look! baby wolf

i can’t decide if it’s that i have NADD or if it’s “the trauma” or if it’s my ENFPness. . . but i can’t seem to follow through. i can’t seem to finish. i can’t seem to. . . well, complete a thought without going off the deep end about something else. i feel unfulfilled and tired. i’m unhappy. this manifests itself in so many ways. 

at work, while my list is very detailed and i write one every day, i can’t seem to ever get through the list - it just grows. and i never do it in the order i think it should be done. you know that order. do the hardest thing first because it’ll take the longest, is the hardest, and mostly likely you don’t want to do it. i can’t even figure out why i don’t want to do things. and i only feel worse about it because i am usually the reason it’s on the list. i get these bursts of “yes! this is the idea! this is the thing we should be spending time on.” remember folks, do not come up with an idea unless you are willing to do the work because either no one else cares enough to do it or you know the most about what should be done, so you cannot escape. plus, if you don’t finish things or do things that you bring up that you think are important, you start to look like you can’t do your job. like you can’t finish things.

the kind of concentration it requires for me to stick to my list at all is IMMENSE. i only try to start with five things. just five. anymore and feel like i will not be able to finish them in one day. so five things. but then the meetings start. and the numbers get longer with more digits and higher on the scale from 1 to 100. today alone i know i added 10 things to the list. and that doesn’t even count the things i put down on the bottom of the page to remember to follow up with tomorrow because the things on the list from today need to have responses and then get communicated. . . it’s exhausting. 

and then there are the not-meetings that happen. i love the not-meetings. those are the times when i get those inspirations about what i REALLY should be spending my time on. what our team should be spending their time on. i know this because those not-meetings are with people who believe i can make a difference. those not-meetings are meetings with people ON my team and people that are most definitely NOT on my team. some of them are just people i have come in contact with and  we have connected about an issue we both care about. some of them are mentees. people that sought me out for which they would like to get career and personal growth advice. some of those people are people i used to work with on teams long ago in far away lands (our company is big) talking to me about things we still should be sharing across groups. these not-meetings are the spaces in the day that make anything i do in a big corporation completely worth any reservations i have in my political, moral, ethical, socialist, liberal mind. . . because i am a non-profit junkie and working in corporate america, no matter how good the company is, seems pretty counter to who i probably thought i would be when i grow up. (see what i did there?). anyway - i love the not-meetings. with the not-regular-people-who-aren’t-scheduling-meetings people.

some of those not-regular-people-who-aren’t-scheduling-meetings people are my friends checking in on me for not-meetings. because i am so scattered. because they are worried. because of “the trauma.” i haven’t actually gone into what “the trauma” is, but suffice it to say that if isn’t one thing now, it’s another thing later and by making it “the trauma” in quotes, i give myself a pretty easy way for the find-and-replace functionality in my word processing application. (clearly that needs to be addressed.) 

but even the not-meetings bring up more items to put on the list. today? today, i think there were about three items that were added to the to-do list from a not-meeting. . . i think that means were up to 18 items on the to-do list plus the seven items at the bottom for which i will need to follow up which, of course, will lead to more items in later days for which i will need to communicate about.  what’s that? 25 items. i started with 5. how many did i do?

today was a banner day, actually. i had to work really really hard at it. lots of deep breaths. if you know me, you know that the deep breaths are hard too because they make me want to punch something. the fact that i even need to do deep breaths is actually why i want to punch something. not the actual breathing. unfortunately, it helps, which makes me annoyed. hence the desire to practice unmitigated fight club shit. but back to how many i finished. well, after re-reading the list multiple times, one had to be crossed off due to it’s duplication of another item. that left 24 things. the seven follow up items did not get completed because i was trying not to get distracted and moving on to the other things on the list. that left 14 items. i know i didn’t do two specific tasks because 1) i feel like i shouldn’t really be doing it at work since it seems like funish projects. . . and creative. . . and gifty. and 2) because they are both really really hard and labor-intensive. that leaves 12 items.  i did 10 of them. and there were some pretty hard things on them. . . just not as hard as the two i didn’t do. the other two items where just. . . not “hot” enough to give them attention. besides. i was exhausted by the time i got those 10 items checked off of the list. 

