Anyone seen my voice?

I have been trying to write again. Get back in the habit and be productive with my writing and other creative endeavors. I have a lot of half starts in my house right now and I'd like to be finish a couple of them.

But it's been really hard. So hard.

I sit down to write and it seems like I've forgotten how to do it. I feel like my stories are no longer in my voice. I used to know my voice really well. In fact, I thought I had a strong voice. One that was me and sometimes quite intuitive and articulate.

But now, the voice is foreign to me. It speaks haltingly and forced. I don't know what happened. It's like it just up and vanished and ran away. Maybe it is participating in an exchange program with another voice? When it comes back it will be stronger and more vibrant then ever?

This week I set about with goals. I've established where I want to write in my house (Incidentally, it's a room I've been jokingly referring to as the creative room since my sewing machine, yarn, and other such materials are sitting in there.) I'm deciding what my writing days and times will be. I'm even thinking about a writing ritual - maybe a piece of clothing or a hat or a scarf. I have the chair. It's orange.

I'm hoping that these baby steps will help my voice return. Because, frankly, it's absence is beginning to piss me off.

Knowledge

It's been brought to my attention that I tend to hyper obsess over things and crave perfection. Or can overwhelm myself with things that are not really that important. Or get overly angry about things that aren't really a big deal.

It's a problem. I know that. And I'm beginning to work on it in very little ways.

For example, a memorial mass is being said for my mother this coming Sunday. I told my brothers about it last week. Old me would remind them again this week. But I decided not to. I told them once. It's on them to write it in a calendar and remember. It's on my dad to remind them again. But I don't have to stay on them. They're big boys.

That may not be a big deal, but it is actually huge for me. I can't constantly be worrying about making sure everyone does what they are supposed to do. Because, well, I don't have that kind of time or energy or desire anymore. And so begin the baby steps. So much of my life has been spent taking care of people that it's time I focused on me. This is what I keep reading. Or hearing. Or being told. Or lectured. Or yelled at about.

You know people, they care so much.

But, that's my knowledge for this week. Also part of my knowledge for this week - I need to fucking write more. I swear rarely in this blog. But it's called for in this instance. And I'm going to start by committing to regular writing dates for this slarfing blog. You hear that people? Er.. Person? All one of you that read this. I'm going to write here regularly!

And together with that knowledge of my need to write more is my need to play with my camera more often. I bought a new one. An expensive one. It's my new baby. And I finally bought it when I realized that I waste tooooo much time worrying about money. Yes, money is important. But so is making myself happy by buying the camera I was too "practical" to buy last year. So, my dear Canon Rebe xsi -I love you. I really really do. This is what love is all about. Isn't it?

motivation

If you find my writing motivation - let me know. It's been hiding out lately. My latest theory is that it has taken off and is touring the universe with a towel and traveling companion named Trillian.

On the other side of that proverbial coin, I find myself unusually productive in household endeavors. There's something about spring that makes me want to clean and re-do everything. This year I had a bit of a bump in that. My dad wanted a new room and I needed to re-organize the house.

The big stuff is all done. I have the furniture moved. The books re-located (ALL OF THEM). And for the most part everything is liveable.

There are things I need to address. Such as making the office/den/me space look like me. I need to decorate. Which I enjoy and hate at the same time. How you decorate says so much about you. Just as what you wear on a particular day indicates your mood. What do I do on the blank canvass of my walls? I'm not crazy about the color, but did not have the time nor desire to go through painting or picking a color at this moment. So, how do I cover the color up?

The big stuff I was motivated to do. This part - the decorating. The making it look pretty - not so much. My decorating motivation has joined my writing motivation and hopefully when they return, they will have great stories to tell and design inspiration to share.

I need to take my motivation as it comes. I am clearing out the closets in the empty rooms. I am turning one of the empty rooms into a guest room. A place people can visit and sleep while visiting that is welcoming, fun and adorable. There's a kid theme - because right now most of my guests are 12 and under (my nieces and nephew) with an appreciation for polka dots, Harry Potter, and elephants. The other one I want to be a crafty fun room that can double as a spare bedroom when the need arises. I'd like to set up my sewing machine, store all my yarn and fabric, knitting and sewing books and be functional.

The plans I have. Now I just need to put it all into action.

Of course, I am today exhausted. And I want to just spend the day sitting on my couch and reading a book.

But I will make myself do one productive thing before that luxuriousness.

Old words

This is something I wrote a while back.  About a week before my mom died, in fact.  I always toyed with putting it out somewhere.  I never knew where or why, but I think it's a good fit here.  It is in fact, all about the crazy random happenstances that roll around in my brain.  Which, honestly sometimes scare the crap out of me. But more than the crazy randomness of my thinking, it's also frighteningly accurate to how I feel right now. My brain is still rolling around with a lot of these thoughts. I could update it now, but I don't want to distort the words. This was my life then. My life now might follow in a couple days.  

But this goes back to early October 2008.  I had just fallen deeper for Team Paul.  I had begun the obsession with gluten free baking.  And I was beginning to become frighteningly aware of how crazy my thought processes could be.  A friend read this back then and called it somewhat prophetic. I don't like such words. I don't know if I quite believe in the idea of "prophetic." It's too mystical for me. I think it's predictable. I also sort of think that when I write without paying attention to form or matter, I tend to write pretty damn good. It's when I overthink the words that I kill it. And no one wants to read dead words. (Um, pun is totally intended.)

