Why Do You Want That?

Writing is love, writing is life. Writing is the reason I’m still here, choosing life. I mean…sometimes it’s a real struggle, but writing (and Nichiren Buddhism) have kept me going. So, I can’t help it if I have a few dreams up my sleeves about it. It would be NICE to come up from it, but even if I don’t, I would never stop. So obviously between the dreams, the “projects”, and the questionable poems, I would imagine myself having a “space” or an office to live out my dreams. I also have several backup plans. Teacher, Social Worker, Grant Drafter, Admin. Hell, I’m looking at Chicago to take some coding classes while I visit.

I have about 40k of student debt, so it’s not like I’ve got the ability to be super flighty and ultra dreamy. I mean, I’ll always be somewhat like that. I’m my mother’s kid. But I’ve become realistic about some things. Not all persons who have the talent to write become great, established writers. It’s upsetting, but I’m okay with that.

I feel like my jovial nature gives people the idea that I’m in great denial or something. That the goal is to be a writer without a 9 to 5. That, you know, it’s straight to the finish line with no questions asked. I think about the fact that this writing thing may not work out all the time. Still, I want it. I want a part of it. I won’t turn my back to it. I’ll probably die at a computer of old age, trying to complete a novel I started at the age of sixteen. In any case, I would like for the people in my life to realize that I’m aware it might not work out. I’m aware that I need plans B-Z to survive this world.

I also need people to understand that my dreams might just be that. Dreams. Let me have that.

What I have always wanted is a “writing space”. Which technically could be anywhere I have my laptop or pen and paper, but I mean a space like Carrie had in her apartment in Sex and The City. A space like Claire had on The Cosby Show to enjoy herself. I have been dreaming of this space for the longest time. From job to job, poem to poem, and boyfriend to boyfriend. Writing is one of many loves in my life, and I’d like to have a place to set her free.

The idea was always going to be some small country thing. Doesn’t have to be a barn, for frack’s sake. Some tiny little ranch house that’s so small, it can only be an office. Some hole in the wall in the backyard, set up as I see fit, financed by me. I would never force anyone else in my life to finance desires that I’ve been building up. First of all, because I WANNA DO IT. Second of all, if it’s not agreed upon, I ain’t forcing anyone to pony up dime one.

That’s super defensive.

And I mean it to be.

The dream of my writing space is sacred and special. Deeper than a man cave or a chick cave. Or whomever’s cave. It’s a space outside the world where I can sit, open up, get it out, and not be distracted. That’s the main part! Not to depart from the world forever and ever, but devote some time to the one thing that brings me joy. Now imagine if I gave side eye to someone I cared about, if they had a similar dream.

I would get chewed da funk out.

The writing space is an extension of me. I may never get my ranch house. I might have to settle for a corner of a room, or an office. That’s fine. Dreams change as my life has changed. But in my mind, it’s always been somewhere down South. Always either been a shed or a bigger space. Always been covered in cute stained glass windows, wind chimes all over, and crystal things.

I can always relocate. The South isn’t the only place with a countryside. And why should I silence my dreams, anyway? Because someone else thinks they’re too airy or too stupid? Or whatever, for that matter?

Smash your own dreams but don’t come for mine.

What else do I want?

Nothing that big.

A dog. A cat. Some kids, and a decent ass life. I don’t have to have a million damn bucks. Just the kind of comfort that gives me some kind of hope in this world. I would like to be happily married, you know? Just keeping it nice because I never needed a big production to be satisfied. Just let me have my writing. Let me dream of my office space. Doesn’t have to be forced. I’m not demanding it!

But alas.

It’s all a dream.



2 AM

I don’t even know what to say, if I can say it properly. Or who I am, or who I need to be, to fit in with the rest of the functioning people on this planet. I’ll always say something weird, or stupid, or goofy, or socially awkward or…something. Is this what happens when Pre-k teachers marry engineers? I make that joke often, and wonder why I am here. Sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with tears in my eyes. Who is this ridiculous person, and why can’t she get “it” right? And why can’t she mellow out after hours? Why is she cleaning right now? Why can’t she find her original poetry book? Why does this upset her so much, and why does she want to write more, all of a sudden? Who is she, and why is it always something short of wonderful?

