5 posts tagged “things that are me”

Show us your favorite flower.

Before there was blogging, there was pen to a page. Something I was really good at. Writing to write. And sometimes, not even writing. Collecting. I collected words, items, images, names. My bookshelf is full of journals and sketchbooks, all with different purposes.

If I didn't have some kind of bound paper on me, I had napkins, clothing, sticky notes, note cards, leaves, rocks, sticks, etc. - anything I could harvest and scribble quick on and take it home. Those items would either end up in pages, be stuffed between pages, be washed or turn toy for whatever creature(s) I had living in my house.

Writing to write I realize ended when I left college. When I stopped actively carrying around paper stuffed in bags. When I turned my backpack into a PDA, a cell phone, or a wallet that only carried plastic cards. Not even a green bill to write on, which I sometimes did.

Free time. Me time. It turned into nine hour days with a one hour lunch five days a week. That one hour not always used for eating, but for sleeping. Sleeping something I've never done well. At the worst of it, 65 to 72+ hour work weeks in seven days, where three days a week I burned both night and day in some kind of office, in some kind of hell. Writing to write, when I needed it most. Abolished.

Pen to a page, a something foreign I once did, once enjoyed - become a lost art. In the age of technology, I traded pen and paper for a keyboard. A keyboard who from years of use, has lost its lettering on many of its keys, grooves worn in to the ebony where polish-chipped nails have gnawed into plastic. Don't get me wrong, I love to type, write to write in whatever form it may take flight - but there's something about a set of pens, markers, colored pencils, cut-out words like paper dolls, stamps, pencil based/charcoal rubbings, creatively borrowed items from places you want to remember, ripped out images from a variety of sources glued/taped/sewn/stapled to pages...that even a space like Vox, with its nifty doo-dads and ability to add a variety of media, lacks. Personal words, yes. Personal touch, meh.

Blogging has its place. Do I love it? Of course, it's writing. But with it, I've learned a few things. Blogging taught me to write for an audience. In my journals, unless you were brave enough to rifle through the pages, had only me for eyes. It was raw. From scribbles, to doodles, dark scary things, things that made no sense, off-color topics, nasty language and the profoundly absurd. I tailor things when I blog. I craft things carefully. I censor and I edit. I try and be responsible, because offense is not something I ever wish to cause. I don't want to be a Shock Jock on somebodies page - but my editor I've found, sometimes...decides to censor it all. And I don't write. Don't write anything. I think a lot, too much sometimes it seems, but nothing gets tacked to screen or page.

When I started blogging, I stopped pen to a page. I'm not sure about the wiring in my head that caused this. I have a head full of excuses why I did. Why I stopped, but...it's all bullshit in the end. I know this. I know me. I can, at times, be full of shit. And, I try to call myself on it when I'm sliding down that slope. So, I'm calling myself out. I do this because as I've learned to write for an audience and stopped writing to write in the old fashioned way, I got lost. I know I'm lost when I sit in front of the keys to blog about something that happened and nothing comes out. Just endless bouts of web surfing and youtubing. I'm avoiding the keys like I avoid my dust covered journals and sketch books. And that, that makes for a constipated Muse. No fun there. There's no milk white chalky crap in a bottle you can drink to alleviate that. Wish it were that easy, because I'd be chugging.

So, my hands I must get dirty. Get covered in ink, chalk, glue, tape, no staples (that hurts), markers, lead and start collecting. I need a reserve. A scrap folder like my friend Jolie has for her art before they become finalized pieces (and even then, it may not be truly finished). To find raw material. To write to write, with no audience or aim in mind. To find new elements...because seriously, I can tell when I get stuck in a holding pattern. No new words, just an endless flow of flat crap where there's no change. And I, I change in some aspect on a daily basis. To get back to the girl/woman who makes the first page of one of her journals look something like this:

[Cut out words glued to the page read: Warrior Woman, Who am I?, I hear all things, but tell no one, Your life...your style, thrives on quiet, slow pace, and best-kept secrets]

When I first came to Vox I was tagged to do the 5 Things People May or May Not Know About You. And before I let my other Vox persona sort of fizzle into silence, I realized - I never got to the 5th.That was 2006. It's 2008, but in lieu of trying to keep up with a resolution to finish things I start...here's to a finish.

