Thursday, August 27, 2015

Embracing change

I'm having a strange, somewhat magical summer, but whenever a lot is happening in my external world it's hard to find the deep and creative stillness that my internal world needs in order to express itself. It's like I've lost the beginning of the yarn that I need to grab hold of in order to unravel the ball, to organize my reality and become a more conscious cause of my future rather than a gasping-fish effect of my past creations.

Before I got married and had kids, my life was spontaneous and dynamic and changed so fast I could barely keep up with myself. Someone told me that I had my "finger pressed on the jugular of transformation." That's what I felt like--I was all about the self; self-edification--self-absorption--self-awareness. Selfish, most certainly.

After I had kids, I did a 180 and entered a stage entirely opposite. I became unselfish; my baby always came first, and my individual identity was destroyed in favor of becoming mother-identity, a state of constant sacrifice and nurturing until there is barely enough to care for one's own needs. Because children need stability, I became stagnant, and it became near impossible for me to change, inside or out. Getting anything to happen at all was a Sisyphean task. I realized also that I had married someone who had never learned how to change, and had no interest in self-edification. And that when two people don't have an agreement to grow and evolve together, their default is to shrink together to the lowest common denominator of where they get along, and the sum of the two becomes something less than one individual + one individual.

Things gradually began to shift again when I moved to Minnesota two years ago and separated from my husband. I still felt constrained, and being a single mother I've been limited physically in so many ways--but in my consciousness I had freed myself from an old belief system about how much of myself I needed to give up when I was in a position of responsibility for others.

This summer has been about having my finger slowly find the jugular of transformation once again, and to press it, ever so slowly, so I can now feel the pulse of the blood, the flow of life. It's exhilarating and terrifying--we have so much power, but when we decide to take up the reins and start urging the horse to go faster, a lot can go wrong.

This post isn't much about writing...I've been a bit stuck in that arena lately, both with new projects and with marketing Dysmorphic Kingdom. I haven't done so much of what I should have, but that's the thing--I think that if I do something out of the energy of "should," I'll be fighting myself as I do it. If something isn't expressed in an energy of joy and abundance, it'll come back in the same penurious manner it went out on. That's what this post is about. That when we take the reins and invite our higher selves to let go into whatever their next steps may be, we have to be authentic about our desires and our feelings, which will always be indicators of speed bumps or blockages in the way of letting go, of manifesting.

I had this dream this morning:
I went to an auditorium where I lined up to get a five-minute psychic reading in front of three readers. I couldn't think of anything to ask, so I was going to ask some vague question about my future, and I was going to couch it in fancy language that felt kind of pretentious but sounded substantial. I moved up closer in the auditorium seats. When it was my turn, they put me in one of the seats to read instead of being read. I had taken the seat of my old clairvoyant program director, Wayne.
Then my sister was showing me things she'd done to damage some of my personal effects. I pretended I didn't care. For the most part I didn't, until she showed me my stuffed animal rabbit with the checkered bodysuit. She'd done something to make the rabbit's head really skinny. I got really upset and I started hitting her on the head with the stuffed animal rabbit I was already holding, a much fluffier bunny.
This is the first dream I've remembered in a while. Remembering it is a sign that I'm going internal. The dream itself--both scenes are about me being pretentious about something in order to keep up a certain image. Then being authentic instead.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Knowing when to say no

This is my monthly post for the Insecure Writer's Support Group.

We grow up with a lot of conflicting messages from our parents, our peers, school, etc. Share, we're told. Be nice. Do what I tell you. Don't lock your bedroom door ever again. Then, in very limited contexts--within the stark rules of sports and other games and competitions, we're told to go all out and try to beat everyone else, to be the best, to win.

Negotiating these messages is our process of forming boundaries. I know that the way mine formed was flawed--that in many ways I formed none at all. Instead of a strong self-concept that asserted its right to its own space, I erected walls of competition, behind which I writhed in an agonized self-devaluation that had never learned that it wasn't the property of anyone affected by it.

Saying no makes people upset, but without establishing those boundaries, everything of value in ourselves erodes away--up for grabs by anyone whose eye it catches. We get an ephemeral validation from pleasing another, but at what cost? Eventually, there's nothing left.

Monday, July 20, 2015

Novel release and an oblique commentary on idiocy

Odd how I have so little to say during times when so much is happening. I feel like I'm skimming on the surface of a pool that's covered with a layer of acid. There is something uncomfortable about the process of settling into the pool, but it's even more uncomfortable expending the effort to stay in the air above.

My novel has been released! In print form, at least. We're still finalizing the ebook. Here it is:

The blurb:

Vesper is a scientific-minded young woman living in the kingdom of Malland. When she finds a detached talking penis in the woods, her sheltered life with its wistful fantasies of change explodes into chaos as the penis chases her home, wrecks her sister’s engagement party, and causes a scandal so costly that it results in Vesper’s forced engagement to a wart-faced widower who agrees to pay her family’s debt.

