My Writing LIfe

You can NOT fail, if you Never stop trying….#IthinkIbelieveinthat

I used to plead for peace, for love, for understanding, for what I thought was right and against what I knew was not. Each fight, each heart-break another lesson, disguised as something personal, albeit betrayal of those I once loved,  the loss of those I never imagined would ever leave,  and my faith in those who in the end proved I was expendable, replaceable and worst yet easily forgettable.   Ultimately my overwhelming and paralyzing disappointment grew and grew over time and transformed casting its shadow not only upon the memories of certain individuals but most heart-wrenching, the setting of stone that seemed to be my new founded and perpetual disappointment in all of humanity.

In the humanity I wanted for so long to desperately believe in and somehow, somehow find a way or somehow become worthy  of being heard and turning on a light, and not for myself, rather all the world. A light to illuminate the common good that for so long I blindly trusted was in us all and would always have the power to prevail.

However, perhaps I have been wrong and more wrong and in more ways than I ever could have imagined about any of it? For what if there was a great amount of truth in my paranoid and frantic moments in which I allow myself to become comforted by self-doubt and redirected by distractions.  During the worst episodes I would actually accept the possibility that it has all been merely a manifestation. A manifestation of my own sheer improbability and utter delusion.  Convincing myself again that my cherished moments of midnight madness were simply that, nothing more and nothing less. However in with predictability of the ebb and flow of my life the next night I would be sure to call again upon the bravery with. I would again be able to entertain the possibility that my words did hold slight glimpses of all that is special inside of me . My favorite nights the ones regardless of where my writing life takes me will be the breaths I took while secretly assigning them enough grandeur to define what is purpose in this world.

Aaaahhh breathing the breath of purpose built upon a dream what a sweet peace it brought to my soul and my life. Yet, we all know the sun is masked by night and blue skies give way to rain. So with each beautifully discovered revelation of hope, the pieces of destiny placed in my path. Excited and proud of what to me has always felt  and in my head compared to what I imagine whomever the artist was that carved the statue of David from a single piece of stone felt racing through his mind when he really took note of his work and saw beauty where once was a simple rock.  Euphorically inspired in the days I could understand it all and wanted nothing more than to transform my discovery, my idea to find the most useful means to express all that had never been. Give it to the world in its raw form it so that others could mold it into its truest and greatest value. Then the rain would come and wipe clean the ink of my perceived brilliance and my soggy paper torn and tattered for the harsh winds of reality never fail to find me and strike out and destroy my fragile collection.
My delicate thoughts. Thoughts not only mine but part of more? Maybe, just maybe? Thoughts not strong enough to stand the forces upon them. Over and over they crumbled, time and time again under the weight of my newest sorrow, latest distraction, doubt and responsibilities and social pressures that relentlessly have; as they do for everyone, howl viciously and without care across my life.

After the storm I would begin to take a count of all I lost. In my mind I could see my thoughts yet again scattered and out-of-order. Like an airplane crash in which at one moment the entity of flight is intact and full of life and possibilities and  in an instant all is lost and can not even be discerned as to what its previous form and purpose and existence. That is the destruction that my hurt for and from the world has countless times left upon my heart. Worst still is that I possessed no direction or even outline of how to reassemble any shred clarity to even begin to weave back together and clearly make coherent sense again out of such a mess.

I cry silently in those moments of absolute limbo. Time that feels heavy and frozen locking between fearing something truly, great was lost and the chance that nothing had real or ever existed?

I would for days be silently terrified, a fear that would come from deep within my soul knowing that although I had thought the order and rhythm of the words once I would never again be able to create their equal.
Left to grieve that tiny piece uncertainly certain, the piece of my heart and soul that knows and has always known… there IS true value in my work and I must somehow rebuild. Again!

I WILL….for to not….would without a doubt be certain die to my spirit. I would become ordinary and that is what I fear most.

Life as Lessons, Life as Loss, Life as Love, My Short Stories, My Writing LIfe

The Fall of Camelot…est. 1978

Monday, February 21, 2011, was to be simply another bright and brisk morning that began with no signs nor warning of the destruction that was on a collision course aimed at all I ever knew.

No alarm bells sounding to alert me of the unthinkable that was to become my forever truth… that lie in wait.