did i mention, that not only did i get 10 items checked off on my list, but i attended five 1-hour meetings and three 30-minute or less not-meetings (that’s a low not-meeting number, actually). i also had lunch which means i only worked 8 hours today. i could have worked 9 - i have an extra hour to spend downtown today, so i could be working an extra hour. . . like on the hard thing. but i’m not. because i couldn’t concentrate anymore. i couldn’t think about work one more second. i was even given a great white paper to read on bright spots (a pet buzz wordy type idea that comes from one of my favorite business books called Switch: how to make change when change is hard) but i couldn’t even concentrate to read that.

but i could concentrate enough to come up with what i wanted to write about. but i never write anything anymore. because of “the trauma” - or maybe it’s my ENFPness. . . or my self esteem, or my NADD or  - HEY - LOOK!  BABY WOLF.  yeah. . .

look at that - i just patted myself on the back for getting 10 to-dos done and having six and half hours of meetings in one 8-hour work day. but i did it by telling you what i DIDN’T do. . . or why what i didn’t do should have been done first. i even just told you about not writing. except that i am. i am writing right now. in the lunchroom at work. but i never feel like i am writing. i am distracted ALWAYS (they teach you to never say “always” and “never” in business, but i figured since i’m not talking about work anymore, i can break that rule.

even now, i wanted to listen to music, but couldn’t get the music i wanted to listen to to work and i didn’t want to not listen to music, so i just went looking for music. without finishing a thought. without finishing a sentence or a paragraph - i just started doing something else. it’s INFURIATING. (in case you didn’t catch that i actually went back and finished that paragraph and sentence, i did. thank god for the editing process)

but work isn’t the only place i never feel like i finish anything. i just don’t anywhere in life. 

i wrote to my mom about a week ago asking her if i ever finished anything. well, writing is a strong word. i texted her. i never did get an answer. when we finally talked to each other, all we could do was catch up and talk about things and get distracted by thoughts that were spawned by previous things. . . so. . . i’ll have to ask her again.

the point is, i never finish anything. or at least it doesn’t feel like it. i become paralyzed. right now i’m paralyzed by fear of failure to even write anything on my novel. i’m so distracted that i’ve written several blog postings and taken a few notes here and there about ideas.  i’ve mapped out a story arc of some story that i may want to tell some day. and at writing group last week, i remembered a story i need to write that was inspired by a dream my mom told me about. it’s a beautiful story and i have tons of ideas and everyone at group was really excited about it. yet, i have not put one word to page about it (except here). it’s terrifying that it won’t be what it is supposed to be. it’s beautiful in my mind. if i could just rent out my mind for you to see the story, it would be so much easier.

i have distracted myself from writing and doing and being and from what will really help me feel satisfied. the distraction is made up of watching endless episodes of criminal minds (if you knew how many seasons i went through in a week you’d wonder about my sanity). it’s made up of watching movies, reading books (Amy Poehler’s Yes Please is amazing and she’s my spirit animal right now), going to plays (Blood Countess - a must see before it goes!), hanging out and singing karaoke, planning and attending happy hours and brunches. it’s all quite wonderful, of course, but it sure as shit isn’t getting any of my stories written. i’m not cleaning my house, which is essential to my happiness. an orderly clean house is a happy house for me. except here, i am, writing. right now.

 i’m feeling this shift. a shift bringing order. a shift towards starting to care about being happy rather than just laying on the couch watching endless amounts mindless crime drama. i’ve graduated to fight club, seven, avp, sophie’s choice, and insomnia. . . not exactly a recipe for happiness, except it works for me. they help me get into the writing cave. it’s dark in there and sometimes pretty awful, but so so productive. i’m even impressed that i am close to finishing this as a blog posting.

my home list is getting longer, but this week was the first time i actually crossed anything off of it in about. .. two months. it’s things like -) take willie to the vet -)buy cat litter -) do the dishes -) finish divorce shit (hint. . .part of "the trauma") - and then there is the more complicated and repetitive things on the list like, -) write daily morning pages -) find ways to focus -) don’t be a dick to your best friends -) do one push up a day. . . these are harder and i haven’t started them. well, i’m trying really hard at the don’t be a dick one. it could be going better, but it is the most important one so i’m keeping at it.

and so the shift continues every day. this weekend i will have written another 1,000 words, crossed off things on the list that will take guilt bricks away, and generally feel. . . less like my body can’t get out of bed. i’m pretty sure i will never be able to not get distracted. i’m trying to accept that it’s part of my charm. but i do, like the rest of humanity, like to tick off accomplishments. i like to turn around and say - hey - look, i did that.

