On Processing Uncertainty

Well, this is what my professor called a "stunningly good" paper, which categorization she loosely defined as a n"ineffable fusion of author and topic." Essentially, it was me writing through my own terrifying mental block when it comes to writing essays of any sort. Its hard for me to have to admit that I'm not an intellectual. I'm too darn emotional to think logically about anything. There is some standard of clear thought and expression, somewhere, I am convinced--and I am convinced I eternally,invariably fall short.

Thus prefaced, feel free to dive in...

Rough, Bitter Prelude to Thought: Far too Freely-Written Perceptions of Personal Motivation, Inhibition, and the Illusory Goal of Perfection

So this is me. An awkward way to start a paper, I agree, and wholly unprofessional. Still, it is a rough draft, so perhaps I can temporarily get away with an ounce or two of informality—or whatever is the equivalent weight of two pages. But I digress. I intended to lean this introduction in the direction of this complicated writing process we will be discussing throughout the quarter. This is my recent last resort to initiate thought, when I can no longer assemble a competent outline from my shadowy, elusive jumble of oddly-associated thoughts--free-writing. Getting out the jumbled ideas in my dysfunctional brain, throwing them onto the paper, and sorting them out, piece by piece. Somehow I always get caught, though, in the sorting stage. As the apt and thus too oft-applied metaphor describes, I can't see the forest for the trees. Or to take a different view of the matter, I find myself, anchorless and compassless, attempting to navigate an ocean of undeveloped ideas. The concepts of perfection and motivation we touched upon in our class discussion prompted me to write about this struggle in an attempt to explore and identify the inhibitions I face whenever I participate in the writing process, and—perhaps—begin to identify possible remedies.

I want to get at all of my thought. I want to touch the innermost recesses, scrape the last details out of mildewing cracks and crannies and bring it under the scrutiny of daylight—I want to know it, own it, understand and impart it.

I think my largest mental obstacle has ever been a paralyzing fear of failure. I learned to confront this once, using my fear as motivation for my best desperate effort—and I grew to love the process and invest myself personally in the resulting satisfaction that I had done my best, and that my best wasn't bad. After receiving my GED, I became initiated into public school for the first time in twenty years. Spokane Community College soon became my burdensome blessing, as I struggled through English 101 discovering the painful fact that excellence in writing takes more than an extensive vocabulary. Construction is but the frame for content, and I felt as though I was missing the picture. But before I could learn to smear in the basic watercolors of content, structuring an argument with strong thesis, supporting points, and sufficient evidence, I needed to have an argument to prove. I needed to know my own mind—and I didn't. I held my opinions but gingerly, ever ready to give them up if they encountered criticism. In addition, I was terrified of failure, and choked on every essay I was forced to write in class. I wanted perfection, and I knew it was beyond my ability to attain—yet the fear of failure motivated me to continue trying, seeking help, and growing in my ability to communicate thought on paper. And it happened. I remember the day of breakthrough, when a fellow student reported to me that my paper had interested him enough to want to read it, despite his usual passive indifference to peer essays. I had at last received the belated revelation of writing's communicative nature. It was not a mere product to be graded, analyzed for its adherence to composition criteria; it had a higher purpose, that of social interaction and the exchange of ideas. Somewhere between my discoveries at SCC and my drudgery at Eastern, however, my apprehension and panic at the thought of failure began to derail my confidence. My introduction to literary criticism in Binney's poetry class revealed to me the shallow depth of my understanding of literature. Rather than seeing this as an opportunity to learn and grow, unfortunately, I felt a desperate need to force myself to understand concepts that I found incomprehensible in my mental panic. I was comparing my performance to that of others, striving to force myself up to their level of comprehension and meet my own definition of their expectations. I judged every paper I wrote by the grade it received—adequate, average. I took every instructional comment as a personal assessment. “Avoid [this stylistic or logical error]” became, to my mind, “You are a pretentious fool; you fail to understand the basic concepts you treat in your papers and superimpose your own definition of another's work.” I still believe this to be true; rather than seeking to understand completely in order to write honestly and competently, I assume my own inability to understand and compose a weak definition that partially engages the topic but invariably fails to do it justice. Every work I complete is unsatisfactory—after I read the final instructional notation, taking in only the negative, I file it away as further proof of the garbage I compose when I am neither personally invested in nor completely committed to the process. I may receive adequate grades for these papers, but I am constantly discouraged by the knowledge that it was a hopeless, half-hearted effort.
A second mental inhibition I have recently identified may be a contributing factor to the initial fear, and can be summarized in the statement “the more I know, the more I discern how little I know” or similar words to that effect. I understand the writing process less now than I did when I began my exploration, and it intimidates me more. I cannot write, because I know I do not know what I mean. Even after study and research, I only have a general grasp of the concepts I learn—not the deep understanding I feel I need for a competent and confident discourse. There is too much that is unfamiliar and vague, too much that I question, and the sheer volume of information and possibilities of direction often overwhelm my weakening resolve. I have come to the conclusion that my every thought is insufficient, and I must learn to think clearly before I can learn again to clearly write. It is an uphill battle of lost confidence, and I am never entirely convinced that it is not a Sisyphean effort. Having only a vague understanding of the information I receive, I get lost in the information itself without a controlling concept. I flounder and flail through my composition, grasping for the least flotation device. If it is full of air, it is still better than drowning.
Or is it? One of my fears, in composing an argument or interpretation of any sort, is that I will embrace an incorrect opinion or position with which others might disagree. Strike that; “incorrect” is a misleading term and does not describe my actual fear. What I fear is offering an opinion that is worse than “wrong,” of presenting an argument that is not even worthy of argument.