Vesper flees her engagement, hoping for a reward when she returns the penis to his owner—the royal prince, no less. But she discovers that the penis isn’t the only talking body part flying around the kingdom. People everywhere are falling victim to a magical disease that causes body parts to fall off and animate, and Vesper finds herself fighting an evil plot to create an army of body parts and a society of denial and control, one that deals with all problems by severing them.
It's available in print here, and soon in e-book form.

*sounds of weak and anticlimactic cheering in background*

I have some vague plans to try to market locally, although I confess very little enthusiasm for the job. I wrote this thing in 2012. Aren't we done with it already?! most of me keeps asking. I have a back burner that's cracking under the weight of objects piled haphazardly atop, some of my favorite projects crushed under the weight of other things that vibrate more urgently with the demands of others.

I've started reading Jean-Paul Sartre's The Family Idiot, Vol. 1, which is supposed to be Sartre's exploration of whether it is possible for us to free ourselves from our cultural conditioning and embrace some transcendental and radical freedom. Ironically, I lost my copy of this when I succumbed to peer pressure and agreed to be an extra for a scene in the movie Wilson. It was one of the most painful days in my entire existence, during which I was treated as an object, given no food or water or bathroom breaks for five hours and counting, and during which someone moved my book and then no one would let me look for it or find it as I was brushed off like a gnat. Realizing that I would actually pay money to leave, I snuck off set unpaid and vowed never to not listen to my intuition again. I was enslaved by my societally-imposed morals and my cultural conditioning--I freed myself in the most furtive of ways. I lost the Family Idiot--but only the process of becoming one.

This is how I've frittered away my days...

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Insecure writer amidst chaos

This is my monthly post for the Insecure Writer's Support Group.

It's been a chaotic month. I have a bit too much on my plate. I'm enjoying it, mostly, all except for the part about how my dog who I once considered perfectly behaved has been shitting on the carpet when I leave her for two hours ever since I went on a road trip to California that I just returned from.

I'm still planning to do Camp Nanowrimo, but have no idea what I'm going to work on and where on earth I'm going to find the time for it.

Weak-ass blog post, sorry. Isn't it weird how the more we have going on, the less we have to say, sometimes?


Tuesday, June 2, 2015

If you build it, they might come, but some of them will definitely go

This is my monthly post for the Insecure Writer's Support Group.

One of the loveliest things about being a writer is I get to express a little piece of my soul every time I compose something, whether it be an article, a post, a story, a novel. How many people are so lucky as that--to be able to expose themselves in all their rawness, to be witnessed and validated? We all have a need to be seen--and writers make that need a little bit easier to meet.

The problem is when people see you and they don't like you.

I'm thinking about all the people who agreed to beta-read my novel, Dysmorphic Kingdom, which is finally going to be published this summer.

Some of them loved it. Enough of them, and I am so grateful for them.

Over half of them couldn't finish. Some of them told me so--that they just couldn't finish, or they couldn't find the time. Some of them simply never spoke to me again. It's not that I've completely lost those relationships, but with a huge elephant in the room that is my partially read manuscript, rejected for reasons unknown and never spoken of again, it's hard to move forward with a relationship in a productive direction.

An author I admired greatly, who I consider one of the most amazing SF/fantasy writers I've ever read, offered to exchange novels-in-progress with me. I loved his and told him so in great detail. As for mine...he said that he didn't have anything to say about it. And that was that.

Don't take it personally, I've learned. But what about the elephant? What about my relationships? What about the fact that they've seen a raw piece of your soul, and they don't like it? Have nothing to say about it? Cannot bear to speak to me again after seeing it?

I remember I cried when my ex-husband, back when we were married, told me he would try to read one of my stories that had been published in an anthology. He bookmarked it, but he never read it. The only thing he ever ended up trying to read of mine was an email (not addressed to him).

I started seeing someone who expressed interest in reading my writing. I'm a little ashamed of the desperate gratitude with which I began to bombard him with my stuff. See me, I begged. And a layer below that--please like me.

He said while reading it that it seemed like it wasn't sub-par. He finished...and he said nothing. I haven't asked.

We are not our writing. Our writing cannot be liked by everyone, and of course, what matters most is the expression, the art, the sublimation of reality into story. But people who are writers are usually doing it because they can't not do it. It is personal, and we would be falsely separating ourselves from the experience of that by claiming that it's not. I suppose all we can do is to feel the loss of relationships with people who cannot for whatever reason engage with our work, and to allow those emotions to fuel further story.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Thoughts from dreaming time

You know how sometimes when you start talking, you don't actually know how you're going to finish your sentence, but something runs on ahead and organizes your ideas and your words right before they come out of your mouth, so it all makes sense...

Lately, that something has been taking a vacation, so when I start talking, oftentimes the sentences aren't finished for me and I end up stammering, idea half-expressed and with no idea how to complete it.

I've been going to cafes to try to work out scenes for this or that writing project, but I sit there mostly staring into space, and disparate bits of story emerge from here and there, but it's like trying to pull a really soft noodle out of a pile of spaghetti--no matter how gently you work, it just breaks off and you're left with an inch of noodle hanging from between thumb and forefinger. Not enough to make any sense of your noodles.

