Tag Archives: writing

I need to go back to school.

A grey morning greets me at the window, whilst stones charged by the moon await sharing their properties with those who are open to them. i was reading evaluations i received while attending ucsc, the word “good” was a frequently used word, and “versatility” a compliment. writing isn’t my strong suit. copying seems to be. i copy people around me, their mannerisms, like a mirror. i’ve read about a thing called mirror neurons, that we all have them, but i mostly imitate, and unintentionally. it just happens. i wonder if it’s due to a lack in my own personality, or is it insecurity? i don’t know what it is. i sketched a tree on friday. drawings are mostly self portraits. i have not mastered realism nor the ability to detach from a drawing i’ve drawn. i’m so self critical. it’s no wonder a majority of my followers are self help oriented bloggers, which i don’t mind and will occasionally read an article. i’m stuck in this loop of self hatred, it’s getting old, but i feel like i am breaking free from it. priorities. values. all things i need to really meditate on and establish if i’m going to get anywhere in life. i wish i was back at work, focused on problems to solve i get paid in solving. it’s tiring but somewhat fun. maybe i should just work and move out of my parents house. i really don’t know what to do. i am caught in a capitalist system with little resources and income. yet, i have no problem with abundance. well i do, but it shows up in different ways. i have an abundance of problems, of books i want to read. i am attracting all of this. why? to feel needed? wanted? useful? who cares. i’ve put myself in this position for a reason and i need to put myself out of it. i’m in a constant state of want, as all people are, we are desiring beings. i feel gross and sad. i remember poverty, real poverty, when i was younger, and the strange sensations it made me feel. a dark emptiness. in retrospect i should be thankful and happy with what i have. that i am not poor as i have experienced before. or miserable and married. now i’m just miserable and single. ha. each has its pros and cons. this blog is mainly me complaining about the same thing. free writing therapy sessions and if that interests you, sweet, if it bothers you, well, do what you feel necessary to make it not bother you.

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sun daze

a stone revealed that we teleport in transportation, transient transitions different scenes and scenery, redundant redundancy, ample amplification of misery, brought upon by the week set before me, mathematical beauty lost in markings made by mad musicians and physicists looking to psychics carried by fabric pieces lost in sheets sang by neutral milk hotel heard in a bell that fell from fives stories high to the ground repeated words genetics flow through me, all of this was said before me, computer coding and technology threw the wrench in the proverbial gears of the machine that runs everything, natural versus artificial edifices, we’re all a drifting conscious set to consume and buy, i miss my teen years when weeks weren’t as feared as they are now, and how i’d like to build a time machine a man and i said we would build one on a screen but never did, it was a lie, men lie all of the time. a reader in qatar is quite far to learn different languages but i already know them all, my mind has yet to reveal this to me, for now i am plagued with being unable to see, i’ve blinded myself from seeing the truth and instead talk nonsense and do nothing of use. carefully carved architecture designed to greet the eye with a point of reference, direction to a designated space, circumference, angled boxes that entrap us, protect us and act as a fortress, i’d rather stay asleep on a mattress i found a photo of a relative in old age laying in bed with a book in hand i miss my eccentric uncle that lives in a victorian home darkened by time that creaks when stepped in and says goodbye, i’ve been given things in increments and on silver platters in retrospect, but in the present everything is just a choatic mess, even the way i dress shows lack and laziness. forget about my hair, it has a mind of it’s own, grey hair is starting to grow. tired and cumbersome is what i am becoming, i have a gift in making things complicated and am constantly complaining. i can gather data but it’s sorting and sifting and making something creative or something of beauty that eludes me, i’ll take what i can get.

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on dated material

WHAT i love about the claremont library is their collection that mixes both recently published works and works published from the past, not a republished past publication, but the book manufactured and made during the time it was published and has been kept in it’s original form on the shelf. there is something special about these books that are sprinkled among the collection of recent works. as a literature major at the community college, it was this desire to bridge past intellectuals/writers with the present which has led me to the study of classical latin, ancient works. but i found the actual historical study of them to be quite boring. the study of the poetry, language itself, i found interesting, and the way the language works, is formed. i recall one of my professors recommending i become a linguistics major. as i’m reading noam chomsky’s language and mind lectures, i am again faced with dated material but find there is still relevance in what is discussed. i don’t know if it is adhd, but i get distracted by the language, the book itself, and the historical point it represents. the subject itself is one i’m not familiar with, so it is difficult to understand, as it was mostly intended for psychologists and psycholinguists. i’ve met a few people with photographic memories and to them i say “fuck you.” if only we were all blessed with photographic memories, how advanced everyone would be! intelligence is a curse it would seem, or it is often associated with assholes, i’m not too sure what the correlation is there and i can only pull from a pool of intelligent people i’ve encountered. morality. i’m a mere imitation. a pseudo intellectual like my ex husband. i find pseudo science entertaining, and some quite convincing. the bookstore i worked for in santa cruz had an entire section dedicated to metaphysics, ufos, and all of that, or books like a “course in miracles.” my exposure to these has only caused my brain from a descendant of schizophrenics to be further confused and confounded by it all.