I think I may have identified a diagnosis: My problem is that I focus on my limitations rather than my abilities. I should stop worrying about what I fear I cannot do and attempt to do what I can. As we discussed, perfection is subjective. I should focus on my own abilities, not the abilities and expectations of others, and work toward improving what I have. I ought to take responsibility to plan for each assignment rather than approaching it with timidity and hesitation, and refuse to define myself by the results of the process. Finally, as Professor Wichman wisely impresses on her 201 students, I need to learn to trust the writing process, and to trust myself.

Renovation. my prayer.

Is it possible? Forgiveness?
Can bitterness sleep? Can--defeatism be defeated?
Will everything indeed be overturned and reconciled
Conquered--more than conquered--the worst of things,
even irreconcilable evil--madness

torturous wanderings, Jesus
Jesus, why is your name...sweetest
pain

because I have crucified you.

Jesus, you saw it, didn't you?
--and you suffered. you suffered, too.
you didn't make us to be whole without you.
you didn't come to show us what to do.
you came to be who
would bare our brokenness
and bear our brokenness
and your grace is sufficient
for such as we are
and your power is made perfect
in such as we are
and we are all hypocrites
we are all fools
riddled with darkness
sprinkled with holes
leprous, parched for a drink
somebody hurt us God what do you think
things like this break our minds, Jesus
things like this can terrify
if the almighty won't protect us who will
but you are in it all
you were there first
and when we see it
when will we see it
see your face
because you didn't make us to be whole without you
so we are all limping
and we are all broken
and sewing our fingers between every knuckle
and wondering why we can't ever be better
but you're only telling us, come and remember
eat this bread and drink this cup
of suffering
and I am with you
with you
you are not your own
not alone
come to me
and if you fall
fall on me

Throes of Precluded Glory (20th century rubbish)

emotion crawled like a wormy caterpillar across the page.
sadly
insufficient
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
changes
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
ot
io
n
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.

"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."

Ruminating before English 331 : Five Questions

How can I be everything to everyone I want to be?

How can I stop losing what I have before I know how to use it?

How can I stop fearing to do more than the menial?

How can I stop fearing to speak or touch anything deeper than the superficial surface?

How can I see to the heart of any matter, when I can't see past the matter of my heart?

A little thought, a little prayer these days.

"He speaks, and the sound of His voice/ Is so sweet, the birds hush their singing..."

I have been thinking about evangelism lately...I've heard, through my life, various approaches to this command. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father who is in Heaven" is a popular one, supported also by "Show me your faith without works, and I will show you my faith by what I do." I've heard it said that your life is a better witness than your words. I believe it. But to what is my life attesting?

