Looking ahead

Yeah, most of my posts lately have been sorta down-in-the-dumpsish. It's all that quicksand and stuff. But, despite momentary (and yeah, maybe long moments) bouts of oh-woe-is-me, I'm actually kind of excited about what the future may bring.

I've decided to pick up and finish my languishing novels. Dammit, it's time I stopped being afraid of them and just write the fuckers. Yeah, plural. There are three of them. One was started about seven years ago. The other is 2-3 years old. The last one still just two separate stories with the same characters, those stories sort of egg and sperm about to meet. I still don't know what will come of this one, and it's what I'm most excited about working on. I'm actually going to (reallytrulypinkyswear) set up a routine where I go someplace and write for a set period of time on each day (well, most days) that will be purely for working on these. The idea scares the hell out of me, so I'm going right towards that.

There are other projects of my own that have been languishing too. They need to be picked up and dusted off. Then there is a big project that is not my own, but has unfortunately been somewhat open-ended and so not been kept on track. I met with one of my co-horts today and we're trying to figure a way to get this to not turn into something that never happens.

Yeah, I'm being vague, but I need to right now. I need to keep my focus unfocused, the better to see what's on the periphery.

A Door Closing

In May 2001, more than eleven years ago tonight, I walked through the door of an old train station turned art gallery where a weekly poetry series was held. Though I'd started writing poetry again (after quitting while in my early teens), I wasn't there to share any of it. It would take me awhile before I got up the nerve to do so. But I enjoyed listening to the other poet's works, and eventually became a "regular."

It changed my life. Over the years I went from being the woman who sat quietly over on the side, to reading, to performing, to hosting, to booking features, to pretty much running the series for a couple of years (which ended in Dec. last year). I'm no longer shy and afraid, though I still have major bouts of self-doubt. Duh. LOL.

I've half-jokingly called the series my "mental health night." Being able to write, and share some of it, helped get me through some dark times. I learned a lot about myself and about writing. Over the years I've had dozens of poems published and it was a poet-friend who gave me the nickname Erobintica, when I started venturing into the erotica world, after sorta kinda becoming known for my erotic poems.

Tonight is the last night of that series, though it's been in transition this whole year. I'm hosting and since it's been a bumpy transition, I'm not sure if I'm going to say anything or not. I may just introduce the feature, and later the open mike readers, and leave it at that. Most of the folks attending these days don't know the history of the series. And the series has been going much longer than I've been part of it.

I'm feeling waves of grief wash over me at random times. And it's not that I wish it weren't ending. I sense that it's been ending for several years. I jumped in and saved it once, partly out of my own need to have there be a place each week to go to. I let go at the start of this year because I wasn't sure when we'd be moving from here (and still aren't sure).

It's not like I'll be losing poetry. Last night I went to a wonderful reading and I'm still writing. But this is the end of something that I have already been missing.

There's that old when one door closes another opens saying that sometimes pisses me off to no end. Maybe because it's kinda true. It's just that it would be easier if we could see that next door. Usually we can't. Or we can but we're not sure if we're seeing the right door. Or we don't want to go through it. Or a thousand reasons for standing there like a deer in headlights.

The poetry world is funny. There's its cliques and critics and sad comedies. I have poet friends who aren't really talking with other poet friends. Usually over deeply held, though still-sometimes-petty reasons. I've always been the idealistic little child wanting diverse folks to see past their differences. The older I get though, the less hopeful I feel about that happening.

So, this afternoon I'm probably going to just read and take a walk and drink my beloved mocha.

Tonight, I'll hear the latch click shut on an era of my life. I wonder what the next door will open to.

On Deleting a Post

The other day I wrote, and published a post that with some reflection, I decided to take down. A few people read it and upon talking with them (virtually or IRL), it was obvious that it was in many ways, far too much to ask of anyone to have to deal with. The title of it was Inconsolable. That tells you a lot right there.

I've been having a hard time of it. I'm at a turning point in so many areas of my life that I feel kinda dizzy. The ground is shifting under my feet. Earthquake. Quicksand. Or even just like when you stand on the beach and the water runs out and the sand pulls away and you feel like you're going to lose your balance or get pulled out. Under.

Digging bare toes into shifting sand. That's what it feels like I'm doing.

I'm trying to be open to what the seas of change are telling me. But what I'm hearing is scary. Dare I reinvent - that's not the right word - myself at this late stage of the game? Am I mixing too many metaphors?

Incorrigible

This time I wasn’t going to turn around and go back. That line means so much in so many different ways.  

This time I was going to keep going, and even if I looked back, it would only be briefly, in the way that one should walk in the woods, always turning to look back the way you came, so that you can recognize the your path from both directions. 

This time I wasn’t going to feel bad about my decision. I’d made it. That’s what mattered.

I tend to worry and wobble and waffle a lot. Should I or shouldn’t I? I run through the myriad variations of what could happen IF....   

I’m really good at talking myself out of things. But lately, something’s shifted in me. 

Maybe it’s age. I’m coming up on what some folks call “double nickles” and for some reason it feels more significant to me than the big Five Oh. Maybe it’s because my children are all grown, and though not all gone (one is still in college and so will likely be home for a couple more school breaks), my days as FULL-TIME-MOM are over. 

Those may be contributing reasons, but I think the main reason is that after spending most of my lifetime doing for and being thoughtful of and working around others, I now want to do some of the things I want to do, whatever they may be, and irregardless of whether others (family, friends, complete strangers) may think.

Yesterday, when I kept driving, and then arrived at my destination, getting my campsite set up all by myself, I felt self-sufficient. Something I’ve not felt very often in my life. Instead, I’ve felt very dependent. Oh, I’ve had moments. But for the most part, I was always something–daughter, girlfriend, wife, mother–that defined me by my relationship with others. And as a result, that’s how I thought of myself. I never thought about what I would do if .... I could do anything I wanted. Because that’s never even been a concept I could relate to. 

What’s amusing though is that lately I’ve been thinking of myself as “incorrigible.”

incorrigible |inˈkôrijəbəl, -ˈkär-|

adjective

(of a person or their tendencies) not able to be corrected, improved, or reformed: she's an incorrigible flirt.

noun

a person of this type.

That is not something I would have ever thought of myself as in the past. Incorrigible. Or a flirt for that matter. Hahaha. 

Where was I? Sorry, I got lost in a bit of a reverie. 

And the trees behind me are reflecting on my laptop screen and its pretty. And it’s kinda nice to not be connected to the rest of the world. What I hear is this: someone driving in stakes for a big tent that will provide shelter if it rains (I’m at the Maine Primitive Gathering), someone else setting up their own tent while talking to their neighbor, crickets and cicadas and rustling leaves, the occasional car going by on the road, voices and occasional laughter. A small plane far off. The birds are quiet right now, but I imagine they’ll make their presence known later. 

There is no particular point to this post. It’s just me realizing that my life has shifted, and I’ve shifted with it. I still get triggered by situations that evoke memories of past difficulties (there’s a euphemism if there ever was one, hahaha) and react in ways I wish I didn’t. But I do tend to chill once I recognize where my reactions are coming from. In the meantime I may have pissed off and/or upset folks. Or at least exasperated them. Tough. I have to stop apologizing for being who I am. 

I want those people who like/love me to like/love me for who I really am. In all my incorrigible glory. Yes, glory. I’ve hid that side of me for far too long. You know that feeling that just makes you want to burst with overwhelming joy? That feeling that makes you want to make love to the whole world - everyone and everything. That feeling. 

What’s that saying? Well-behaved women seldom make history. I bet they were incorrigible too.