There are days when I am very happy without knowing why. Days when I am happy to be alive and breathing, when my whole being seems to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect sunny day. I live for these days, and on these days I like to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Sometimes...

...when I'm putting oranges in a circle, I think of my thoughts, and they make me laugh.

Watch this Celebrity Jeopardy Clip!


If Bjork weren't Bjork, I'd think Winona Ryder was Bjork, at least in the video above. Holy crap.

As for the oranges in a circle, while I don't tend to pow wow with my fruit, I will say my thoughts do make me laugh, even though I'm not a very funny person. True, I tend to make people laugh, but I've come to realize this is more due to my blunt, sarcastic nature as opposed to the actual possession of comedic agility. Apparently I voice my opinion, quite a bit. I really only do this around people I know, but I'm constantly making my co-workers chortle and say, "Is that how you really feel?"

I don't know when I became blunt. I've always been opinionated, true. But when did I begin to say what I mean? And to people I may not have previously voiced my opinion to. I think I've gotten to the point where I don't have the patience to coddle people. If you're a good friend, you've earned some coddling, but most good friends don't want that. By coddle (in regards to a friend), I mean find words that aren't unkind, but still tell the truth. The truth is not always pleasant, and while I could find the words to make it sound better, that's likely not what is needed.

I should really stop writing partial posts and hoping that I will finish them later, because every time I come back to a post, I've lost interest or purpose in what I am say. Thus this post will remain short.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Running/Writing

This morning, after running uphill and trying to steady my breath, I realized that running and writing work in the same way. When I run, my legs move stiffly at first, but slowly loosen up and then push ahead into auto pilot. Meanwhile, my lungs try to get air in as quickly as possible. It's the exhalation that trips me up. I wanted to hold onto my air. I gasped it in, and I became greedy, wanting to keep all of the air in my lungs, not let it go. So I exhaled briefly before sucking in air again. And suddenly, my breath became ragged and my chest contracted faster. Through all of this, my legs just kept moving, not needing an ending or a promise of relief. It's my lungs that argued. So I kept running, forcing myself to breath in deeply, hold it one, two, three, four, five...and out, two, three, four, five. I pushed that old air out, forming an O with my lips. I love to run because I never feel worse at the end, even if the entire run is torture. There is never a time, no matter the distance, when I can't pick up the pace and push myself to the finish, sprinting to a momentary feeling of accomplishment.

Writing is the same way. It's not easy to start a new story. My brain is stiff and my fingers are cramped. But if I force out the first few lines, I slowly begin to warm up. My fingers start tapping the keys faster than my brain knows what to do with. And sentences form, then paragraphs, then chapters, and on and on until I collapse. But it's the exhalation of thought that I struggle with. I don't want to let them go. I want to greedily hang on to them, perhaps letting one or two slip out while I'm busy moving on to another thought. My fingers take over and type, but my brain argues and does not want to let the thoughts out. I want to breath in my thoughts and hold them, savoring their peculiarity. As if exhaling them onto paper might be the last time I'm able to do so. But forcing out the thoughts only makes room for the next fresh batch. There's no room for more air once the lungs are filled, and I can only wrestle with so many words at once before they dissipate and are lost forever. I must strive to exhale my words, to push them out forcibly and know that there will be more.


Exhale Darling

I've taught myself to breath properly while running, but as my mind wanders, my breath quickens and I am struggling again. Recovery training becomes key here; I must learn to recover while maintaining my course. I wonder what the recovery process for writing looks like? Is there a way to stumble on and eventually get back on course, or is there a need to stop, wait, and then proceed? I suppose it depends on the person. What is your greatest strength as a writer (or otherwise for those not-so inclined); what is your greatest hindrance?

Friday, January 22, 2010

Logically Speaking

Why do I believe in some things that many people find illogical or fantastical? It's quite simple really. It makes sense to me.

Example

Reincarnation: Why wouldn't souls get recycled back into other bodies? That makes more sense than souls living in infinite time and space, where possibly time and space no longer exist. I believe in the soul and that souls are recycled, but not as a whole. Meaning, I believe souls exit the body and mingle with other souls before returning to a new body. This explains how a continuous production of "new" identities is maintained. After all, there is nothing "new" in this world, just the commingling of thought, space, and time in an infinite number of arrangements. I think this also explains déjà vu. When you feel like you have been in a particular instance before, you likely have. Only, it was a piece of you in another body, at another time.

I do not believe in this because I have direct experience with recycled souls. Though I often feel that I've lived before, I couldn't say where any more than I could say as whom. However, perhaps this is where unexplained fears arrive. I'm deathly afraid of being confined (both literally and figuratively), and while I can understand my figurate fear, the literal fear has no situation linked to it (that I know of). It is possible that the figurative has manifested itself into physical form, but considering I remember being claustrophobic at a young age (only literally) with no root for such feelings, I'm not entirely sure the two are related.

Back to the original statement of believing in something without direct experience. I believe it because it makes sense. It simply works in my mind and does not have any trouble fitting into my headspace. I don't have to worry about it or fight with the notion, it just is (to me). I think that's all that matters. If I believe it so, it is (for me), and it does not matter if it is "right" or "correct." I don't think you can apply those words to such beliefs at all. It's silly to think you're right and everyone else is wrong when dealing with esoteric principles.

What really fuses my belief is the fluidity in which these thoughts slide around in my brain. I don't tend to believe in anything (fact or not) unless I see it and experience it for myself. If you tell me that 2+2=4, I won't think you are lying, but I need to see (for myself) that it is indeed true. Even if I have the idea that it is or that you would know whether or not it is (true), I still need to witness it for myself in order to be 99% sure. I don't think anything is 100%, or permanent. Perhaps math is, but then again, some math is based on an infinite scale, so I'm not sold there either. There is always possibility for change, even if it's the tiniest wisp. The possibility might be like a door that is locked. Perhaps you can't get through, but it is still a way out. Yes, you can argue that a locked door is not a way out, but a door, by definition, is a movable barrier. Already it is a conundrum, so the possibility (even if it's only a mirage of such) remains, despite its locked state.

So if I'm able to believe something without the need for proof, then I take it seriously and accept it as true (to me). My curious nature adores questioning, arguing, and wondering, but when an idea fits seamlessly into my thoughts, as rare as it is, I can accept it as a logical truth.



*photo credit to the illusions gallery*

I lock my door upon myself,
and throw away the key.
Here I sit in stockinged feet
rimmed by intimité.

Swathed in notes conceding to
the room's vitality,
Ever keeping an ear perked
for my mortality.



*currently I am reading Spook by Mary Roach. It's both whimsical and thought-provoking.