer of crimson and emerald. Ample shade saves my too-white skin and the big quad is morning quiet for the cats to safely romp.

I looooove the fall. I love the barely warm days where the coolness of the night lingers late into the morning and the scent of charred wood blankets the early sun's set. The bounty of baking and coming feasts perfume every inhale and the anticipation of joy hints in the sacred air.

None of this day should be wasted looking for an erstwhile journal or scuttling dust bunnies out of hiding or even going to work (which I have to). It is a green, gold glorious moment made possible by the loss of a little black and white book.

Zen and the Art of Driving

The weekend of my 41st birthday, still riding high on the fun and love gifted to me, I pulled out of my driveway and nearly collided into a beautiful black mustang, circa 2012.

The driver did not wish me happy birthday but he did call out some names. They began with the letters F, B, and C. All pertained to my femininity. Use your imagination.

I sat in my truck and mouthed a pathetic ‘sorry’, hoping it would expedite his exit out of my life. The rant and expletives continued for many more seconds, but even before his rear lights had disappeared up the street, I was seized with a horrible realization.

That is me.

Okay, before you brand me a brute, I do not go off on people like that. But memories of past behavior began making a Power Point presentation in my head.

Every day I pass a hospital near my home, untroubled and focused on the penne pasta I will make for dinner. So woe be unto the souls who happen into my path trying to find the emergency entrance to get to their loved one who is sick and/or dying at the facility. Certainly my tail-gating and my cold narrow glares will teach them a lesson and make them feel bad for inconveniencing the almighty ME.

Yup. I can be that guy in the black mustang.

It’s been a struggle to get Zen over this. I really enjoyed my revenge fantasies (i.e. keying the beautiful black mustang and taking a baseball bat to its driver). Yet, when I made it through the murk and mire I knew this dude didn’t want anything bad happening to his ride. Who can blame him? Los Angeles is the car Mecca of the West. Our cars not only transport us, they define us. They free us to arrive late and leave early. Without them we’re waiting on the bus in the rain.

If it’s about vehicles, I want to be a vehicle of kindness and compassion.

I’m no saint and I’m no Buddha. I’m not sure if I want to be. But I’d like to take the pain of this experience and transform into something better. The little car trauma gave me the best gift that birthday weekend. The gift of understanding another human being.

I can smile at the guy popping an illegal U-ie in front of me because he might be late for work. I can relax when trapped behind a slow poke student driver terrified of making a mistake. I can forgive and graciously wave on the next car pulling out of a driveway and crashing into me.

Unless it’s a dude in a black mustang circa 2012….

Burn Out

WARNING: I AM SO BURNT OUT THAT I AM NOT APPLYING MY 500 WORD LIMIT...FORGIVE MY 822 WORD COUNT FOR THIS BLOG OR STOP HERE...

I have a story to tell you…

A funny thing happened on the way to this blog, this scathing vent to my writers group. A tale of woe and triumph. Poetry in pure motion. Something to stir the soul and rumble the heart and… POOF.

Despite the italics it wasn’t the magical fairy tale kind of ‘poof’.
My laptop overheated and shut down. The eloquent quibbling was gone. The best writing I had done in months.

I stared back at the now black screen, a shroud to the verbiage that was lost to the malfunction. A new found surge to scoff off all technology for a simpler method of communication rose and in rebellion I turned to my handy dandy composition book, identical to the ones from those 1980s elementary days, complete with pencil. Hell, I’d take a hammer and chisel to a brick wall at this point.

Enough with the machinations. Let’s get back to what I wanted to say when the computer went blank.

I am writing a novel. I am burnt-out.

There. The confession lives in the little composition book and on the landscape of my hard drive. Saying and writing I am burnt-out makes it a fact.

Backstory: Since 2007 I have been telling my writer’s group about this awesome saga I am composing that is not just one, or two, but possibly three novels. I boast I work on it daily. I delight in revealing the crafty tactics I use to inspire myself to work—like a naughty kid who is actually a good student but needs that nudge.

Being burnt-out could be interpreted that I want to stop writing this novel but the novel is technically written. It’s the revision that is strangling me. The redundancy of my own verbiage.

I have dabbled in other arts. Read other books. Even considered revisiting school. The same reasoning wins out—I am avoiding the work, the real work, the writing that must get done…

Blank. The computer screen went black and blank. There was nothing else to look at except my own visage.