I cannot speak the words of the gospel clearly if I do not believe them to the saving of my soul. Can my very soul be saturated with the very essence of God--can I die verily with Christ and live again only because He also lives--

God--

I'm getting married. and I am to be baptized next Sunday. How does this outward profession of faith and death and life and sanctification and covenantal symbolism affect my daily living?

to live is Christ. --but Christ and His gospel are often, to me, only intellectually accepted as truth, giving me no hope of holiness and no love for anyone. I don't understand the deep love of Jesus. I cannot believe that he would devote that sacred Head for such a worm as I.

but He did. humble me, Lord. humble me.

I think marriage will certainly be a learning experience about the sacrificial love of Christ for His church--not that I expect my husband to live it perfectly, but I know that I am already deeply grateful that my beloved chose me to love...chose me when I did not choose him, when I did not want anything to do with his love.

I hope I am beginning to see this a little more clearly. My life cannot reflect the gospel if my soul is not convinced of Christ's eternally enduring love. May I then abide in Christ...if He loves me, what or whom shall I fear?

neither death
nor marriage
nor procreation
nor student loans
nor childbirth
nor anything else in all creation

"...I am weak, but He is strong..."

amen.

As
the boy in the attic
tunes his guitar to another aspect of his soul
it fills the space, vitality trembles, trebles

the girl in the kitchen
fits the end of a bagel between her teeth
And wishes that she wasn't so cold
or May wasn't so extensive
or purity of heart so elusive

the recluse is gone, in her place
the ghost of what was sorrowful,
grateful,
now complacent.

chamomile tea, solution
in which dissolve
thought
action
conscience
love

Jesus is an intellectual concession
Sin is an unfortunate obstacle
innocence is ambitious, an assumption foregone
love is the momentary dictation

speak o heart

lying under your heavy blanket
cry infant submission
cry bloody conception, the water
and the blood

hyssop
and i shall be clean

And again of rain...

“I just want to hold you” --in the rain
, he spoke,
answering the hunger in her breast
for a tangible comfort.
She might have wept,
Was her ache a wound--
or emptiness, expectant to be filled?
a wound, and emptiness, for comfort
soothes and scathes.
She might have wept.

Tell her it will be for life.
Tell her life will be long.
Tell her she won’t die
, and you won’t die,
tomorrow.
Tell her she’ll see you again,
feel you again, someday
Tell her it is not
shameful
to be touched by love.
Tell her she will be made right.

She might
--she might--

“I just want to hold you...”
--she might have wept--
“...for a while.”
Tell her it will be for life.

Of rain...

I care, I trust, I learn
To take a part, to act the play.
I dare, I must, I burn
To make a portrait of that day.


An oil leak on tainted ice
No purity to smear
Repeated once, repeated twice
In water and in tear
The sky is falling
And nothing cleansed
A life is draining
And no one gains
As tears, that, streaming,
Relieve no pains

Forgotten in a vale become
A landfill of my days
Is promised rest, is promised home
Is crucifixion grace
A hope is falling
O Savior save
A life is dying
Into a grave
And I am coming
To be Thy slave

My mouth is open as a tomb
I weep against the wall
Within the silence of my room
I wrestle with my fall
My breath is failing
I cannot speak
My heart is longing
My body weak
My mind splintering
And I will break

Go on. It’s finished. Chosen course.
Exist as you see fit.
Moveless--I’m moveless, cannot force
Nor stir my heart to it.
My arms are sweeping
The dust in piles
Mindless measuring
My life in miles
Of mindless pacing
The bleach-washed tiles.

I’m spared--a storm, a brink
To break the cylinder of pain
I wear, I store, I drink,
I paint a plethora of rain.

By Wisdom Saved

Not silent. Silent, but heavy still
With weight of import and weight of will
And weight of sorrow and weight of care
And weight of nothing and of despair
And broken, broken, and now enough
Give me but courage and I shall love
So bleeds the fear through incision--slow,
Then leaves the heart in an overflow
Of grief that must find a language soon
Else it is buried alive, unknown
A worm corrupting, embittering
A blind farewell to a lovely thing
...Rain traces patterns in winding lanes
On hopeless faces and window panes
Pain traces patterns behind locked doors
Where music spins in her ears and pours
Finality, and a prayer is gone--
The tears walled in, and the mask put on...
A language, fingers and characters
A thought is his and a thought is hers
His, customary, to take the floor
Hers now to speak what she hid before
Trust. Should this step give beneath her feet
It is no less grave, but a grave more sweet.
Now finished, finished-- a peace revives
As scattered fragments of separate lives
Fall in together, a bridge between
A startled faith in the unforeseen
Bound and unblinded, or blind enslaved--
By pleasure threatened, by wisdom saved.

