I realized, most horribly, that my ranting in this blog is most certainly due to my frustration with work that I vent in other ways. As though I displace a lot of my own stress and anxiety or fear onto other people.
I mean, hell, I dislike babies because I think they're fucking with me. And I gotta say, I just can't convince myself that they're not manipulative little troublemakers. People don't give babies enough credit. They know what's up.
*Sigh*. It's exhausting living in my head all the time. I focus more on personalities and drama and story lines and ideas and inspiration than I do on being fully aware of my surroundings.
I gather this might be why when I connect with the very occasional someone on a cerebral and sexual level I remain wholly oblivious to important other factors until far after everyone else would have seen them coming. *Face palm*
I still haven't totally moved in. Most of my furniture is still in Vermont and not here, which is giving my apartment an ever-more-empty feel to it as things get sorted and put away. But, I like the space to dance around and move in, and I don't ever have to draw my shades.
If I don't have somewhere to go or someone to meet, I just work. I change venues to somewhere I can walk to so I can work, and if I have an office I need to be at regularly (or classes to attend), I live within walking distance or short biking distance or move to such a spot as soon as is feasible, mostly regardless of cost (provided I can afford it). Luckily I have friends and family that call me and invite me to do things, or else I might get sort of scary. Like, not showering or leaving the house for days at a time, and not answering calls. OMG I realize that I've always been this way. Whether living on Midway or in Eugene, Hawaii, Washington, Vermont, San Diego or here in Portland.
I sit in workout clothes or my underwear and type, getting up to do yoga, lift weights, take a walk downstairs, get coffee and my one meal of the day, and clean or straighten my new place. I jam on my dulcimer, paint, put on music, excessively hygiene, read my novel (The Dirty Dozen currently), and write in this blog– all to entertain myself and keep from monotony.
Getting paid to write for someone is on some level akin to getting paid as a model. Models use their body and looks to sell products, while paid business writers use their minds to sell products. The effects are similar: Models can get huge egos because they know how uniquely hot they are as individuals, as affirmed by the fact that they get paid for it. Writers can get egos because they know how uniquely creative and smart they are, as also affirmed by the fact that they get paid for it.
I say that in a sense of mockery of the system, of course. Although there is a sense I get sometimes pick up on when I tell people I'm a writer that I must be holier-than-thou. People think I'm "lucky"; but really? I don't have a roommate anymore and I stay at home most of day writing in a one bedroom flat downtown.
Maybe I write all this because I long for someone to read it and see through it to my soul that's so clearly attached to it and to love me for it anyway.
Gawd, a person did do that once. Spawnsong. From Livejournal. I had never met him in person and pretty much chased him down. I mean, like moved thousands of miles with the hope in the back of my head that we would meet and be in love forever. Well, those things are both true, although I think our liaison in life may turn out to be purely spiritual. I never gave it too much consideration after our whole thing exploded and nearly destroyed my life with Amariah. Amariah just would never understand, although I really think he tried, and I love him for that probably even more. Sometimes I wonder at the shit I put him through. WTF, Raine. You fucking bitch.
I deign to wonder if the reason I so swiftly bowed out of my otherwise sweet association with Ruth/Josiah (either of them and both) was because I could so easily see them as my downfall. They both had pieces of my heart in different ways and I can't see that as any more than a bad thing.
What's sad is that even in writing that realization, I still can't see it as anything but bad. But maybe I'm just not thinking hard enough into it (willfully?). All I know is, they each got too close. I still can only see that as ending in devastation. I feel relieved that I didn't let it, despite the fact that thinking of Ruth for whatever reason sends me pangs of disappointment sometimes. I connected with her so much. I had so many stars in my eyes about her.
I see now why Sole is playing it safe. You can build a life with someone that way. It's a kind of love that comes from friendship, empathy and compassion; rather than passion, soul-bearing, and exquisite pain.
For sure that's a big part of why I have a recurring fantasy to just up and marry someone who looks good on paper and is a loving friend who I could have a fun life with. I don't care if s/he (they?) is (are) the "Love(s) of my life". The real passion of my life has always been writing. Always. As long as someone could support me unconditionally with that passion, I would give him/her/them the same for whatever s/he/they want too, to the ends of the earth.
* * *
Raine has always been my alter-ego. The earliest I remember coining it was like age 10, and I've kept it. Raine is like my conjoint twin in personality: We have the same roots and the same body and experiences, and we've grown together. Raine is my creative persona; my "Slim Shady", "Jay-Z", "Madonna", "Shakespeare", or perhaps most suitedly, my "Anonymous".
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment