it seems to stretch, then stumble,

twist and tumble

ticking away tasks left undone

taking away moments meant for fun

but there’s time enough

for a mini rhyme

I’ll do this and make that

and see things I don’t have time to see

I’ll pen rhymes and paint pictures …

But it figures that my day off

involves coughing and congestion,

cold sweats and indigestion.

But not all was lost.

A BBC Pride and Prejudice marathon,

chased by a shot of Bride and Prejudice

were duly savored.

I O.D.ed on Bollywood-flavored CVS Tussin

and Jane Austen,

gulped gallons of Airborne.

And it’s back to work in the mornin’

to thank you for this rhyme

yes, it’s all because of you

who pushed me to be true

to my inner artist child

who needs to run wild

and let ideas free flow

around and over the downer NO

I’d like to thank you for urging me to do

and write and craft and create

what’s in my muddled, dreaming state

of mind, the kind of weird

and wondrous, feared

and frivolous stuff that sets me free!

Yeah, it’s the same old story. I create and dream in intense spurts … and then there’s you–Writer’s Block. And every time we’re face to face, it takes so much energy to work through the fear and talk through my doubts and get past the laziness and force myself to do the things I need to do. And every time I tell myself I’m committed, I’m serious, it’s not enough. What does it take to make the commitment? I don’t know. I’m tired. I need a shower. I have work early tomorrow. I’m a no-talent dreamer anyhow. But if it makes me feel better about myself, shouldn’t I do it? What’s wrong with me? Wait, I’m not supposed to beat myself up. It shows bad self-help form.

Aiya, I’m driving myself nutso!

To think that you were only 7 years older than I am today when you walked out into that wheatfield (perhaps a field that you had depicted many a time in your paintings) and shot yourself in the chest … oh, but that wasn’t the end. No, you dragged yourself home and died two whole f—ing days later! What the f—? I can’t even imagine those final hours or even the moments leading up to that self-directed barrel of destruction and despair.

I am close to tears thinking of each time you failed at a new career. What hopes and expectations you must have held … and then reluctantly relinquished into the ether of disappointment and disillusion. I can relate. I’ve done a fair amount of job hopping myself. And I understand the frustration of peddling other people’s art, but lacking the confidence to champion your own. But you took the plunge. With limited resources and no formal training, you just did it. And how you did it! To think that something two-dimensional could emit such energy, emotion, and extreme … honesty.

Yeah, it always comes back to that, doesn’t it? It’s honesty that sucks me in every time. And the only way you knew how to express what you felt was in your paintings and drawings and tons of letters. So I’m writing you a letter, a letter conveying my honest, whole-hearted, absolute respect for your work and your struggle on the verge of sanity and creative compulsion. I want to thank you for not giving up on your art, even though you gave up on yourself in the end. Your work and your life inspire me to be more honest and more daring in my own life. You may have often been lonely and isolated from others while you were alive, but you have touched my heart deeply, and I sincerely hope to keep your passion alive in my own art.

Love,

me

I love the idea of choice, but I don’t like deciding. I’m just biding my time, penning my rhymes, crafting a crime of chronic career conundrums. And the Corporate King, he flings scraps my way, taunting me with a 401K and modest copay. I may be in his good graces today, but who knows what tomorrow may bring?

Oh Career Gods, I know it’s a necessary process and believe me, I’m milking it for every ounce of personal growth possible. And I’m utterly thankfully I still have a job … for now. But how do I proceed from here where the path seems mostly unclear?

Sincerely,

me

It all started when I was a little kid and I would say things like, “Mommy, look at the green man!” or “Why is that woman all polka dotty?” And my mom would correct me, pointing out that the man’s shirt was white or that the woman was wearing stripes, not realizing that I wasn’t talking about their clothes. When I started drawing what I saw, my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Y, told my parents that I had a “very active imagination.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that other people didn’t see what I saw, so I kind of stopped talking about it. Of course I still try to draw any TIs that I think are really cool in my beat-up sketchbook that I keep with me at all times. My dream is to create my own manga series, maybe with a protagonist who can see TIs, like me!