I am not a fool. I know there much more writing ahead of me to get this novel published (and I’d like to take the good old fashion brick and mortar route. Self-publishing is something I am skeptical about, but I’m not done yet so it’s a moot point and another blog.) I had several lovely friends read my first draft back in 2008. Their positive criticism helped me grip the slab of marble and chip away at the crevices and cracks to make a David.

And then came the burn-out.

I have tried to wriggle my way out of the mire. To get excited about the story again. I even considered moving to Louisiana to finish (the setting being in both Slidell and New Orleans). Roll in the flora and fauna. Tire swing myself over the sloughs. Mingle with the locals and hope to run into a dew-eyed man that is the epitome of my hero.

So Cal is my home. Sorry. Transplanting myself, finding a new day job, new friends, a new apartment would only take me from what I need to be doing…writing!

The biggest hiccup in this revision process is that I have grown. I’m a waaaaay better writer than I was back in 2007. I cringe at the drivel I wrote 4 years ago. So I am re-writing a lot. I want my ‘good’ story to be ‘great’.

But I am sick of my use of the English language. The ways I have abused: ‘would’, ‘has been’, ‘seemed’, ‘that’, ‘dark’, ‘I looked’, ‘she glanced’, and many, many more. Which parts are too long, which are too short? Is the introspection too wordy? Is my hero too perfect, my antagonists too cartoony?

My eyes may as well be staring at the black screen again. I don’t even want to open the file to revise it any more.

I can only compare it to a good relationship that has hit a blip. Maybe I need an exotic vacation. Or a wild affair away from the drudgery so I might return refreshed and ready. Sloth tends to disguise itself as a good intention for me and I end up straying further, only to return after a long absence defeated and feeling more burnt-out than before.

The victory is I don’t want to give up, not after 4 years. I made this commitment to myself; I want something to show for it.

It is a valley I have barreled down into. The mountain peak is icy and implacable and I am laden down with heavy loads; doubt, perfectionism, burn-out.

There. Said it again.

I don’t have a solution but I won’t leave you on a downer. It ain’t much but it is something.

I have a Voice. I want to share it; I need to share it.

I have a story to tell you…

New Blog...Key West!

Hey everyone, check out my travel blog on Key West ...always 500 words or less with links to lots of pictures! I'd appreciate your 'following'as well as any comments and feedback. Updates daily for the next week...I promise!

Some Cheese With My 'Whine'...

Maybe it’s the full moon veiled by a gauze of smoggish haze. Or that my monthly ‘friend’ is creeping up on me (sorry guys). Or that I can’t up my score on Bejeweled Blitz.

Even trusty old TV failed me. The Lakers lost and the best HBO could cough up was ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’. Great book, horrible movie. Do not watch.

Bottom line; I'm grouchy tonight. Don’t know why. Lots of stuff going on and most of it is ‘meh’. Couldn’t do a pastel drawing to save my ass. It’s not even 9 p.m. yet if I start doing more paper research I’m bound to fall to sleep quickly and wake up at 1:30 a.m. with no hopes of falling back.

And writing? Writing…sigh. I feel burnt out on the book I was so damn hot for a few years back. I want it done but I’m just so UGH!

And I torture myself further staring at a lovely watercolor I did last year that I can’t replicate for the life of me.

Performance anxiety. Perfectionism. I have to remind myself of my own advice; perfectionism is nothing more than low self-esteem. I still draw. I still write (obviously). I still do my work.

That doesn’t make me feel better.

Let me just bitch for once in this blog.

People annoy me too. Right now, I don’t like people. I’d really like to dive deeper into this but I better keep my mouth shut. Nothing pays off like the restraint of tongue and pen and, er, blog.

The house is messy. The cats are sleepy. The boyfriend went to bed. The click of my computer keys and the clock are all the only conversations I am holding. All this beautiful quiet time and I am wasting it being pissy. I can’t bear to look at my novel right now. I can’t think of picking up a brush and painting either. This strange frustration began this morning waking up too late to do any writing. I like to do my writing in the morning. At the library, with a contraband cup of coffee. Where there are no phones, no cats and no neighbors with tumbling babies to distract me. But I got up too late and now, when i got oodles of time, I'm irked.

Suddenly it is very important to clean the litter box or take out the trash. Or go belly rub my new pink-toed kitty who sits atop the tower while my mammoth tabby glares from the floor. Then I gaze at some forgotten linocuts. Or a book I started reading and didn’t finish. Life has been a lot of start and go and stop in the middle and I can’t figure it out. It’s a fucked up funk. That’s all. No way to work it out unless I do work. Because in the end I only have myself to contend with.

