This Artist's Way

When I am not blogging, I am thinking about blogging. I finally got to the understanding that I do not have to be in front of my MacBook to blog. I have truly become mobile and created this post on the train going to work. I think I was sedentary about blog posts. I cannot look at the blogs I follow on the train, but at least I can post something new. The saddest thing in the world I think is to look at a blog and see nothing new has been written for a long time--even my own.

I have been busy in my non blogger existence and happily so! I have been very happy lately--I never question happiness. I finally embarked upon several writing endeavors, and people around me are happy. I am one of the most beautiful writers in theory. I do my morning pages every morning-- the only thing that I liked about The Artist's Way or I should say that I took away from it. I think I did not feel as challenged creatively as the audience that it was intended for, or maybe that was the way I felt about it. I write poems, fragments of stories, blog, but there is nothing really to show for my effort except smatterings here and there. Oh, and my delightful talent for trying to make writers out of people who never desired to be writers. One man I know is one of the most perceptive people I know, every time I talk to him he shows me something I have not seen before or gives me some thought I never had before. I asked him if he ever wanted to write and he asked me why would I ask him that--I am the designated writer in our rapport--I said because he is the most perceptive person I know and that is all a writer is. He said it is very different to get the words on paper. I think he can do it, I will keep nudging him...

What about me then? I think I have been doing it to some degree, but now I am trying to be more focused. A friend said to me that she could see me in Paris (where I want to go!) and that someone would take my picture because I would look so akin to the cafe atmosphere. If that picture is taken, my only hope would be that I am writing at the cafe with a latte on a very pretty stained doily...

Notions

I saw the movie Adam, and there was a scene where the woman that he is involved with has a conflict because he has Asperger's Syndrome. She says that she will never be able to look in his eyes and know what that they both know what the other is thinking. Right there in the movie theater, I thought that that did not really matter and I am pretty sure that it does not really matter.
When I read Cosmopolitan years ago, there was once an article questioning how important was it to be told by the man that you are with "I love you?" One woman said that her husband never said that he loved her but the things that he did for her (which she detailed but I cannot remember it was about 20 years ago that I read that article!) did not leave a doubt in her mind that he did. In Shere Hite's Women and Love, there were men who performed mind blowing acts of romance, but they were the same men who in other parts of the book were emotionally so withholding they left the woman that they were with cold.
My thought is that a man needs to show that he loves me more than say it. Words are hollow, and the only thing good hollow is chocolate. Even when if I bite into a hollow chocolate I feel a little disappointed...
I need to be with someone who makes me feel like he cares about me--flowers, romance, chocolate are not enough. His knowing what I am feeling is not enough either if he steps all over it. If a man knows I am upset and it does not alter how he is with me then what good is it knowing that he knows that? If he knows something seems wrong with me and he is not brave enough to ask me what it is, so what? A man that I really thought I wanted to be with, when my mother died he was so inept and did not know what to say. He thought he was a magician with me otherwise and was always telling me what I was thinking all of the other time, but he was full of it.
Romantic notions are not enough for me--I need concrete things that I can see. Gazing into someone's eyes is great. Not talking and "knowing" is lovely, but it is the things that you each do with that knowledge that make the difference to me.

Posting

I saw this post from my blogger friend Anna-Lys, I always gain perspective when I read her posts. I was so happy to see her again--it reiterated to me that we post as we like to and should not think we are or are not posting enough.

There has been a decline of my posts over almost three years, but it is fine with me. I still love blogging. My life became very different since I started blogging which is undefinable--change is good. But I am still for the most part the same, a span of life is undefinable.

This painting by Kramskoi was interpreted in the novel I am reading as a woman being alone in a carriage being such a bad thing for the time that it was done. I see this painting as a beautiful woman staring at the viewer defiantly--it is all the way that we see things is it not?

This blog is still my Clark Kent going in a phone booth. I see myself through several mirrors, those of people who know me and those of people who know me a little less and the eyes of people who read these posts who know my words. All of those reflections are me, every variation, all the similarities are me.

Aorta

I just dashed through two moments that caused people to know who I am because of writing and literature. I have always known I am a very private person, but I really know it now. I do not mind people knowing me--knowing of me--but at the same time I do not handle well people either asking me was that you? or how cool that was what you did! I am a writer, yes and I want stuff out there, of course. But I rather stay behind a screen and just produce the work...

Today I was planning on leaving the house and now I am not. I am here writing and really liking the idea that that is what I want to do. I have been writing since I was a child--it is my blood, it is my everything but sometimes it is the hardest thing for me to do. I am glad I still want to even. When my mother died over two years ago, the thing that I did for the entire day--when I was not catatonic--was write. I knew that it was the thing I had to do. If I did not write that day I am not sure that it was going to be like a bike. I am not sure that I was going to be able to get back to it the way that I did so immediately that day.

Writing has always been my savior, it has always been my veins--the thing that leads to my heart most directly. I just "taught" someone about poetry, he was telling me why he could not write even though he has. Words so passionate, so sensual that he shared with me, and I told him that poetry is your heart. He thought that was beautiful, but I am not sure he is going to write anymore and that is sad. He kept making excuses why he could not...I am familiar with those...

But not today.

Happening

In New York, the weather is unpredictable--hot and cold. A lot of rain. Last night I was walking in the kind of thunderstorm that there were flashes in the sky before even I suspected there was going to be the rain to come. For a second I was confused because coming out of the train station, where there was filming for the movie Remember Me on the platform which spilled down the stairs and onto the street--I thought the flashes were a special effect! Another reminder that all of my friends tell me I need to read Twilight, and honestly I am not a vampire lady. Though I did manage to read Eclipse over my neighbor on the train's shoulder (discreetly), and it was passionate. But I am not running to have a copy, I am reading this.

I need inspiration. I am in the midst of writing. This time I am serious about trying to work on a piece to be submitted. Everything happens when you need it too. So now I hope it is "happening." New York is the city to be in for that all of the time, is it overload? I love it, I am inspired and actually did write today some of the story--went with an passing thought--and here.

Joy.