so - hey, look - i wrote this blog.

p.s. - the research to put baby wolf pictures in here made for a very long and adorable distraction. . . i highly recommend searching the intertubes for baby wolves

Stuffing my brain

i'm actually pretty impressed with myself. i have been stuffing and stuffing my brain with things (here's the original post).  i don't know that i'm doing it the way in which Mr. Bradbury was suggesting, but i am gorging myself with things.

and keeping track.  i'm one day behind because i didn't sleep the night before, but really - i'm reading and thinking and watching and thinking and consuming and thinking.  and i'm writing too. . . not as much as i know i can. but i am writing.

so strictly the numbers, sir.  it is day 14 of  the year 2014 and i should have read (until today) 13 short stories, 13 essays, and 13 poems.  i should have watched 2 old movies and written 2 short stories.  and i should be half way through my first novel. so - here's the tally (shoulda, coulda, woulda)

Short Stories --> Goal = 13; Actual = 12 - a little behind

Novel --> Goal = .5; Actual = 2 - HOLY RAVIOLI

Poem --> Goal = 13; Actual = 15 - it's not that hard

Short Story --> Goal = 13; Actual = 12 - a little behind

Film --> Goal = 2; Actual = 2 - this is a bit harder than i thought, but CHECK!

Blog --> no goal. . . weird. . . but i have this one and another one started. . . maybe they are essays. . .

Written Short Story --> Goal = 2; Actual = .5 - i working' on it

Play --> Goal .5; Actual = 0. . . but i got time

Show --> Goal = 1; Actual = 1 (i even stage managed it and had a freakin' blast)

Story Ideas --> no goal - but i got 7. . . so, i'm getting some great material for going forward.

sometimes it's really easy and sometimes it is really hard.  it's really hard when i'm tired and when i hate what i'm reading and when i can't seem to get the gumption to open a book or the computer. . . i get distracted and obsess about whatever it is that i want to do but can't for some reason instead of doing the thing i SHOULD be doing (or apparently WANT to be doing). . . i'm so much an enfp when it comes to that - distracted and can't finish anything.

it's really easy when i'm in the mood. . . but i don't know what triggers the mood. i am trying to figure it out. sometimes it's myself forcing me to actually do it because i always thank myself in the end (you know, like when you don't want to go out, but do anyway and are glad you did because you had so much fun? yeah, like that).  sometimes i can't stop thinking about the thing i need to write down so i write it down, but then can't convert (oh, the humanity. . . football references - my apologies. . .)

i want to talk to people about what i'm reading. but there are things to be done, and order to be followed, traditions to complete and needs to fulfill. work, outings, shows, cooking, cleaning, vegging, listening, loving. . . you know the rest of the life you live. so, i drink deeply when given the opportunity to talk about them. you are my captives, so i will indulge and share a few of my loves and hates of the last 14 days.

Kurt Vonnegut's  Novel MotherNight - beautiful and sad and . . . an honesty you feel yourself but never reveal. . . that's ok - he did it for you. i hear this is not typical of his writings. . . which i cannot know is good or bad or sad or just different. i will have to put another on the list to find out.

I know the Truth - a poem by MarinaTsvetaeva - you get it in so many different translations and luckily i stumbled upon one of the better ones. this line makes me fall in love with it each time. "The starry blizzard soon will freeze into the heaven" - i can see the blizzard of stars freezing into a beautiful heaven. if only i could find a picture of how this projects in the theater of my mind. i would let you in for just a moment to see it - it is more treasured than the locked and bullet proofed Mona Lisa. oh, to be a painter for this one.

on the lighter side, there is an essay by MauriceBaring (i actually have to figure out who that is) that is a letter from one of King Lear's (of the Shakespeare fame) daughters to her sister. It's an essay (though that seems weird to me), and very funny to me. . . however, i'm sure, given the King Lear play, the letter is likely not have been written with the satire i so see it.

another beautiful writing is an essay by CynthiaOzick called A Drugstore in Winter.  i don't know how to explain, but so . . . how i feel. . . it expresses me and make me love this woman as a kindred.