A man I loved thirteen years ago died last month...when I found out, I cried for two minutes and then just felt annoyed. I've told myself many times that any emotional experience can be sublimated into a story, allowing oneself to detach from the emotional charge and yet grow from the experience. My problem is that I don't really feel much at all about this. So I have no story to raw material to organize and make sense of...I don't even have a pile of spaghetti to try to pick soft noodles out of!

I have this what it means to be happy? That I'm unable to think clearly or produce anything? That I'm an uninspired lump? Do I truly need extremes of emotion in order to create the mental momentum to linearize reality into story--either nonfiction or fiction?

Of course, there is never just one answer--just another frequency, another point of view. I posit that we all need these hours or days or weeks of mental and emotional dormancy. It's dreaming time, and we need it for healing, for recharging, for backing off from old patterns so when we wake up we can operate according to something new...

Something I've been thinking about lately as well...I've been reading Foucault's History of Sexuality, which isn't actually about sex--it's more about how our culture has constructed sexuality into a means to realizing truth, a means to liberate ourselves, to find ourselves. We've built sexuality into a thing of polarities and mystery and taboo and obsession and identity, when actually it's just this normal, natural thing we do with no special properties toward facilitating self-actualization. What has actually created the truth-finding ego-defining aspects of sexuality is the discourse, the patterns, the set-up of polarities of repression vs. liberation.

With this in mind--I've been thinking about how there is no truth inherent in any subject at all. The truth lies in the discourse, the patterns created by the narrative. The truth isn't in the subject of a story, but in the telling of it...Truth lies in function, not form--in the creation of a history, of relationships, of aspects of one part to another. There is no truth to define save the history itself.

It's the same way that anything is a hologram of the entire universe. Any one separate part, any one aspect of the universe can be developed into a replica of the macrocosm--we can find truth in any separated piece of the whole. It's why we can find truth in astrology, palmistry, iridology--or any of the more established "sciences"--it's why we can find it in a leaf or a cell or an atom. The truth lies not in the subject, but in the discourse created about and around the subject.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Beyond reasonability

In my last post, I talked about two beings that exist inside of me and switch dominance every so often--one being, Unreasonable Colleen, ruled by emotion--and the other, Reasonable Colleen, who is ruled by thought.

Unreasonable Colleen emerged in the past couple days and has been feeling kind of shitty. She's spent a lot of time yelling at her kids to clean up and stop fighting, all the while feeling intensely guilty for not being nicer. She also did a couples massage and became really invalidated because her massage partner got alarmed and lectured Colleen at what she considered a massive breach of massage etiquette on Colleen's part--because most massage schools teach you that you should always keep a continuity of physical contact with your client, and Colleen doesn't pay much attention to that sort of thing. Especially since she wasn't connecting with her client on any other level either. But Unreasonable Colleen is particularly sensitive to being judged, and she thought about how she tries to be such a good person but manages to piss off multitudes of people nevertheless, and she imagined for an abyss-like, breathless moment what it might be like to hear all the negative things people have ever said about her. Then at home she feverishly push-mowed the lawn, trying to drown out the voices with a couple hours of unpleasant physical labor.

Unreasonable Colleen is still a little bit in residence, but tempered somewhat by the presence of Reasonable Colleen alongside her, who keeps reassuring her that all the pain of being pure traumatized emotion will pass. And here's what we ran across together tonight, from this book we've started reading--Relationship & Identity, by David Spangler:
All bodies, all vehicles, have certain needs and certain motivations, and each of our different bodies are no exception to this rule. It is also true that all forms of energy are living intelligences, are actually entities of some kind or other, and each of our bodies is again not an exception to this rule.
The emotional body creates the energy of motion--attraction and repulsion, "I like it" and "I don't like it." The mental body creates the energy of direction, by creating thought-forms toward which we will ourselves. Both of these elemental bodies find identity outside themselves.
Probably ninety five percent of what we call the spiritual path is composed of learning how to identify oneself with the soul in such a way that the soul takes control over these elementals and in essence absorbs them or disperses them or destroys them, so that you are not four or five different beings, struggling to work together but part of the time moving off in different directions: the astral elemental wanting this, and the physical elemental wanting that, and the mental elemental wanting something else. But you are one being, purely. You move with that singleness of identity, and that is a source of incredible--in fact, total--creative power.
When we hunger for something, when we feel either lack or desire, it's ultimately a reflection of a basic hunger for the purity of being.
Purity...refers to the ability of a being to enter into a state of silence, a state of non-activity in the moment, that it can stop and consider what it is experiencing and what it is that is motivating it, and begin to sort out the different levels of motivation and being to integrate them, so that its actions proceed not from the levels of personality which tends to see things from a rather restricted point of view--whichever point of view is holding the reins in the moment, either the emotions or the mind--but begins to see things from a more total point of view, the embracing point of view of the soul, the rhythm of the inner divinity, and begins to move in such a way that the needs that are met are true needs and they satisfy all levels.
I think this is a nice answer to my agonized question about how to mediate between my states of being. We can take all our desire and channel it toward a desire for wholeness, and we can create a few thought-forms that say that we can trust ourselves--maybe just a little bit. Giving the two parts of myself something in common to work for, they can start to find the bridges to synthesis.