Actually, the vast majority of people look kind of out of focus to me, like when I’m not wearing my glasses in the morning and everything is sort of fuzzy and I stub my toes a lot. Except there are a bunch of people who still seem blurry to me, even with my glasses on, and I know I don’t need new glasses because I just went to the eye doctor a couple months ago. I can see objects and stuff just fine. It’s only people that sometimes look funny to me. Most adults I see seem out of focus and just dull somehow. Of course there’s Mrs. B, my art teacher and yearbook adviser, whose TI is usually as vibrant as her frizzy mass of orange curls and bright, flowing dresses.

So for the most part, people are either blurry, just normal-looking (or what I assume is normal, because I don’t really know what other people see), or they give off different colors and/or patterns. My theory is that people’s TIs are most visible to me when they’re feeling some extreme emotion, but I can’t really be sure because it’s not like it’s a documented science or anything and I’ve never met anyone like me before.

Anyhow, I’d pretty much accepted that this was just something I had to deal with, and as long as I kept it to myself and pretended to be normal, I’d be just fine.

And then, I saw him.

Yes, I write and draw and paint and craft, but I’ve never really considered myself to be a Writer or an Artist. Those terms are reserved for the real, talented, published, recognized, accomplished few. I am just a hobbyist, an amateur, a poser … But being a part of The Undeniables allowed me to stop and think, “Who gives a crap whether the stuff I create is any good?” The fact that I let myself be creative, can share it with you, and have access to all this incredible writing by all of you is what really matters.

So I really wanted to thank Edren and Erik for starting this up. Without you, I don’t know when or if I’d have started writing again. And I want to thank each and every one of the members for sharing your novels, poetry, and/or letters. I haven’t had a chance to read everything or link all of you to my blogroll yet, because I just can’t keep up with our growing numbers and your prolific writing, but all of you rock! I am so excited about what we’re doing and how it’s affecting my priorities and sanity.

THANK YOU! CAM ON! MERCI! DOMO ARIGATO! GRACIAS! THANK YOU TO THE INFINITE POWER!

just wanted to gush about how CLEAN my house is! usually, there are only about 2 functional rooms with the rest of the house in transition (a.k.a. junkyard, pig sty, accumulated crap overflowing the joint). about once or twice a year, my hubby–bless his adorable, a.d.d.-addled soul–comes up with a brilliant plan for the reorganization of the living space. he watches hdtv religiously. don’t laugh, i know you’re addicted to that stuff too! so we’re all excited and start moving stuff around … and then we don’t ever finish. i’d rather do fun stuff on the weekends (the only time i get to see my hubby) than home improvement, heavy labor, tedious unfun stuff, so i don’t really protest when hubby loses interest in whatever master floorplan he’s concocted at the moment. and the house remains in perpetual disarray.

anyhow, to make a long story short, i threw a baby shower for my sister-in-law on saturday and spent two whole days scrubbing, sweeping, vacuuming, tidying, moving, and generally making spotless the entire 1,400-square-foot abode. aaah … the satisfaction, the pride, the utter bliss of coming home to a clean house … except now it doesn’t feel like my house and i feel this compulsion to wipe up every spot and crumb on the kitchen counter, pick up every misplaced item, rearrange every misaligned piece of furniture. i feel even crazier than i did when the house was a mess … and then the little voice inside my head starts asking, “so how long is this going to last? how many days or weeks before we’re back to pig sty comfort?” and what do i really prefer?

oh, too much thinking makes my head hurt. maybe the j-meister can come over again and we can beat guitar hero, synchronizing our star power rock outs and hanging out at the endlessly entertaining ikea. you gotta love cheap, swedish home furnishings. rock on geek nation! (the name of our nerdy girl band.)