On my way to church...

I fly through the city passing the litter of last night’s parade. I ignore the filth and the underwhelming presence of others. I fill myself with air and music. I fill myself with my Self. Lyrics shift through my brain creating categories. LOVE—my Love, my father, me, God. SORROW—my father, me, God. I am preparing and I am lost but not without direction. I will not let it overwhelm as my soul is mine alone to cleanse. The people I will meet there under the cross, they do not know me and God, they do not see the difference. Yet they hold a sort of wisdom I do not have thus I will listen as they judge and speak.  

A faulty deity

What if I were a goddess? The Patron Saint of something or other. I see all this beauty in innocent neglect; I could be the Goddess of Faults. It would explain why I forget to pay the proper amount of attention to detail in the tasks I set out to fulfill. It could be my destiny to share with the world that our little failures, they are what helps us learn.

             This is what I think as I tape post-it notes with the logo of an indie lit press onto the side of my desk. The logo is of a spring gun drawn in what may have been either charcoal or water color. The cellophane keeps bunching, leaving several air bubbles in the wake of my fingers. As hard as I try to be careful, I just can’t seem to stop myself from zoning out.

             I realize that my supercilious thoughts are the reason why I keep fucking up this simple task. But I reason that perhaps the messy job I’ve done gives a more natural prettiness to the decoration. Ever since, I’ve been trying to decide whether my supercilious thoughts are just excuses for my lack in diligence.

If I could simply put in the effort I could be great at something, just one thing. I am merely good at many things refusing to dedicate myself to one practice. But what if I focused all of my energy into one art? I could be amazing, a prodigy. I know this. I think about it almost every day. But I don’t have time for that. I am far too tired to focus, thus I will always lack dedication. Instead I will continue to strive on knowing the basics of everything.

It’s not that I don’t want to be great or that I don’t try. It’s just hard. I cannot focus because I have these thoughts. Such wondrous thoughts that never become more than ideas yet there are so many of them that sometimes they do become words spoken aloud, with no one to listen but myself. Sometimes I consider writing these thoughts down, but I am not always the glorified world wind writer that I claim to be. Often I do not have a pen or paper, or I just don’t want to plug in my laptop. If I do, I only seem to remember half of what I meant to put down and my words contain merely a sliver of the grandiosity I had originally thought up. And so I am constantly wrapped up inside my head, burrowing myself as deep as possible. Until I forget.

But I can be a faulty Goddess if a goddess they'd allow me to be. I'll always allow myself to keep aloft.  

"Are We the Waiting" Song Lyrics by Green Day

Starry nights, city lights coming down over me

Sky scrapers and stargazers in my head

I thought adolescence would last forever—oh if only it had.

I thought friends could be forever, but maybe it's best that they weren't.

Now the days are too long and the nights blur into empty moments that used to last forever.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I feel that age is fast approaching.

Death blooms like a flower.

This dirty town, it's burning down in my dreams

Lost and found, city bound in my dreams

I must go. I am here no longer, though my body waivers.

Stagnant legs and sleepy gazing will be my demise...

I gaze into dreams, my sleepy mind keeps me waiting—keeps me wanting.

What is left of here? What has been lost?

And screaming

My mind is screaming.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

Good will come if only I am patient.

But if I stay too long—

I have wasted, I am wasting away.

Forget-me-nots and second thoughts live in isolation

Heads or tails—fairy tales in my mind

The irony is I knew all along that I would lose. That the promises made were empty.

Promises always are.

But I never thought I would end up lonely.

That no one would replace the nostalgia that feeds my regret.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

Lives so short waste away with the length of time.

The rage and love—story of my life

the jesus of suburbia is a lie

I could be lost in this land of demons, but I can create direction.

If only I could try—but trying harder is a liar's game.

Only fools subside in difference. Growing means knowing.

Growing means changing everything.

And screaming

My mind is reeling.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I can't.

I can't do it.

I won't I won't I won't.

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting?

And screaming

Are we, we are? Are we, we are the waiting unknown?

I'll wait for no one.

Opinion within the Memoir

 One of the most obvious and discerning aspects of non-fiction is that of telling the truth. It is the truth that defines non-fiction as a genre however, in the form of memoir the truth has a tendency to become warped. This is done even without the slightest intention simply because it is fairly impossible for the brain to remember every detail exactly as it happened. There are many things that a brain does (including creating false memories) that can tamper with the idea of truth within a non-fiction piece. What is more interesting is how individual opinion can affect the truth telling within a piece of writing.

All human beings regard many of their own individual opinions as truths that are set in stone. We see this with stereotypes, many different classifications and of course in our judgments of others and their actions. Many of our opinions are based on common ideologies within the different societies and cultures that we belong to, thus a popular opinion can easily be misidentified as truth. But what is an ideology? In the simplest sense, it is not truth, but simple an idea that is strong enough to control the opinions of an entire society.