and, though, not keeping with Mr. Bradbury's edict of "the old ones" because i don't believe all the modern stuff is chum (as VirginiaWoolf begs us to remember in her 1925 essay about critics), my favorite short story (that i read for this)  is that of Neil Gaiman from Smoke and Mirrors called The Goldfish Pond and Other Stories. it is a sad recounting of how we can learn beautiful and wonderful things but forget them so easily because we are lulled into the banality of life. . . or maybe it is those glimmers we remember that allow him to weave the tale so we can bookmark it in our brains as something once shiny and new.  i say, favorite story that i read for this because my absolute favorite story he wrote (in short form - oh so many qualifications) is called The Price (from the same collection).  i didn't think it fair i re-read something i know i love for this stuffing of my head. but read this thing called The Price. . . especially if you are a cat person. 

it seems fitting that this is the author i feel i enjoyed most as he is a large reason i decided do this "challenge." like an omen, i first heard about Ray Bradbury shortly after i started following Mr. Gaiman on twitter. and then, slowly, over the next two years, i would randomly hear/see things about Mr. Bradbury. . . the last straw was when i chose to randomize my 3000 songs on my iPhone and Gaiman's The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury came on first. i decided to listen to Ray's talk then.  and now i'm loving learning and reading and consuming and feeling. . .so thanks neil.

there are so many to tell about and to type them all reviews here seems. . . too much and overwhelming, not only for me, but maybe for you too. i'll have to do something about that - maybe a page with what i've read and my rating. . . i don't know - anyway - i love doing this so far.

this is sort of a check in - i don't think for you as it is for me. . . thanks for listening

i know this i'm doing a lot to stuff my brain with reading and writing, but a while ago, on Facebook there was this "chain letter" of sorts about art (if you are Facebook, you would remember, but if you aren't, no worries. . . i don't think it matters) and i was given the artist Rene Magritte and i chose this beautiful painting, so i'll leave you with this. . .it's beautiful and i'd like to write a story about it.

kismet poetry

so, I used to right poetry. . . often.  But then I stopped for hundreds of single reasons. Mostly each single reason was a different way to let the critic inside tell me I suck.

Then things happen in strange strange ways - kismet if you will  - and poetry seems to make sense today.  So, I wrote some and I want to share it with you.  But I want to tell you the journey that brought me to it because it's shit like what I'm about to tell you that makes me believe in things like kismet and kismet gives me permission to like what I wrote.

The first bit starts several weeks ago, I read a Twitter about something that referenced a blog called scribomaniac.  I liked her writing.  It reminded me a bit of my own blog in its breadth of topic and sometimes funny and sometimes sad musings.  So, I put it on my "blogs to read" RSS feed and look at it weekly.  She, like me, doesn't post consistently, which is totally fine, and also makes me feel better about my own neglect (I do not claim her to be neglectful, just that her frequency gives me permission to be what I call neglectful).

One day, I read a post and laughed out loud.  She wrote about all the stuff  regarding poetry that I lived and felt.  Read it here.  If you ever wrote poetry, and you are a girl, I think you'll relate.  I did.

This didn't kick me in the pants.  But the next bits built up to my kick in the pants.

April is poetry month.  Every morning, I wake up to a friend on Facebook putting another piece of poetry out there.  I happily devour it and move on with the day.

it inspires me

4/15/2013 in Boston occurred.  And I cried. I never understand why these types of things happen.  It depressed me so much I spent the evening in my bedroom staring into nothing, wanting to go to sleep (it is what I do when I get depressed).  I questioned why these things happen, I questioned what the hell a bombing would accomplish for whomever did it.  I was just in despair.  Three hours after I slid into my blankets and covered my head, I peeked out and grabbed my pink Nikki McClure notebook and wrote . . .

On 4/16/2013, I woke up and felt like the whole world was so loud; I was just so sensitive to everything.  I wrote it on Facebook.  I spent the entire day talking with people and interacting and being ON all day.  I was exhausted.  I was so emotional, the world was so very loud for me that day.

I was very excited to be going on vacation on Friday, April 19th to Port Townsend with my husband.  It was basically for me to get away.  I needed to get away for a bit.  We went to a bed and breakfast called The Old Consulate Inn.  Friday night Mikal and I went to a "cabaret" called Kreepshow. . . the

"goodness" of this show is up for debate in my house.  I say it was cute, Mikal . . . not so much.  But what it DID have was poetry.  And lots of it.  Some of it was good, some of it was contrived, but it was yet another piece to my kismet puzzle slowing coming into focus.