(Un-)Moved.

I've been away. I almost see no purpose in coming back today. I'm still not here. I go away every day, to a place separate from everyone, where I view them through a veil. They don't touch me. Half asleep, I watch them falling...I look down and wonder why I don't feel my broken legs. If my blood is no longer pulsing, how can I call myself alive? My anger is my guilt...impotent and infinite. I think I have the power and the right to condemn myself, give myself justice. I think I am unhappy because I am not the "better person" that I ought to be. I think I must rid myself of my selfishness to rid myself of guilt. I must do well and love others. I must strive for excellence in all things. When did I give up that quest? and again defeated. defeated, defeated, defeated. weakness is my birthright.

but I have no rights. and a desire to be better is insufficient and motivated by pride.
When shall I be moved by love?

birthright.

my God,
i have sought
i have naught

i asked You to kill me
i want You to love me

i want everything
i am nothing

my birthright is death
guilt
weakness
sin
hell

what have You given me but grace?
I despise it and ask for Your justice.
Be not gentle with me, i say
and know not what i say
the Lord is too gentle with me
i will punish myself.

i teach myself nothing
i attempt nothing
i accomplish nothing
i am nothing.

the noun of my soul is a motive.
the motive of my soul is not love,
but greed.
not love,
but pride.
not love,
but discontent.

why is nothing so heavy? i cannot move it.


today...

i drink the cup of emptiness
for want of love of you
your words fall worthless through my heart
my false is ringing true

should I have been anathema
forsaken and displayed
i shiver in the holy place
worm-eaten and decayed

and taken by my impotence
i curse my birth and die
i love i hate i love i hate
my soul, eternity

a step, a brief discovery
and more to know of what
i cannot be and will not do
i have not love, am not.

Please.

I don't know what else to say. I've lost all my words, all my thoughts, all my feelings. There's nothing left but motives, and nothing good in those. Please. I am wrong. I am sorry. I am dead.

why am i still hoping?

("Look, I am about to die; so what is this birthright to me?")

O God! This nightmare! Collapse of all restraining and sustaining
Forces and bounds. All that was clear and solid, whether malign
Or comforting, has been reduced to a mercurous consistency--
Charcoal-grey and impossible to separate or see through.
I am dead among the living, mute among the speaking, foolish
Among the understanding. How--when did I ever imagine
That I knew You, my God, that I loved You? Do You see me, broken
And floundering-- she who lives, o God, she who lives, o my God!
She who lives for herself is dead while she lives. And now I know this,
That I killed not only self, that every moment the knife was dug
And twisted in my breast, it meant a little death for them as well.
There it is, still there. Do You see it, o God, that it remains
And the blood is ever falling, staining, poisoning, corrupting?
I cannot remove it. I can foresee that its removal
Will bring me bitter pain and better cleansing. I could suffocate
On my obstinacy. How is it that this should grow stronger
As I weaken, and greater as I lessen? O God, let me die
In truth, and face Your judgment--why attempt to forestall that which
Is foreordained? Deliver me in Your mercy, or cut me down
In Your justice, but do not leave me to exact misery
And trouble on myself. O God my God my God! Have You or not
Forsaken me? This nightmare, this collapse--I cannot arise
Or awaken. Is it too late to be uncovered and undone?

please. ("Have you only one blessing, my father? Bless me--me also, O my father!")

Regret

Curse it. CURSE IT! So much lost. So much missed. So much still unacknowledged. So much pain. So much--too much. So many ignored. So many assumptions. So many inhibitions. And now...I want to know. I don't want to be afraid to care. It's too late to be uncaring. I want to be of use, of help. I have long wanted to, have long feared answers, have long feared rejection or indifference. I fear above all things my own indifference. Many things I regret.

I'll be all right someday. I just need to wake up and find the door of this tomb.

Who are you? I want to know.

I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.

Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.

Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.

That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.

I only want to be useful before I die.

"...the deepest self is way down, and the conscious self is an obstinate monkey."