I’m so many things, but mostly hard on myself. I try not to be. I try not to be a lot of things, editing out of concern or hoping it will go un-noticed. Or I have an explanation for it once a layer is questioned, or a….whatever is queried. Always. People sleep at this hour, and I stir. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I rest in the dark.

I don’t want to bring up bad things, or odd things, or things that sound okay to me but not so much to other people. But beneath all of those things are just the drives and goals of a lonely person who has lived a pretty boring and basic life. I’ve learned not to ask for the moon, but have comedy and mirth thinking of what would make me happy, in case I find out I can’t have kids, or I don’t have that best seller, or I don’t get that swanky apartment. Maybe I see modern day examples, and feel like some kind of happiness is possible, if that is okay. Maybe I just want to live a little for my mother, because she did not leave her 30s in one piece, and only got a taste of happiness.

Maybe I want to do better than I am, and want some kind of light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I cope in a way that is foreign, broken, strange, off beat, and out of order. I still don’t even know who I am, let alone who I will be. I’m just me, and I do not believe she has ever been good enough for too long. She might even be depressed, and can’t really…you know…afford to get that checked out either.

Sane people sleep at night, and creatives often stay awake writing and doing and making and musing. The TV is always on in my head, but I am not rare or special. I simply am, I simply chant “nam myoho renge kyo”, and I live. Sometimes not that great, sometimes not that smart, but I live. Is that okay?

It’s different. Not special, not snowflaky–just different. I am an ill-adjusted adult. Maybe I just want some of the things, but not the entire universe. Maybe I want to be gotten, and it’s not that I never am, but I am often misunderstood. It’s not a selfishness or ignoring the attention that is there, but do people really expect hurt and damage to disappear overnight? To just get over it now, because it’s not right, to climb the hill in silence, while shit is going on?

I..don’t know.

I think tonight, I am just more upset about the missing book than I am trying to understand my own self. Me–I’m just some lady who feels like she never belongs anywhere at any time, trying to stick my feet in soil that won’t even have me. Hoping to be greatness, but usually that “meh” you kind of like, until it tapers off two hours later.

Does any of this matter? Do I? Should I lock myself up, full of feelings?

I have a lot of woe is me days.

I can’t help it if I need to sort shit out to be a better person. I would much rather be sorted in an ongoing process of growth and change, than to just let it happen uncultivated–if that makes sense.

But I am going to bed now.

I will clean some more. I will try to find my book. I will try to recovered the decayed poem in my head. I will try to be me, whomever that girl woman is.


So I had a creative writing assignment for my Intro to Poetry class. This was my time to shine, and I could have really taken the teacher to the mountain with some delicious melancholy, a poem about this Buddhism, or the ode to my mother. While I technically DID do melancholy, it’s just the subject of said lament. The subject, people. My goodness, the subject. I won’t go into detail, but this was a poem that should have existed years ago. Back when I had a Xanga, back when I was still relaxing my hair, back when I was playing Ayaka’s Why like 900 times a day with tears running down my face. The fact that it hit me in 2015 made me feel so stupid and shameful, and I’m sure my muse was behind my back the entire time, cackling.


The young lady who peer reviewed my poem wrote this one line saying that a lot of women could identify with the subject matter. Which, I’m sure they could. Still, I felt so silly. Where were these thoughts coming from? These emotions, these sentiments?┬áMy muse does what it wants, anyway. Always purging sections, randomly. Always touching down on this subject and that, not really having any reason or structure. It just says “write about this” until I do it. If I don’t write about it, I usually regret it for days and days. So, I gave in. I said “sure, fine, whatevs”….and next thing I know, it came.

-___- Oy.