Mar 25, 2005

There's things on my mind

and no amount of washing has helped.

Terry S. I've been sort of letting the story drift in and out of my ears, and know the basics. My theory? Let her die. She's been dead for 15 years now, let her go. Same with Elvis.

Writing. I write like I do a lot of things--right off the top of my head. No polishing, no rewrites (or minimal, if any) and no long hours agonising over whether people will understand that I DO know how to use the letter "z" but dislike it so I use the letter "s" in it's place, and that I DO know how to spell most big words.

I was reading ScaryDuck earlier this morning, and he was on about how he became a writer. Apparently an ill-paid one, but one who has been awarded numerous recognitions for writing. He attributes his success to writing a LOT, and to polishing said writing a lot.


Not that it doesn't work for him, because obviously it does. He has a massive following, I have a few close friends. I think I know which I prefer. *s* Oh, I bitch about not getting exposure and traffic and all that sort of guff, but when I get right down to it I'd rather talk to a small audience who is listening to me closely than to a jillion who don't know me from Adam.

And that brings me to Good Friday.

Damn that was a sweet link. See? Adam, religion. Good Friday, religious observance. Sweet!

Raised devout Roman Catholic, I know what Good Friday is all about. I know about all the reasons to be off work, to not eat meat, to do all the jumping through hoops that the Church requires. The dear over at My Boyfriend Is A Twat was off-handedly complaining that she has no real clue why her office is closed on Good Friday (MINE isn't!) and was wondering exactly what was up with the no meat on Fridays thing and so forth.

The Teacher part of me wanted to sit and write a comment to her, telling her about all the little nuances of religious observance, it's roots in pagan rites and the Church's attempts not to overthrow but to absorb them, much like the Romans did to the Greeks, then I thought better of it. I could sit and write all damned day about ruud screens and High Mass in Latin and abstainence and fasting and having your feet washed by a priest on Holy Thursday when you were but a wee lad of 8 or so, but I didn't, and won't. The internet is there, use it. Sift thru the thousand and one pieces of hearsay to find the truth, and you might not be better for it, but next time someone wonders why you're off on the last Friday before Easter, you'll know what's up.

You might even know about Mardi Gras.

I don't polish my work.

That was a terrible link, but it's going that way, it's the way my brain works. Hold on tight, secure your lap belt low and tight across your hips, and please keep your hair from getting entangled in the exposed machinery.

I don't polish my work. Like I said up there, (not there, WAY up there,) I rarely if ever go back and look carefully over the paragraphs, find each typo, get all sweating-blood (religious reference!) over each and every word choice. Perhaps I'd be better for it if I did, perhaps not. *shrug* I've never been big on it, never saw a real need for it, and perhaps that's why my writing is accepted only in a small realm, or perhaps I'm just talking out my trunk. Either way, life goes on. I write because I like to write, and I write the way I do because that's how I do it.

So why do I feel like I'm defending myself?

Last night I dreamed I was stung by red wasps, and couldn't make the people around me understand that I was in pain, and that they needed to stop what they were doing because they were making matters worse.

Symbolism there?

This morning I made my wife very angry with me, without intending to do so at all. I care for her a very great deal, but there are times when our communication fails utterly, and feelings get hurt. I really hate that about two people trying to make one idea understood.

I am a born diplomat, have never liked confrontation, and it often burdens me. I supress my anger, pack it away, and it comes out in inopportune moments, like on the highway. There are days when I know with concrete certainty that the road is going to claim my life.

The fog has rolled in and covered everything in white. It's a marvelous time to be back in bed, warm and entangled, but my dreams are still lying there, waiting for me. I can feel their grasping hands and sharp teeth, so I go to work instead.

I dreamed that I was fighting with my wife, in front of her mother, in a friend's van. I don't know what it was all about, or what was said, but I remember at one point that I made a foolish ultimatum, and then realised that it was too late, that it was said and out there, and there was nothing I could do to get it back in my mouth. The only part of the dream I can see clearly is my mother-in-law's face when I said what I had. The shock; the complete and whole mouth-hanging-open, wide-eyed shock, how pale she looked, and how utterly empty I felt after I said it.

A writer once asked us if we knew the feeling that you get when you're in a rocking chair, and you rock just far back enough that the chair begins to fall over backwards, but hasn't started yet. That instant of confusion, that cusp moment; he said that he always lived in that moment. I used to think that was a marvelous way to be. I know now, with the wisdom of my 38 years under my belt that to live there would entirely destroy someone, devour them from the inside out like a fever, until they were a husk. That it is a fallacy.

Stream of consciousness. I wonder what it would look like if the filters were down, if the pure, undilute essence of my thoughts could be codified, could be poured out in so many letters of a word, so many sentences to a paragraph. I wonder how many people would turn away in revusion, and how many would be willing to dip their cupped hands into the river and drink deeply.

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