At times, I often wonder lost in reflection of those early days, how? How is it possible that a day seemingly as ordinary as any other, can transform itself into the day that stops time?

How can so much pain be inflicted by a single unwanted and undeserving minute ? Giving the next fourteen hundred and thirty-nine minutes the power to sear an unwanted fate?

For once death had my brother in its sights, and Joe and his life began to slip away into darkness so did mine. As he was letting go of living with his unnoticed and increasingly labored gasps. Death simultaneously began scribbling erratically upon my life.  It used an ink laced with agony, torment and tragedy and stained the pages of my history, for never can they be erased.

An ordinary Monday became infamously the day that changed me forever and cast me into a role I never wanted to play. A sister without her brother, her life’s witness and constant companion, trapped now perpetually between tears and pain.

I grew up with my family intact while so many of my friend’s parents had divorced. I had always known I was loved and in turn I truly loved my parents. My two brothers and I grew up the best of friends and although I know better, our childhood seemed almost enchanted.

We had a wonderful home, which provided a foundation of love and laughter, one others seemed to envy. However, we saw ourselves as an ordinary family with an ordinary and most common life.  Yet, having been the one who lived it and lost it, I assure anyone of this, what made it magical was the two young boys I shared it with. For we lived and laughed together in a life untouched by hardship, oblivious to sadness and ignorantly unaware of loss.

In those days life was a pond smooth and stagnant, and flawless as that of glass. Until without warning and in an instant boring and normal were gone. The day had come without reason or warning. The day in which the universe cruelly tossed a stone, haphazardly landing in our quite pond and destroying the gift of it stillness forever.

A gift I never fully had time to feel, to cherish, to be grateful for, and its absence has left me treading water and drowning daily in its unforgiving relentless wake.

The continual disruption comes and goes in waves. Ring after ring rippling outwardly from the first moment of impact  and shakes my soul to its core and alters me and carries me slightly further. Further, from what once was and all that now will never be.

For the shore, I long to reach, allowing me to emerge from the sea of my despair and return “home” no longer exists. There is no map, no directions in which will ever lead me to finding my way back.

Imagine a snow globe and what is within can be described as perfectly imperfect. Our family’s Camelot. However, for the past two years, six months, and nineteen days the ground has not stopped shaking in my upside down world. The snow continues to flurry and fall without any signs of stopping, concealing our Camelot not only from the outside but from inside as well.

Snowflakes like daggers chip away at my heart, flashbacks of our life together. Who were we when we woke all under the same roof to each new sunrise and the limitless possibilities that were ours for the taking?  Longing to scream through the thick and tempered glass, yet my voice won’t carry, and the people living their Camelot, the one we once were, have no way of knowing that each morning we all woke up together, we had more than anything we will ever know again.

I can no longer remember the way I felt when I was the young girl playing with the little blonde haired boy, connected to him at the hip. For those children live now only within memories. Memories that no longer feel like mine. I play them over and over and yet try as I may I fear I have lost my connection to past, severed by the truth of my present.

I become ill when I admit the ease in which I was able to take that life for granted . How could I have ever known that boring and normal were anything and everything, I would one day spend my eternity now wishing for.

Why did we not drift off to dream under each starry night sky deliriously grateful for the absolute perfection of that quiet house?  Why were we not more aware of the love we shared, built intricately upon and around each of us? The foundation of all we ever knew sleeping peacefully, tucked within the four bedrooms of our home. When the life I was naive enough to take for granted was mine.

I panicked in the days immediately following the death of my brother. Living in a perpetual state of heart-wrenching panic. For my life and my family had become unrecognizable. The only certainty was the continually snow storm that showed no sign of letting up, distorting the view of our Camelot. A storm I feared would never stop and the beauty of our life would never be clearly seen again.

My Writing LIfe

Because I said I was going to…I must #followthrough

I don’t want to write a book, I want to write pieces of a book. Thousands of ideas, that over time became patterns. Cut from the universal cloth of what it means to be alive, to love, to have lost, to have hope, and the beauty in searching for meaning in it all. I do not want to profess and proclaim anything driven by ego needing to be set apart by what makes me different from a single truth. I want to take from the greatest and worst, the lightest and the darkest fragmented moments of my life and give to the world a million probable outcomes.  A story in which from the reflection of soul to soul and of heart to heart, the ending is not found from the final word printed upon the last page, anchoring any finality to the back of my book.