The next morning, we went to breakfast (they have those at the bed and breakfast places) and met several people.  Two of them were writers.  One is a woman who used to be a journalist who left her husband home for the weekend and is looking to write on this weekend.  She was adorable (and I got her email so we can correspond).  The other of them is a poet who does creativity workshops.  She loves to help unlock the creativity in those that have been stifled for so long.

I spent that afternoon and evening writing and reading.  It was wonderful.

The next morning, we were all there again and the poet was asking if anyone had seen the Poetry Post. I had not, but many had.  She showed me a picture and it started a flurry of conversations around all the places in Port Townsend people had visited over the previous day that had to do with writing (I kind of missed the boat on this town, but if I have my own "writing weekend" I'll know what do do next time).

On the way home, I was catching up on Twitter (yes, can you believe it, I barely used my phone all weekend!) and I ran into a posting by Amanda Palmer (it is no surprise she figures into this too).  She had written a poem about the Boston bombing as well (well, for one of the bombers).  You can read it here. . . apparently it is pretty controversial.  People are angry that she wrote it (the comments are pretty crazy).  Some can't even see past what they think it is to digest what it may be.

When I got home, I went back to my notebook and typed out the poem I had written the previous monday.  And then I remembered "the world is so loud." And I decided to write that too. . . I said it because I felt so sad and so empty and so overwhelmed by all of it.  Anyway, here are my two poems.  They helped me cope.  It's what poetry is supposed to do (despite what some people say on Amanda's blog).

Paralysis

nothing is safe

nor was it ever

naivety equated it

time begets terror and fear

and reason to hate where

chaos blasts connectedness

together

I sit still out of helplessness and

fear

I sit still in paralysis

my feet don’t move while my heart travels miles

that paralysis is just fear of losing

everything

is not lost

I feel

The world is so loud

I hear the colors and shapes and

and see aromas of anger run before my eyes.

heat and light burn the inside of my nose as they flash on and off, and off and on

time heals and peals

creating raw callouses of space with no depth

in the sea against my screaming skin.

I tilt back my head, hold out my tongue and melt

emptiness to fill up my chest until the hole opens up wide enough

for the embrace of humanity.

The point I'm trying to make here is that all of these pieces fell into place to give me permission to 1) write it down 2) share it 3) not care if someone likes it. . . because I  like it.

naked. almost

There's this feeling that is almost indescribable when you are terrified, feel vulnerable and stripped of any walls previously built around the rawest parts of yourself.  Your heart is beating no where near where it is physically and seems like it will actually jump over your tongue and right out of your mouth.  And as it is migrating further and further to that actual jump, you feel this sucking of your digestive system upward.  You think that if you were to actually throw up, your stomach might lie on the floor at your feet after the first heave, right next to your heart. And as you worry you will expel your organs, there is the added benefit of the sensation that your skin is about to burst open in the same fashion a tomato has been scored, boiled and immediately chilled.

And then you must read out loud and make eye contact with the audience.  The act of speaking is dangerous because you are afraid of all above said possibilities of expulsion when the space between your lips opens during speech. And you want to run away and not read.

But you have committed to this.  You have invited people. People have come.  People that are your husband, your best friend, your close supportive theater playwright friend and his wonderfully supportive partner, your wonderful new friend from work who has given you valuable story feedback, and a sweet young man who used to work for you and is still all about team being family.

And you want this.  You want to be a writer.  You want to be validated that what you put on the page is something people will listen to, enjoy, get. So you read.

You read your story.  The one you wrote.  The one that sprung from real life tragedy. The one that your now husband knows is about your then husband even though it has become fiction to you.  The one that exposes how you felt about something that happened in your life.  The one that those people that came, know is almost autobiographical.  Almost.

Your voice wavers as you read.  You feel like you are visibly shaking as you make gestures and try to act out the piece as a reading is to do. You make eye contact with many people in the audience that you don't know so it feels safer.  Then you meet your husbands eyes.  They are wet.  You are scared that will break you.  But it doesn't because somewhere deep down you know he's just proud of you.

You finish.  They clap.

You feel humbled by the people that came to support you.  You feel relieved but still terrified that it actually happened.  You are comforted by your fellow writers because they know how you feel.  They tell you how well you did.  They mean it.  You are again humbled by their support.

You are almost a real writer.  Almost.  And it's not as scary as it was just yesterday.  And it will be less scary tomorrow.  But it is satisfying.  It is inspiring.

And then you write more.