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a walking work of poetry

i dreamt of a book, each page contained words that fell across the page and onto the floor, their weight was light and lifted then went back to inked form. i checked out books on linguistics and chinese proverbs. i struggle in communication so i figured books on linguistics would help. the book of chinese proverbs was a matter of serendipity. it was a beautiful day today in the san gabriel valley. i went to a store in glendora called phenomenal love and bought stones to help strengthen/align my chakras and clear my aura from negative energy. i don’t remember the last time i felt light, non-depressed. i think i have been this way my entire life. always low. i don’t know why. perhaps i’m paying karmic debt. i’ve felt happy, but once i hit middle school the depression sank in and has never left. i also checked out a book of short stories by anton chekhov. the muscle, the voice, all get better with use over time. no linguistic book is going to help me, but something like that was said in there. i’m puzzled by puzzles and my job feels like a puzzle yet there’s no sense of accomplishment because everything is in process. i work all day on a computer i’ve become robotic. when i worked at macy’s in capitola there were weird individuals to draw inspiration from. here there are nothing but similar people, wearing similar clothes with similar dead dreams, working for a machine. why do i find myself here, yet again? i’ve gone from working at prestigous schools to a warehouse job to a bookstore. everything is illusory. beaches aren’t all what they seem neither are trees that don’t move yet see everything. boring mundane people try to make their life interesting but life interests me when love rears its ugly-beautiful head. love is so funny, and always appears when least expected. but it doesn’t, it’s right there when you look for it. it’s everywhere. couples walking in parks, climbing up barks, barking like dogs, but dressed nicely and smoking pot.

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on becoming my own boss

I need to be my own boss. getting up every morning for someone else, doing nonsensical, convoluted, pointless work that gets petty and where some people get nasty, forgetting that they are human beings with free will and the choice to do good, be good, and bring goodness to the world is making me feel tired and heavy. i’ve lived with this heaviness for a few years now but it feels more obvious to me now that i am working at a job i do not care for. i have made a goal to myself to write on this blog every day to improve my writing (i know in a previous post i said i would stay away from computers altogether, but it is something i will need to gradually come off of). i want to go back to school and finish my degree. i was a better writer in college, period. exposure to great writers and getting critiqued on works helped me tremendously. i have yet to find my own voice. i have one that comes out but it mostly doesn’t make sense and not something i wish to classify or put into a box. i’m an introvert, extroverts can go suck an egg, i am surrounded by them at work and it is exhausting. i don’t understand how people can be so nonstop in their talking and get energy from people. not to throw shade, but i am the opposite and get my energy from being away from people. i have a vision board that i am working on with various goals and aims, and phrases. i do believe in the power of manifesting, and have always been able to manifest. i manifested this job, so i will manifest becoming my own boss and bringing in my own income. negative thoughts and doubts are already plaguing my mind, but i know i can overcome them. i believe there is a muse, zone, where creativity comes forth and i have experienced it first hand, most of it is work though, and something i need to practice and keep doing, even if it is shitty. i don’t care how average my work is, well i do, but it is something i must do and keep doing. how easy it is for me to start a spark, but it’s keeping the momentum that is the trouble. i crash and burn. that is part of life, i suppose. but i don’t want to seem/sounds/be defeated. i’m not done and i do have things to accomplish, i have yet to try oil paints, i have yet to write a novel or a comic book. i wonder if these things are even something i want to do that i’ve put them off. or am i just lazy. i don’t want to be motivated by money. it’s no question that i must do art, drawing, the process despite the outcome. but i don’t want to spend my whole life questioning whether i am an artist or not. i just need to do it.