I don't know what it is. Friends joked that it was my special mutant ability. If that's so, well...I'm still a Sidekick. The Cheerleader will not be saved and Sylar will still pop open heads and do whatever it is that Sylar's do. My life in Heroes or X-Men...one I can assure you would be cut short.

I, token brown girl, would sense plausible danger then - SMOOSH!

Scene over. Cut me my paycheck. Off to pay bills. Live, breathe. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

It's not really uncanny. We all have it. Do it. Sense it. I just think I never found the 'off' switch for mine. And it serves me well. If I were dumped in a horror movie scenario, I'm pretty sure I'd still be living in the end. Not that you'd notice, I wouldn't be hanging around at the end of the movie having slain horror movie monster. Nay...The Little Brown Girl would have sensed 'Something ain't right in this here town/hills/wax museum/etc.'', stolen somebodies ride and been off to less scary and uninviting places. Some call it cowardice. I call it survival.

My non-plus ability is having a knack for sensing the energies that people, places or things give off. It's not real special. It's not real neat. It's no doubt just a throwback to our hunter/gathering days. But...it does come in handy. In high school and college, my friends often tapped that ability to make sure that our nightly drives didn't wind up with Bambi on the hood. While they had their cheeky little Cop Finders plugged in, Deer Finders, Pet Finders, and other various Varmint Finders - they did not make. So, that was me. Designated Pulse Finder.

I still find pulses. I don't want Bambi hood ornaments or have to go door-to-door to find and tell pet owners...I ran over your <insert pet here>. I happen to adore animals and have fluffy four-legged children of my own. That does not a good evening make or a nice story to share.

So...the other day, J and I were on our way to dinner and I was taking the road near the park. We were chittering and chattering and finding general amusement in the lyrics of music played over the radio, when up ahead, in the road, something moved. It looked live leaves. Leaves from the open trash bags set out on the sidewalk from somebodies newly manicured lawn.

About 8 yards away and bearing down rather quick, my heart started to race and I felt a ghostly sense of giant sized panic. Eyeing the road, our little leaf pile wasn't so much a leaf, but a pint sized squirrel having made his way out of the nest to begin learning what it means to be a squirrel. As winter turns to spring, the roads in The Pass are littered with them. The ones who don't learn quick enough: Cars are not friends.

I drive a Dodge Caravan.
There is no contest.

J, he hates these moments. Those moments where the lady beside him searches frantically for phantom heartbeats, checks her mirrors and makes split second decisions. Because if I'm forced to make a call between hitting other drivers or wheeling over four-legged (sometimes two, we have lots of birds) I'll do the latter. But, if I have to hear the BUMP BUMP beneath my tires, tears. Lots and lots of tears. Though, through all my years of driving...there's never been a BUMP BUMP Incident only minor grazings - all of them with happy endings.

So, darn you Baby Squirrel. You Look-A-Like A Leaf. And lucky for Baby Squirrel (and hopefully for Baby Squirrel) he learned that Vroom Vroom's are not friends. So at final moment, no traffic neither to the side or behind, I veered to the right, planting J's face against his window while I and the squirrel shared the same sorts of facial expressions. He Look-A-Like Dis:

He look-a-like dat smack dab in the middle of the road, right on the line, I look-a-like dat making the same sound behind the wheel, and J...he look-a-like dat with his face smashed against the window. I stopped making that face and sound once the squirrel collected his wits and scampered out of the road to safety. We would later make the same faces and do the same noises over dinner.

So yeah, that's me. Your happy (sometimes screaming) energy/pulse finder. Gotta pulse to find, dangerous strangers to avoid in the dark, or furry hood ornaments you want to avoid - The Ninja Chick, she's your girl.

Mr. Migraine has been my constant companion for the last seven days. Outside of the medications I generally take, there has always been 'A Something Else' that's taken (or in this case watched) when feeling under the weather. It's part of my Dad's 'Get Well Regimen' for Angel.

So, not being able to be home and curled up on the sofa in front of the television with the infamous 'Feel Better' DVD, I youtubed this until I can get home and watch the real thing.