--DH Lawrence

Relief/Remorse.

Recall it. It has slipped into the mere
Of memory, lost in the multitude
Of memories, as eyes open upon
The bare morning
And dreams forgot.

I never thought,
Dwelling in the myth of my survival,
That I could countenance the merest hope,
That it was requisite, that it was right
To love you or
By you be loved.

No stone unmoved.
I moved, a revolution. In its wake
Hesitancy, and grief unfathomed, fear,
Guilt--an armory against compassion.
Hungry despair
Sharpens its teeth.

Foulest of breath--
The naked bones of the present provide
Greedy incentive; the tireless demon
Swallows the future. Darkness closes in,
Shutting out all
But a vacuum.

There is no room
For thought, or breath, or anything but prayer
An open mouth, a tomb, testimony
To poverty, destitution, dearth. Groans
Only suffice
For want of blood.

The ear of God
Is metaphor; the ear of God, a Man
Of sorrows, was physical; into which,
Perhaps, trickled the embalming perfume
And the love-grief
Of whores and thieves.

Whom He receives
He scourges. This I did not understand,
Believed I was condemned. I felt nothing,
No punishment save my insanity,
Self-inflicted
And ponderous.

Not virtuous.
No love for God, no fruit from Heaven born,
No bending to surrender all my will,
No will to beg for grace or seek to find--
I threw myself
Against His door.

A metaphor.
The ear of God, our High Priest, exalted
Right Hand of God, acquainted with our grief;
Our Savior, God, Intercessor and Lover--
Not metaphor
But verity.

I think I see.
From silence, purgatory pain will burn
The remnants of a heart, or compression
Will force the shards together, forcing blood
And infection
From faulty seams.

My silent screams
Heard by the ear of God, and met with grace
To speak, an altogether unforeseen,
Undeserved mercy-- as I will, I love.
Wretchedness/wealth
A transaction.

Satisfaction.
This love, which drives me near to God and man,
which drives beyond fear/doubt/pride/shame/despair--
This love, most potent of all miracles,
Is not a farce.

"Darling--I seem to have this rabbit"

I changed my mind. Everything needn't have a meaning or purpose....yet even this is thought-provoking, wouldn't you say?


grin
I do love Thurber.

The Why of the Written Word

After reading this post on Jesse's blog, and the comments following, I was prompted to curiosity about the purpose of writing in general, and my own purpose for writing in particular. Of the latter, I have yet come to no conclusion...of the former, I have...well...only begun to think, and my thoughts in this direction are as yet small(ish).

Of literature....

"Viewed through this medium, our narrative--into which are woven some airy and unsubstantial threads, intermixed with others, twisted out of the commonest stuff of human existence--may seem not widely different from the texture of all our lives."

--Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun

I like that. I think literature ought to provoke thought...and yet also say something. Let us not create without any purpose but to think and to let others' thought progress in any direction from little things we may have said. There ought to be--oughtn't there?--a point, or points, to what we think...should we be aware of them? For once, I am thinking as I speak, rather than waiting to speak until I have thought. This is different, and not altogether pleasing. I have not yet concluded whether it is best to have a distinct purpose to a thought, or merely to let one's perspective infuse the thought so that it may have no specific purpose, but rather a subtle influence. Ought we to reflect life, or to project into it what we see as ultimate ends or certainties or principles? Are we presenting aspects of Truth, of what is essential? Or are we merely drifting in and reporting of and musing upon and analyzing what we presently feel and experience (or have in past felt and experienced)?

Hawthorne seems to say he is merely reflecting life. Yet his portrait-novels (those which I have read) always have a subtle (or not so much subtle) principle behind them. Painted with eloquent artistry, they brilliantly depict humanity and the consequences of sin, the downfall of souls...and redemption. Is this his point, or his viewpoint? Purpose, or perspective? I cannot say.

Neither do I yet know what is mine.

Well, then...


high-pressure thought breaks a vein
and escapes through the late-
night draining
lost/dead/gone
mental effort/exhaustion
Enough. spoken.
good-night-then

Curse this midnight oil. Why does she burn it? What does she want? What could she possibly gain that would profit her more than the sleep she has lost?

All good questions to ponder... and now goodnight.