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I hugged my childhood crush this week. We even shared a quick kiss. It happened at his father’s wake. And it was probably inappropriate to get a thrill over this at that time, but I did.

I’ve had a crush on Anthony since I was ten. Or since I was old enough to realize what crushes were. He never really saw me as more than just that lil’ girl across the street that obnoxiously jumped in the pile of leaves he just spent all morning raking. I’m assuming that of course. I never actually asked him what he thought of me as a ten year old.

He is the same as my brothers. I am sure I was nothing more than an annoying little sister like person to him. He too has a story about being my babysitter once. I remember looking for pictures of Anthony in my brother’s high school yearbook and not my brother. I was sad when he moved away for college. I was jealous that he married.

I had my first real conversation with him on August 23, 1992. Earlier that Sunday morning, my mother had collapsed while making coffee and was rushed to the hospital. I had been driven home from the hospital and Anthony was in his drive way. He walked over to ask me what happened.

I remember, even then, being amazed at how calm I was. I didn’t giggle. I didn’t find myself twirling my hair. I didn’t step from foot to foot. And I definitely did not stammer. I clearly told him my mother was in a coma and no one knew what was wrong. He said, “Wow.” I remember writing about that day in my diary that night and that I included that conversation. It marked in many ways a loss of innocence and a loss of childhood. Carrying on an adult conversation with an adult male that I had a crush on was a big moment for my fourteen year old brain. But this is just my overly analytical brain overly thinking getting carried away looking back at the one moment in my life.

This week, standing in that funeral home saying goodbye to his father I thought about my past feelings. The feelings stayed in the fore of my thoughts as I approached the family line and offered my condolences. As I stood across from Anthony, we hugged. The hug lingered a bit. But maybe that was all in my head.

My father frustratingly moved away from the line much too quick and called me over to introduce me to an old friend. Anthony said goodbye. And I walked away upset at not sharing a longer conversation with this man who grew more attractive every year and looked amazing in a suit. But, again, not an appropriate place or time for these thoughts. Especially as his wife and child came to stand by him.

I sat in my chair on the other side of the room pondering my life. This entire week had been a fascinating study in how my brain functions. I’d spent the week ogling the new boss of my boss. And by ogling, I mean, complete and utter adoration of the man as a public speaker that I could not stop referring to as my candidate for hope and change.

If you can’t control thinking about that childhood crush at inappropriate times, you can’t really control developing a crush on a super suave political operative that happens to fall on the other side of the political spectrum? After hearing him speak a week ago, I have wanted to make up Team Paul t-shirts and wear one proudly. I told my boss I was ready to quit my job as an attorney and be his personal assistant. I would be sure to get his coffee order correct.

And now when I have to talk to him, I get a case of the giggles. Or the stammering. Or the hair twirling. Or the complete incoherence. I become my ten year old self talking to Anthony across the street.

I snap out of this strange circle of thought when my dad begins telling our other neighbor about his bypass. I correct him. Angioplasty. Not a bypass.

It’s almost as if he’d rather it be the more serious condition. He gets glory in talking about it. When I diminish it and say it was nothing more than an angioplasty, his face falls. I’m not quite sure what that is about. It’s almost like he wants it to be a bigger deal. It’s not like an angioplasty is not a big deal. But, bypass sounds way more important and impressive to him. Or he just can’t remember the word “angioplasty.” Whichever it is, I feel the need to correct him because I don’t want our neighbors reporting to other neighbors that my dad had a quadruple bypass and is in dire straits and might die tomorrow. When, in reality, he had an angioplasty with a stent put in to address an artery that was 90% blocked. He was in the hospital for 30 hours. And four of those were spent waiting for the nurse to complete the discharge papers.

Serious? Yes. Grave? No. But maybe grave isn’t the word to use while at a funeral.

I get choked up at funerals. It happens. I know why. I can pin point the exact reasons why I start fighting the urge to shed tears and fall apart even when I barely know the guy. The psycho analysis for this is not that difficult. The thought in my head is always “we’re next.” But I really shouldn’t dwell on that. So I won’t. But I do take notes. To prepare. Like the music. I wonder what music funeral homes allow you to pick from. Could I get some Dean Martin playing for my mom? I think on Six Feet Under the Fishers let you play whatever music you wanted. But Peter Krause would also greet me at the door.

It’s all too much sometimes. My dad wanting a bigger injury. My mom being sick all the time. Me crushing on a gay Republican who is indirectly my boss and I accidentally called a girl that one time. It’s a lot, you know. And I’m amazed my brain doesn’t explode. But we are a resilient species. Truly. It’s amazing. We’re designed to withstand so much – both physically and internally.

My dad tapped me on the shoulder and I remembered I was still at Luigi’s wake. He motions to leave and my thoughts close down temporarily as I begin my goodbyes. I play with my cellphone as I walk to my car as I chauffer this week while my dad recovers from his non-bypass procedure.

I’m sure the bizarre train of thoughts that has marked this week of emotional ups and downs and possibly hormonal rages will spark back up later this night. Perhaps I’ll plan my future as a gluten free baker extraordinaire. Perhaps Team Paul can help that dream happen. Maybe I just need to get him some of my gluten free chocolate chip hazelnut cookies. Maybe I need to focus on my rock star dreams and work on that strumming pattern I stubbornly refused to practice in my lesson this week. I think Anthony played guitar once up on a time. Maybe Team Paul plays as well. Could you imagine?