That is what I have always hoped and knew my destiny not only as a writer but as a human being  would be. Illuminating the universal truth carried within us all, and in our recognition the world becomes slightly changed. I do not long to write a book, I want to change the world.  Why would I limit myself, my life and my destiny to a particular page count and a singular concrete ending?

Realizing now I can not finish my book because I haven’t reached the end of the story.

Maybe it is not that I couldn’t (finish a book), for all that would, deem me incapable is little more than succumbing to my extreme boredom in my every attempt to merely meet the standards and guidelines. In mimicking and retracing the steps of those who found the success they sought. The collective and public acknowledgment of all I have ever been and was born to be. A well-lit and collaboratively set path to a destiny of the masses. Transforming creativity, art and the medium of its expression into an industry. An unfairly leveled playing field for the specific need to express one’s soul in order to truly live are individual to us all.

A thousand books, suggestions and guidelines, mapping the road I must travel in order to become who I already am. I refuse to naively follow what has already been done. “For I took the road less traveled and it made all the difference.” (RF.

For I would rather spend my life dreaming then following and its ultimate price will then become  the truth that my reality was made possible not by talent, courage or my faith in it all., instead by ordinary compliance . The “proven’ steps marked and double marked as well as clearly labeled “WARNING” do not veer or deviate from the proven successes of others.. However, any artist, writer, sculptor, dreamer, and free spirit knows that is not art. Not art that becomes life, that without fail becomes love.

Love the universal language of the world and from its whispers we write the words that perpetuates humanity’s faith in humanity and we continue to carry on.

Literature must be, or at least for my soul, driven by desire and the vision of doing it all a different way, saying something that has been said a million times but with a voice that if I succeed will surely deem me much more than I am. For all that I am is…is simply all that I am not. Refusing to be ordinary and shatter all probability of the “success” I seek not for myself….. but to leave behind.  A pin prick of my lifetime, left for eternity, bouncing from person to person and built upon, made bigger, said better and strengthening the oneness of all us all!

That is what on my brightest days I am grateful for and that is the need that weighs heaviest in my heart….the truest gift of my life is the quiet comfort I have trusting it will be even more…. #oneteam

Life as Lessons, Life as Loss, My Writing LIfe

Death is to Writing as…..

I have noticed over my life that just as any dream gets closer to a real possibility, moving ever so slightly from the far away place I store them neatly…I panic! This is nothing new to myself and the recognition of the behavior, that to my closest friends and family is less than shocking, I am sure. However, what does seem to growing  in intensity are the extremes in which I am willing to participate in and create. Knowing each task and battle are merely the result of the procrastination and  distraction I have always used as my safety net put off the “work”.

The “prologue” to my most recent delay of all I should have done yesterday is as follows and the catalyst my brother Joe. More accurately the death of Joe.  He was seventeen months younger and we were best friends from the word go. He died two and a half years ago at the age of thirty and the continual waves of emotion have yet to cease in their constant crashing  upon the shores of my life. The ebb and flow of loss and the repeated reminders of loss.  Death I assume in general serves many with the perfected excuse to retreat from life with a validity no one can question.  I am also sure everyone would have to feel their loss  as greatly as I do Joe’s.  He has in death become the perfect tangled and tormented web that in hindsight seems almost needed for any writing life.

Death is my excuse to write, as how can the world expect me to function without first writing pages and pages of suffering all the while cursing the universe for all it seems to have unfairly cast upon my life and what will serve as the greatest tale of love and loss that was ever done.  Words that I must compose. A tangible representation of my desperate need to release the angst waging war upon my creative soul.

After hours that feel like days when my mind and my heart are able if no other reason the for the sake of exhaustion call a temporary truce. Finding a momentary peace that brings me to take surveillance of my disheveled office. Coffee cups, Kleenex, an overflowing ashtray, jelly beans and papers, papers everywhere. I try to focus and take account of the time that is now lost on what I am not sure? Startling through the kaleidoscope of my grief, my gift, my bad habits and my fragmented dreams.  I am  then once again forced to take into account the nothingness I have accomplished yet unexplainable seems necessary to write “my book”.

