writetheship

[writetheship]

Another New Begining

I debated deleting my previous posts and starting fresh. I had them all highlighted, cursor hovering over the delete button, was so close. But it felt like cheating. Felt like a lie. Felt fake and that is not what this new beginning is all about. Not at all. This is about being honest and open. This is about everything from this moment on. What this is, I have no idea. I’m not starting again to make some big proclamations. I may never post here again. My past is full of barely started projects. This blog a perfect example of that. Started when I was 30 posted a few times, forgot about it. Now I just turned 33 and am basically in the same spot I was 3 years ago, at least mentally. Still struggling with the same things. Still feeling lost. Still trying. Still taking risks. Still hopeful. 

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Notes to Ghosts

It's fucking automatic. Marrow deep. It has to be. I don't think about it. Ever. It just happens. Always. Tic-Toc clockwork. Every 3 years. It happens EVERY 3 years. I run. I leave. I blow-up my life and start again somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

A blank slate that is never truly erased. White chalk swirls and handprints everywhere. Voices in the beams. Faces on the road. Notes to ghosts. 

Chances. Answers. Opportunity. Always searching for something... else. All this despite the fact that I know the answers (THE CALM) I search for aren't all out there... somewhere else.

They're here.

With me.

Always have been.

Someone recently told me it isn't the darkness we fear, but the light.  

So many facessoulsroadspossibilitiespathsopportunities. So much-ness. Everywhere and nowhere.

Sometimes I close my eyes and see it all:

The mistakes I’ve made

The Futures I’ve half-paved

The times i’ve gone when I should’ve stayed

It's all led me here.

HERE.

And again.

I am.... 

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How many

How many chances do we get? 

How many people can we love?

How many times do we get to restart?

How many paths?

How many realities? 

How many times do you think of me?

How many times can we get back up?

How many minutes are left?

How many answers to my questions?

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Getting started

I'm sitting indian style on my couch. Hunched over my computer, facing a window.

It is 10:24am on March 29th.

I just popped a pain killer.

I have a ruptured eardrum caused by an incredibly painful ear infection. I'm at a low of sorts.

Out of work for the past 2 1/2 months, because I quit my job to attempt to start my own company. An emotional decision as opposed to an intellectual one and as a result I've found I didn't really prepare for all that it was going to take ($$$$$) to start a biz.

Lesson learned.

This new reality has given me all kinds of time to contemplate, plot, dwell and revisit. Bouncing between breathless optimism for the future and crushing self doubt about the path (or lack thereof) I find myself on. 

Almost 31 and once again getting ready to hit the restart button. This after; filmschool, the film industry, coming home to take care of my cancer stricken mother, gradschool (journalism and interactive media and media MGMT), then journalism, social media, and a marketing start-up.

Tough to even tell how those dots connect, I know. But they do, if for no other reason than they are my dots. Stops on the path to now. All have contributed to the somewhat down and out man that now bangs on this keyboard in sweat pants and pink t-shirt.  

I'm going to attempt to write myself out of this funk. Get to the core I talked about in the first post.

I've never felt so close yet so far away from something in my life. Like the answer I'm searching for is connected to some giant bungee cord that bounces across the universe. One moment at my fingertips, the next hiding somewhere on the dark side of the moon. 

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“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.”

― Albert Camus, The Stranger

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I'm 30 years old and I often still source my meals from the frozen food section of Walgreens. 

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My witness is the empty sky.

Jack Kerouac

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A resolution of sorts

Stand Straight.

Feel the ground beneath my feet.

Trace the breath. 

Listen.

Believe. 

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All the mistakes i’ve made

Futures I’ve half-paved

The times i’ve gone when I should’ve stayed

have led me here

and again

I am

lost.

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A rising sun

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All these kind of places Make it seem like it’s been ages Tommorrow some new building will scrape the sky I love this country dearly I can feel the ladder clearly But I never thought I’d be alone to try

Passion Pit, "Take a Walk"

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"ONE MILE PER HOUR FASTER THAN THE SPEED OF LIGHT (OR SUCK IT, EINSTEIN)

By Mindy Nettifee

They want us to believe it can't be done.  Just imagining it makes their fuzzy, sciency heads hurt,  makes the formulas shudder like shotgun shacks.  But I could imagine it all day --      what happens      after your mass has crushed in on itself,      when your soul snuffs out.       Beyond the reach of all light.       Past all the wisdom and isms      and faces like compasses      calling you home.       What's left of you --      the most impossible parts of you.       Just air vibrating around the thin waist of a string,       Just the small gathering changes that tell a cloud to form.       Your whole being concentrated on existing,       on remembering existing,       on inventing new words to tell yourself stories with:      new words for dark and now and yes.

Sitting here

blinking in the sun

sweating it's light out with my soft chemistry, 

I am doing the hot molasses work of dreaming. 

I discover life so slowly

the time lapse photographs would show only stillness,

and if you watch long enough, 

the steady formation of an arrogant smile.

I don't really care what the geniuses say. 

I know about chance. 

I believe there must be one ambitious photon who made it. 

One particle of light that remembered the secrets to charming barriers. 

One rogue spark, who, in the opposite of a flash, 

found the other side and became the first to break free, 

to prove everyone wrong about everything, 

to take a leap against the tide of what we know is true, 

the price of which is always

never coming back."

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Pieces

I dreamt about you last night. First time I'd seen you in weeks. You came to me wreaked. Bloodshot. On the verge. I was on the couch talking on the phone. I didn't notice you at first. It took some time for your presence to register and when it did I was crushed. I hung up the phone, but couldn't speak. You just stared at me with those big beautiful eyes, leaned in and set your head on my hip. I touched your shoulder and woke up soaked in sweat.

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a tiny realization

Perhaps one of the signs of a life well lived is digging through years old boxes and getting lost in laughter and memories of amazing people you’ve been lucky enough to know. Perhaps.

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The First

I'm 30 now and full of successes and failures.

Full of thoughts, hopes, ideas and desires. 

I've done a lot in my short life, I have. But their is also a steaming heap of shit that I've let slip.

Ideas and desires that I've let sit and get fat. Rot.

These weigh the heaviest.

The have-nots eat away at parts of my soul that I can't yet define. Parts I've barely even touched.

I'm typing this from a beige cubicle bathed in florescent light.

From inside a cube that sits in a row of other cubes in an office of even more cubes of a building that houses what I can only imagine are an infinite number of cubes.

Cubes on Cubes on Cubes.

I am not at rock bottom, in case you were wondering.

This isn't an exit note.

I haven't given up.

But I have recognized that I need to get rid of some of this shit.

My boat is sinking slowly.

I don't want to just float, tread water.

I want to fucking glide.

I want to sail.

And to do that I need to get rid of some this weight.

Get to the core.

My core.

Because I haven't yet, I've been close. Perhaps even touched it once or twice. But I haven't held on to it.

Now is the time.

I can still make out the jagged edges of what I once saw much more clearly.

There is still a shore, out there somewhere.

I still hear the sirens call, "If not now, when?"