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deep and distant

a vintage piece worn by entangled hair knotted up on top torn on a sheet of paper rifting between reality shadowed leaves on a wooden fence a breeze shifts moving making moves among the leaves, bright light rests yet sharpens, it dwindles it illuminates, it awakens it makes things hot or warm yet cooled by air controlled rooms instead of sitting i flew from another point of view to see below everything i knew, in dreams you’re at a distance always, the witch’s spell cast that barrier yet these words can easily break them into nonexistence your simply an apparition an imagination a romanticized eccentric and you know it but i hear the coughing of an old man tired from life that all he can do is nothing with his hands but watch himself age, time frames we’re in a year that has lost all meaning it merely collected. i’ll stand here, deep and distant from every notion i once thought i knew, and still know, and let it dissipate into butterflies, joy aching cries, can something great come from something stupid? what kind of person questions this, get lost in an abyss of confusion creating simple squares that fit into pairs but i thought by breaking up lines it would be better to rhyme instead i’ll clump it into one piece and button up my blouse that lays sheer upon my skin, like floating among the clouds. a lost impression among many impressions made by empresses who all look the same. a robin factory run by lost dreams, empty headed angels bursting at the seams because of hope they keep going and try to prove that they are something but no one cares, it’s worth noting, that i am aware but life is being, in pursuit of something. not just nicely parted hair with eyebrows down and a big ass to go around. where is this going? i’m back to not knowing and to wondering and going no where, there is progress the idea of it stands still on the other side of the room, waving hello, but when approached i look the other way with my eyes closed shut too afraid to face this man that lies an inch away from my face. is it G-d? is it love? is it myself? it is the pain caused by a pimple on my chin that popped up in the guise of the stress, or was it stress guised in the form of a zit? emotionally draining days that form chapped lips while the meds have kept my anger at bay, to be among the bay the beaches and waves, let it wash me away into the distance, the grey.

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a repressed artist

I always dream interesting dreams but then forget them immediately upon waking and it is back to this boring reality/existence called life. it’s 8:50 am and there is so much potential in a day. i could shower, get dressed, take the train to the beach and enjoy the waves. or i could shower, get dressed, do laundry, meal prep for the week, make a painting, organize my living space, etc. i instead have chosen to write. i woke up thinking of the missed opportunity with an artsy architect. i actually miss craigslist. as much as there were weirdos and freaks to be found on there there were some decent, interesting people also. why am i waking up complaining? i have a job i complained about wanting and now that i have it it is something i don’t want and will complain about. it’s too much work and the supervisor is mean. she’s bitter and just plain mean. probably from working there so long and ready to retire. but despite all of that, i will not give up or quit. i look at my job like constant waves that i need to surf/navigate and i am still learning. making art is the only outlet for a mundane existence. or maybe actual surfing is. before i went crazy i was doing a lot of meditation while listening to music intended to open your third eye/chakras. seek and you will find, ask and you shall receive. the world opened to me made sense at the time, i wish there was some way i could make sense of it now and make a comic book out of it or novel. or maybe i will let it remain a memory and just move on with my life. i struggle with anxiety and here i am with a giant latte from starbucks, and wonder where the anxiety comes from. i don’t want this to become a self-deprecating post but that’s where my mind often goes. self-hatred. the idea of loving oneself eludes me. i’m a repressed artist. i think anyone is capable of being an artist. but actual artists need to do art in order to live, like breathing. i have to write or paint or draw, otherwise i am just down and depressed. maybe i should take an art class. after years of isolation i have plagued myself with anxiety. i can’t even drive on the damn freeway without feeling the onset of a panic attack. even taking my nephews to the movie theatre gave me anxiety. maybe it is the use of too much computer all my life. i’ve always been glued to this thing. even at 13, i used the computer to chat with friends or read blogs. maybe i need to break away from the computer and re-aquaint myself to the “real world.” that’s nearly 20 years of constant computer use. that can’t be good for a person. and i don’t exaggerate. maybe i will devote the rest of this year to work, which is on a computer, constantly, and to writing, drawing, painting for the remaining hours i have in the day during the week. that means i would break away from this blog and all social media, which i have already, to some degree.

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my half-assed review of “Shazam!” or never again….

