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.

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But…Why?

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.

But…

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.

Writer’s Chair

Sitting here on my last morning/day of freedom, I’m asking myself why I keep writing about certain things. Why I keep talking about certain things. Why? Opinionated people say things like “keep that to yourself”, “[insert site here] is not a diary”, and “how do you cope in real life if you’re like this online”?

I found writing to be a powerful coping mechanism to document my journey. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I also examine the very ugly. I speak up, I put it out there, I don’t think of the consequence. There have been consequences, healing moments, and new friends. There have been spies, enemies, and folks who just…stare at you. I write to cope, to get things off my chest. I write to get things off my head. I write, so that when I look back, I can see who I was in that moment. I learn from things. I have moments of wisdom and clarity. I have to rush to record my findings.

I have been this way before I became a Nichiren Buddhist, and it never had a “thing” or a title to it. In discussion and study meetings, I’ve come to find that being a Bodhisattva of the Earth, you learn and accumulate and come to realize with great depth all the time. You piece things together, you see why X and Y lead to Z. Or, in my case…why V was led to D and J.

I have to let go of the idea that I look like a fool to exes who may be watching. Let them watch! I’m sure they already talk (if they remember me.) and talk aplenty. My job isn’t to hold a glass to the wall and see what they think or feel. I’m not asking them how I feel. I’m not asking anyone to tell me how I feel. I’m understanding and growing as a person. I will never ever be done growing. I’m 29, and I barely know who I am in this moment. It keeps changing.

I probably will be a “crazy cat lady” who hoards collectibles. But that’s not my calling. That’s a label usually secured for those of us who’re just peculiar in this lifetime. We don’t quite fit in, we’re a bit obsessive, but we are brilliant people. In some way, we are ever so brilliant. I write for these reasons. Coping, clarity, journey collection, learning, and quirk. I want to love, to live, and be a happy person just like anyone else in this life. It just so happens that I write my you-know-what off at every turn. If not here, my poetry blog. If not my poetry blog, my tumblr. If not tumblr, somewhere.

Someday I will depart from it. On that day, I will either be complete as a person, unable to type anymore, or dead. My writing is the voice that is usually very quiet in the real world. I’m a silent person. I make just enough noise to let you know I’m here. If we’re cool, then yeah I probably don’t shut up. I’m probably wacky without an off button. That means I trust you. I’m loose, I’m free, I’m a comfortable bunny.

Anyway, I asked myself the question I’m sure everyone who has ever been in my life wanted to know. It started out with a scented diary from Jewel-Osco. Progressed to slam books, notebooks, DiaryLand, LiveJournal, Xanga, Blogger, Tumblr, and here. I’ve tried not to write. It builds up like a liquid waiting to burst. It itches me to the point where all of my body darts for a source of creation. There are probably letters rolling around in my bloodstream.

Maybe people think I write to be callous. Or, a gossip. Or, to just tell everyone’s daggone business and tell all my business because I’m a lonely soul with no friends. Had I more friends, I’d still write. Things like that don’t change my desire to write. Things like that aren’t why I write. I feel what I feel, I try to get it out. How simple and complex is that?

It is 5 in the morning. What am I doing? Awake, writing. Looking forward to the rest of my life, and the person I will become. Imperfect, strange, possibly very annoying. But….somebody out there is waiting to love me. Events are waiting for me to get there. Life–good, bad, strange, wonderful, erotic, neutral–is waiting for me.