Of the Essence

Wondering out of words, I think the broom takes precedence in the wold of enlightenment. Dust to dust to damnable hatred. Red is scintillating, breathtaking in its violence. Bodies breaking on the wall, falling--catch them! Diamonds on the water, it's winter, the snow is falling, like suffocation on the frozen earth. Why am I making sense? Come the darkness, tunnel vision, I'm blind and not blind, I see only what is before me. Periphery is closed to me, perception limited by my will. Unveil the horizon! Tear the curtain down! I pause unwillingly, if I let my thoughts fly at will they would never stop and I could make no sense of them, gain nothing. And if I pause I lose them all and gain nothing. Every pause is another turn of the mind down another path. I'm lost, lost in thought--always vague, always metaphor, by me only half-understood. Why am I not making sense? What is the most essential thing? Who could answer that question? Is it the most essential question?
I will ask it...

Clarity. Take the broom, sweep the dust, enlighten me. This mind is a room, this room is covered with disuse. Uncultivated. I cough when I enter it. The broom must take precedence, then the activity. Use. Production for use. Use for productivity. Hatred burns against what is not done, comes violently, beating anger and guilt into my heart, breaking me against my fears, my hesitancy. I'm losing time-- slipping through my fingers, precious time flying eternally past-- a swift river, yet not eternal. Winter slows every movement; time seems irrelevant when everything sleeps-- but everything sleeps in a prison, dormant, kept until it breaks again free, and spring seems to rush the world again. Time never stops, but it seems to sleep in winter. It feels like a respite from constant falling behind. Winter is my season. I like the feeling of protection, security, peace, patience, constancy, rest, deep silence. Like a reverent reverie, and walking under the stars at night finds a thrice crystal reflection in the earth, in the eyes, and in the soul. On the other hand, clear days are more painful with nothing to absorb the brilliance but the eyes. Back to my room. There is a locked desk, and a key in the corner, hidden by a cobweb hung with dust. No windows here, only the backs of tapestries showing French windows leading out into gardens or the sun rising behind Roman columns. In the center of the floor is a small door with a rusted hinge. I know behind the door is brown darkness with a ladder that leads down, down into black darkness in another room with two windows that scarcely open without a thick multicolored filter to distort anything that might escape and shape it into a safer misrepresentation, for the protection of the deepest chamber. But other windows exist...what is generated in this room, coming up from the deepest chamber, is sent out through strange, dark passages between the walls, and words fall, squeezed through suffocation, from hesitant lips, and words fly, spurred by desperation, from eager fingers. It is fervor and fever. It is must and would. I am helpless and hungry. I am hollow. I am hopeful. I am Halle.

Time-counting

For some odd reason, I am in eager anticipation of my return to school this fall quarter. I found a website that indulges the spirit of anticipation...counting down the time to the last second, if you wish it. Its obliging calculations are as follows:


"From and including: Thursday, August 11, 2005
To, but not including : Monday, September 19, 2005

It is 39 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date

Or 1 month, 8 days excluding the end date

Alternative time units
39 days can be converted to one of these units:
3,369,600 seconds
56,160 minutes
936 hours
5 weeks (rounded down)"


Only 5 weeks? "I feel a scream coming on right now--starting right down in my toes, sort of like a tingling sensation. Now it's creeping up around my knees, up my legs, traveling faster and faster and faster--it's in my stomach right now. I'm afraid it's got me...it's going up and up and up and up--here, it's right in my throat...it's fighting to get out; I don't--I can't hold it any longer--here it goes--" (Tony Kirby (Jimmy Stewart), You Can't Take it With You)

AAAAAAAAHHH!!!

It's near--I'm glad of that; but I don't feel prepared...

(Inter/Intra)personal Communication

Hallo, where is everybody? I know I haven't been saying much, but I'd like to know someone's still there anyway...

If you want to know about my life today, it's here. I'm not opening my heart at present, but I'll give you glimpses of my subconscious from time to time...:)

Dreaming. Pretty boring, really. So how is my life? It's challenging, confusing, a constant warring struggle--not even for survival, but for the very will to survive. I get lazy, careless, numb. And then I am called back to my senses, back to order, by some sweet mercy--until I fail again, fall again, curse myself again. And then I hate it when people ask me how I am and mean it...because I have to tell them the truth. And I wish the truth wouldn't always be bleak. But it never does to wait upon movement; movement is not something that does, but something that is done. Move then, silly girl. Little steps...that's it...don't give up...don't rest now, you haven't earned it...just keep moving--

But I don't know where I'm going...