CAN you take us to see shazam auntie? my adorable faced nephew asked at 7 in the morning when i haven’t had my coffee yet and i’m on the way out. um, yeah i said with slight hesitation. that sealed the deal, i couldn’t change my answer as much as i wanted to after long logical thought about all the reasons going to see this movie was a bad idea. as predicted, the mass crowd, the loud ass speakers, terrible humor, action-packed fighting sequences and explosions all to distract about 100 people for two-three hours on a friday night from doing more useful things with their time. entertainment? mind control? mass control? that’s where my mind goes, but that’s probably because i’ve watched too many conspiracy theory videos. i sat in a two-seat section and was alone while my nephews sat away from me in another two-seat section until some goofy 19 year old basically jumped in the seat next to me, reeking of some weird cologne or deodorant and asked do these seats recline. i didn’t say anything. i don’t know how to talk to people let alone hormone filled teenagers still full of life and hope. i’m your typical weirdo, and i felt weird and out of place seeing this movie. when i was married my ex-husband loved going to these blockbuster films on opening day when there were large crowds and excitement. that’s probably why i divorced him. anyway, it was cute, cool, action packed, fun and genuinely funny at some moments. the fact that they put a dingy gentleman’s club in the mix was entertaining, or when the 13-year-old in a 30-year-old body asked a liquor store clerk for their finest beer. the guy who plays the wizard was cool and made me want to laugh. and i laughed when a lady disintegrated after touching a magical doorway into the wizard’s realm or whatever the hell it was. that being said, i never liked nor will ever like cgi. okay, never say never. i was always opposed to computer art until the comic 1602 was given to me and the art in that book was computer drawn. well, human drawn using computers. and i adore that comic book. so i have yet to appreciate cgi, although it is getting better with time, the artificiality of it is distracting. overall the film was fine, it was entertaining, just, next time i will say no.

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sunday stream

i once spent a day in a castle made with garbage called rubelia here in glendora, twice i visited and twice i was entertained by talented musicians far from mundane. young people are attracted to artsy things, they’re the innovators or muses to those who innovate and create. two pink roses peek their colors outside beneath the shadows caused by bright light from the sun beaming on southern california. things often left out in the sun either grow or spoil, we’re probably doing both simultaneously while getting older. i saw a movie yesterday so terrible about a “brilliant” writer that i cannot even write a half-assed review about it. my sentences are so fragmented you would think i was hung over but i’m mostly medicated. my brain is susceptible to nonsense and gets distracted quite often. i’m a recluse and romanticized this person quite often throughout my life, the weird and the abandoned, the odd the unusual. i’ve loved them all greatly but little did i know i was one of them, or maybe i’m not, i’m torn between two worlds and wondering where i fit. so many inspirational quotes and self help guides plague my mind, too much reading of fiction has left me wanting works on algorithms. but even then my brain has slight and superficial interest, i’m only interested in the midas touch but i seemed to have been cursed with the reverse. i’m still figuring it out. what is art? what is poetry? what is constantly thinking? am i just lazy and avoiding doing things i need to do around the house? why haven’t i drawn or lifted a pen to sketch something. there are gaps, but who am i lecturing? i am playing with different narratives, just as there are different styles in drawing. i have yet to find my own but this is working, maybe my style is eclectic since i don’t associate with one thing. some i have control over and some of it is my subconscious speaking. an easter spent in santa cruz was worth remembering i was dressed in a peach colored blouse making other girls green with envy, but it’s all really silly. everyone has their own unique beauty. these are all just drafts of something better, right now you’re reading my stream of consciousness, should this even be published? most won’t read it or will find it boring but that’s okay since there’s no harm in trying. but i’m not really trying i’m just going with the flow of it.

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word flow

drifting tendrils down the ant hills spiraling until filled with ample abyss dismissed by space fruits lay supine against a porcelain vase. light shines reflecting off objects objected by protection against elements of prose, verse literature language i suppose spoken by dykes in boots and oversized jewels adoring their frail bodies in limp clothing in santa cruz. mundane properties suffocate my sight my breath and body i sit still like a statue plagued with time and dust attracting views with a microscope. child like fearlessness is what i have been graced with but not possessed with my anxiety holds me tightly this poetry is getting corny but i don’t care, really. you can stop reading here or keep going, life is filled with seriousness and childlikeness and corniness, it’s what makes it what it is, if you find this please leave with this: you lose all cleverness after age 21 but redevelop it by 81 i don’t know what i’m talking about since im near neither age and i always am in a daze like ptsd, a bomb flew by me and i haven’t been the same but i’ve never been to war it’s always been internal, the eternal chore of life and striving to realize something, but it’s always missing, even when married i felt it’s absence, the presence of the white picket fence didn’t fulfill this, then murdered by a protestor and his gas mask, tight t-shirt and tight pants, simply a douchebag, but i romanticize everything i guess that is what writers do to bear their existence of doing nothing, i’m overwhelmed by possibility how simple is this platform called blogging the very context ruins the content but allow me to spill my drink over it and seep through its fixtures in fragments i owned a typewriter once that wrote in cursive i was cursed by it’s inked bearings, faded print that left me wanting in a trip i wrote another trope. books align their spine exposed to walls and heroes that sift through them expecting to gain something but really you lose more of yourself no, that doesn’t make sense.

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