And my lousy score on Bejeweled Blitz.

Neti Pot - A Love Story Part II

I got a lot of titles for this blog. Another possible one is: How A Box of Kleenex Became My Constant Companion.

If you are easily squeamish feel free to exit. I won’t be offended. But really, it’s not that bad. And it’s way less than 500 words. I’m still kinda oogie.

I am getting over the cold(s) that 2011 welcomed me with. Remnants of the Xmas 2010 cold crossed paths with a nasty virus my dear significant other dragged home after New Years’.

Bam.

A solitary sneeze at work which I dismissed as allergies landed me on my ass for a week. Instead of the vice-like nasal congestion I endured with the first wave, a thickness festered in my throat that Riccola could not soothe. Even water didn’t taste good.

Serendipitously enough it was also NFL play-offs so my couch potato-ness was justified.

Of course I missed a gathering with some girlfriends I haven’t seen in months. I missed work (and when I don’t work I don’t get paid). I barely wrote, draw or painted. Not that it was possible to produce anything other than varied hues of gunk. You should see my phlegmatic gymnastics.

Neti Pot to the rescue (again).

I have diligently using my Neti Pot (a.k.a. Snot Pot by my jealous boyfriend) since May of 2009 so Neti and I are serious. Neti has kept me healthy for the most part; these cold(s) are the first I have been stricken with in a loooong time.

Actually, I was kinda curious. How would the Neti work through all that buttery goodness plugging up my cranium?

Some mornings it was impossible. Nothing poured out because the cold was new and was mounting its evil grip. It wasn’t until things tapered down a few days into it when I was finally able to get a wash in. Clear pearl-sized bubbles oozed out in long strings before the long ropey yellow bands of crap flowed. The Neti wash also nudged big irritating reddish brown snot balls coagulating my nasal passages.

So nice to breathe again—I even got that old Toni Braxton jam in my now clear head.

I’m better, or rather, cautiously optimistic. I so don’t want to get sick again, at least not for a while. Neti Pot makes all things better if not more interesting.
I’d like to go into the benefits of gargling with apple cider vinegar but I wanna keep this particular blog short. Way less than 500 words.

And I’m not about to push my luck.

Cat Lessons

Funny what you can learn from a cat.

The orange kitten, Kody, has come home. Immediately my fat Malone and grouchy Max began a chorus of hisses and snarls that are the soundtrack as I compose this blog.
I didn’t expect to learn a major lesson and that not one word of it would be delivered by a human.

Kody is 3 pounds of adorable marmalade fluff. My old cats don’t think so, especially when he eats their vittles and constantly searches for play. Max has become a chew toy for Kody while Malone is hardly benevolent. She puffs up to the size of a rabid raccoon and growls in a chilling manner.

My old cats didn’t ask for a kitten for Christmas.

I became a reluctant referee. I swoop Kody up when the others come into sight. I plead with Malone. I chide Max. I even designated the second bedroom into Kody’s panic room. Harmony, after all, is the soup du jour. It’s what I’m good at.

So I think.

Epiphanies are born under strange circumstances, like this feline power struggle.
I don’t speak ‘cat’ very well but on Christmas Eve morning it clicked; this was how they communicate. How they salvage their space. How they devised their tenuous pecking orders. How the point gets across. All things I don’t do very well with humans and my vocal chords are more advanced.

The one thing I cannot accuse my cats of is hypocrisy. They stand by what their needs are. The cat tower top belongs to whoever is there at the moment. So is the foot of the bed and my grandmother’s patch quilt. And my poor old cats have never attacked Kody. Max and Malone make it quite clear when he needs to back off. It is he, in his kitten cuteness, that breaks the rules and wreaks havoc ]]]]]]]]]]]]\--sorry, that was him walking across the laptop.

Friends told me to let the cats be. Let them chisel out their pecking order. They don’t need my help. Hell, why would they want it? My whole life has been spent trying to avert confrontation. In some instances it means me sucking up something I don’t like.

It doesn’t work all the time.

I’m going to try and stop sugar- coating my problems. Speak up when something may not be right. Tell others when I need my space and remind them when they invade it. Because when I don’t, (and I often don’t) I ended up hating the person scarfing down my kibble.

Whether it be at home, at work or a ride on the metro link, I need to take the lesson my cats taught me to heart:

Say what you mean.
Mean what you say.
And chalk out those lines in the kitty litter.