I hate that part, the admittance of one’s own bad behavior, for I know better but I never beat myself at the wasting time war. It is then by the routine of my clearly admitted routine, I will exhaustively wad all the scattered pages of loose paper within an arms length into a ball, a makeshift pillow providing just enough comfort to allow the timeout required to even get off the floor. All pathetic and quite dramatic when I force myself to write it out.  Yes, death is an excellent excuse to write and even a decent reason for needing to nap in the fetal position on the floor surround by chaos that  must  be the twin space of the view inside my head and heart.

Death is my excuse not write. For how could I possible feel like writing? Why would I even turn the computer on or pick up the pen? To give permission for the blank darkness swimming in the pools of sadness that supply the constant stream of tears that soak my face and stain my pillows? To allow his death to not only take his physical presence from my life, but leave me consumed with the massive “rebuild” project.  An insurmountable task I have somehow become lead foreman on in order to put the remaining players of my family’s game of “Life” back together.

Yes, death allows me to be too busy to write and clearly justified in all the words that no longer easily and fluidly flow. A direct consequence of the truth that my belief in all of humanity has been shaken to its core and what does any of it matter anyway?

Death is the most perfect “byline” we have ever been given, clearly in the worst of ways but a heart wrenching topic none the less. Death is the mask in which we can safely hide behind. Deeming no one worthy to judge our erratic behavior. Behavior that at times seems to be 80% mad, 20% brilliant the combination equaling 100% selfish abandonment and justifiable insanity.  Death gives us the reason we are different from others. We perceive ourselves to have slight advantage, for a less than desirable circumstance of course, but we are different now, we are changed.

Perhaps I imagine I have become slightly more complex, carrying now an added dimension of life, that I can call upon to as it suit my any given need.  I also believe that death adds a layer that surrounds us and we somehow become less approachable. Both notions nothing more than my perception of the wake I am left to tread within. All very self indulging, cliche and impractical to productive living. But what if ever an added “something” could truly be attested to  as the advantage of loss? Maybe its not a completely one-sided affair. What would I find upon the crumbled papers if ever I happened to look?

The original outline in my head for the context of this blog is what I now must admit nothing of what it began. My intention when I sat down was to compose an apology of sorts for the procrastination of yesterday that I transformed into another chapter of an unending story that is the perpetual heartache of loosing Joe.

However, two things are now clearer than before I began this morning. One death is really just an untouchable form of what it means to be a writer living the writing life. It is as we are…. unpredictable. Erratic emotions , thoughts and speech in which the reason and the question “why” can never really be asked nor understood.

Death is the rough draft of the soul. Both strips us down to bones and makes us examine the content locked deep within. Death is lonely and individual to us all yet can be felt and shared with many, eerily similar to the process and product of writing.

Death and writing seem to be he purest reflection of  true love, and memories. A mirror that reveals our tiniest scars and our greatest of strengths.  In death as in good writing there is nowhere to hide… all that we are, once were, will be, and never did become.

Yesterday I used Joe as an excuse to not to write. To delay the structured need to put words on paper. Refusing to rotate the key able to unlock my dreams. The key that would advance my reality one click closer to opening the door. The door containing my heart’s longing, and the only desires that never leave my thoughts.

However, from a momentary delay sparked a fire and the striking match that was my yesterday,  today I am able to use the soot  to stain the pages full of words today.  Aware now that it is the light of the flame within, that illuminates our  every aspect, ideas and realizations.  Out from the blackness of my grief that is perhaps lessening with each dying ember. Allowing me to clearly see what is and has always been salvageable starring back at me from my screen.

Yes, death and writing are more alike than just twenty minutes ago I ever paid any attention to. They are both an excuse to live deliberately. To live with an aura of intent, in which no one can question. We feel protected behind our “right” to explore, to behave and to process the minutes that make up our days.

The darkest of times leading to the eventual brightening of our world from all allowed ourselves to seek. Death and writing both give way to authentic living and reflection with perceived need for justification to anyone else.  It has been my experience that the world is for the most part misguided and fearful, as well as silently intrigued  and curious in almost the same way about both death and writers.