Monday, November 10, 2008
Did you ever stare blankly at something till it blurred beyond recognition? I always wonder what my face looks like when I completely zone out and trip the light fantastic in the confines of my own mind. I've been doing that a lot lately, probably due to my mother's ongoing health issues and the fact that I've struggled for years with self-doubt. Most people think I'm a confident, strong woman which I am most of the time but it's taken me years to get to that place in my life. Those who are in my inner circle know a different "girl" who fears anything that has responsibility attached. I'm open about it and feel little shame when discussing the issue. Actually, I'm down right matter of fact about it, unleashing a untamed fury that would devour others, yet in my case, the issue has become more of a silent partner in crime. It's that other voice in your head that frowns when you laugh and sobs when you feel at peace. I like to think it's shaped many of my warped perceptions, which in the long run, make me a much more interesting writer than someone who has lived a boring and mundane vanilla life. I hate vanilla. I never want to be vanilla. I fear vanilla.
The crossroad that I have encountered is disturbing, leaving me teetering between solid ground and unearthly expectations by my family. I'm on the edge of something big but the weight of my mother's illness is beginning to encroach on my ability to stabilize this crazy time machine I've been riding in for years. I can't seem to get off or buy a ticket to a new amusement. I'm stuck in a proverbial shit house of muck and feel the quicksand of responsibility all over my body, tearing at my skin like a leach that hasn't been fed in months. Everybody wants a piece of my pie and right now, this very moment in my life, I want to be selfish, self-interested and peaceful. I want to sit around my house in dirty underwear listening to Ryan Adams, Bob Dylan and The Grateful Dead. I want to tell stories till I can no longer utter a word and write till my fingers blister and bleed. I want to call myself a writer, historian, gatekeeper and politician. I drink Yogi tea everyday and on each tea bag is a little inspirational note to lift your spirits as you guzzle vats of green tea. I keep getting the same one, "Your destiny is to merge with infinity." Hmmmm. Could it be true? Am I that out there that I'm relying on fortune telling techniques of some ashram lover who writes bad poetry on the side? The answer is a loud yes! When I was a little kid, I had a paper route and I practiced my own version of fortune telling. There were no Tarot cards or Ouija boards involved, just my paper folding and throwing techniques. Depending on how tight I wrapped the paper and where it landed when I threw it, determined the outcome of my Magic 8 Ball-like questions. I've never been one to dally in the black arts but I practiced that everyday when I had crushes on boys in my Catholic school, wishing that I would find my love of a lifetime. Little did I know, it would take more than a few folded papers and a good arm to find the right guy for me. Oh well, I suppose I had fun, even if my fortune findings didn't add up to much. In conclusion, the only advice I can offer my sorry ass is to keep truckin' and hope for the best. My destiny is out there somewhere, hiding. Maybe it's in New York or in the bathroom of a truck stop in Barstow or maybe it's in the love I share with Vic. It's somewhere I know it. God wouldn't trick me like this and I know I don't suffer from delusions of gradeur although at times I question that. Right now, I'm hoping for the best because without that added piece of motivation, I have little to offer.