That's because you're looking around at everything, my dear. Find a focal point.

Anything?

No! The best quality, the most excellent thing. Perfection.

I thought that was unattainable...

Ahem. Should that stop you?

"To reach the unreachable star,
Though you know it’s impossibly high,
To live with your heart striving upward
To a far, unattainable sky!”

“...And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!”

Ah, well, if you want to find your philosophy on Broadway...
why not

"...Same old story, what's the use of tears?
What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears?
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning
Through the years.

Turning, turning, turning through the years
Minutes into hours and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began!
Round and round and back where you began!"


You just can't win, can you? You just don't want to.

Should I?

Of the Wisdom of Bats and Ostriches

Another dream so logically random that I awoke laughing...

I was working, again. I was a courtesy clerk at what seemed like a factory, but I think was meant to be a grocery. The intercom was constantly blaring that assistance was needed in this or that area, and I was apparently the only person expected to give assistance. “We need help in aisle 2,” a voice shouted over the intercom. I hurried toward “aisle 2", which was more or less a conveyor belt on which an assembly line of bakers was kneading, rolling, and shaping dough–and flour abounded, in dust, in piles, in clouds. “No, wait–I’m wrong,” the intercom announced. “Aisle 2 is the bakery aisle. We need help in aisle 9.” I changed course and headed for aisle 9, another conveyor belt, this time loaded with raw red meat–large pieces of what was either beef or horseflesh, and attended by an assembly line of butchers with white aprons stained pinkish in places, wielding large cleavers. None of them appeared to acknowledge my presence, and I was wondering with what they could possibly need my help, until the intercom voice came again. “Hold on, that’s not right either. We need help in aisle 12.” I sighed and turned in another direction. “Aisle 12" appeared to be a classroom, in which a dozen or so scholarly-looking young men and women occupied small desks, on which were thick, navy-blue hardcover textbooks. One of the female students looked up and raised her hand. Dark hair, fashionable glasses, freckles, an attractive, studious look. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, inferior. What was I doing here? She began speaking what may as well have been another language: “Have you ever noticed the intricacies of sea-snails? As is generally known, the spiral of the sea-snail’s shell begins at the interior and widens as it winds outward, its sepia stripes growing larger in proportion with the widening coil.” I nodded sagely, not understanding a word, hoping she wasn’t intending to ask me to add anything to her observations... “Apart from sea-snails, there are other analogies such as staircases, feathers, and starfish, that would lend meaning to our existence if we would only look for it. Our question for you, is however, pertaining to another species. We were wondering–which is wiser–the bat, or the ostrich?”

I was at a loss. This is the biology aisle, I thought. I have never studied biology. But I remembered that I had been warned that I was never to tell a customer that I didn’t know the answer. When I do not know, I must find someone who does. I was just about to tell them that I would ask someone for them, when it occurred to me that I had some general knowledge about bats and ostriches that, if carefully applied, might satisfy their curiosity. So I began:

“Well. Ostriches, as many know, are of the species of birds- that- cannot- fly. Wherefore they must use all the resources at their command in order to exist and survive. They must find sustenance and shelter, and must be able to avoid and protect themselves from predators. Combine this with the knowledge that they must also be able to protect their offspring, when it is yet defenseless and immovable within the egg, and it is quite apparent that the ostrich must be very wise.

“Bats, on the other hand, are blind. They are also, I have heard, deaf. Yet they operate upon a highly-developed form of...” I paused. “...radar detection?” It was a question. Nds was passing behind me, and I turned and asked, “Is that right?” He nodded and disappeared. I turned back to my audience. “Yes, radar detection. They move within the perils of the night, and manage to exist, survive, and reproduce–yet they are totally deaf and blind. Considering this, I put it to you that bats are infinitely wiser than ostriches.”

This is when I awoke, and laughed. “Which is wiser,” I repeated, “The bat–or the ostrich?” I laughed again, wondering how something so perfectly ridiculous could have seemed so sensible while I was asleep.