It can be assumed that opinion can easily destroy the aspect of truth within non-fiction because opinions when unchallenged can become destructive. We see this in all societies including the one we live in today. Minority groups have always been oppressed by a so called majority because there is a popular opinion that having a different skin tone, practicing a different religion, or preferring the same sex makes you less than human. But what happens to an opinion when it is challenged? Change. Writing in whatever genre gives one the potential to challenge common ideologies, opinions, and beliefs that are destructive within one’s society. Many, many writers have been known to fight destructive opinions successfully, changing the mindset of an entire culture.

What is so unique about challenging opinion when writing in non-fiction, specifically through memoir and personal narratives, is that the desire to tell the truth can challenge one’s own destructive opinions. When writing about the self, one is forced to thoroughly explore the self, in order to be truly successful. One must study their emotions, the meanings of those emotions and why they feel as such. One must study their personal history and as best as possible come to an understanding of why their opinions exist. When writing about the self, one challenges the self thus we challenge ourselves every time we write down a bit of our lives.

Of course not every writer of non-fiction does as such. But I believe that anyone who wishes to take this genre seriously must do so. I believe all writers of any genre should do so, and quite possibly the entire earth population. When we successfully challenge ourselves, there is growth and the world cannot change for the better unless everyone in the world takes the time to change within our individual selves. As a writer I hold so much power in my fingertips to set forth such change within my society, but first, I must confront my own opinions, beliefs and desires. As a writer of memoirs, I have the very power to do so.  

He Will be Blinking Forever.

Robin Williams killed himself yesterday. I'm not sure how to react. I'm not sure I understand why he would kill himself--I do not know what at all his life was like nor what he suffered from.  But I do know what it's like to want to die. I have not killed myself but I have felt the need to. Acted on the need to. Or apparent need. 

I wonder if he realized that so many people would be upset. But how could he not? He was Robin Williams. Our feelings had nothing to do with his actions. 

People sometimes angrily declare that suicide is a selfish act. They are right. Suicide has nothing to do with the world. It is about choosing the self over suffering. But to do so is to choose the self before life. People are not right however to be angry about such things, as suicide is the last selfish act anyone can take. Therefore it is almost noble. Many times it is the first of selfish acts taken by those who have committed. 

Maybe there is nothing else we can do but allow them to rest in peace. 

Ideally vs Really

I am strong. In both body and mind.

What people say as I leave a room does not matter, for I am my own worst critic, not them. Not any of them. Yet people remember me. They appreciate that I am strange because I have the ability to convey. I feed them little morsels of truth, of feel good feelings, of light. I see all the hungry people around me.
I have taken the time to discover and the river has taught me to laugh (Hesse 107). I am at peace within and without words. I am learnèd. Meditation has taught me to focus. Cut out the crap--there is not any crap, everything is beauty. One is all. We are all. We are full. I am full.
       I hear in the alliteration of emotion, larger than simplistic syllabic slurs. I listen to the assonance of love. To the onomatopoeic rage. No matter how many ums fill my ears, my voice is breathing the holy om. My voice--louder than that of Mother Culture’s (Quinn 26-29). Thus I sing everywhere I walk and romp and strut. Humans listen. Humans dance and sing. The birds echo. And the fish. I have a message and need to share it with you. I have something to say. You will listen.
I will, because I can and if I don’t, so be it.
This is me ideally.

*

Despite my dysthymia1 I am optimistic. I think. Believing that anything--past or future (especially the future)--is better than this moment right now is much easier than accepting. I don’t want to be anything. I want to be anything other than this. I don’t want to do anything. I want to do anything other than… I sleep too much. Complain too much. Ache too much. Look right now, I’m ranting too much. My greatest fear is myself. I will tell the world I am looking. I want to discover my Self, my Me. But I spend all of my time destroying my mind, my body. Am I a temple or a wasteland?
       I look around and see nothing.
       So what am I really?
       Who I want to be and who I am (or who I think I am, maybe all three) are constantly clashing. People do not help. I am much like Siddhartha; though I genuinely love people, I do not generally trust what they have to offer in terms of knowing. It is why Govinda’s character in Hesse’s novel is so important. His is the voice of reason, the voice of the people. When I admit my truest thoughts often what I hear is, “do not distress your friend with such talk. Truly, your words trouble me” (Hesse 15). Reason encourages silence and repression and people are continually trying to reason with me. I am often interpreted as a negative ninny.

*

         Ideally I would have Siddhartha’s motivation. Or even Julie’s more achievable motivation in Daniel Quinn’s novel, My Ishmael. The simple motivation of completing her homework, of seeking out a teacher, of speaking up for herself. But homework seems so boring in comparison to discovery and travel. Even prayer and meditation are more appetizing actions. Yet, how can I expect myself to meditate if I cannot even start (never mind finish) my homework? So I read books with motivated characters and think oh if only, how amazing would I be? I know I have potential. It feels good to have potential. It feels like death not using it.
I see potential everywhere. I think it is one of the most beautiful flowers; all I do is yearn for its blossoming. Too often, I watch it shrivel. Whether in the name of progress or that of ignorance, I am saddened.
        I too am dwindling, though in my dreams, I am only beginning to bloom.

*

        I do not know what people say when I leave the room. I can hardly even imagine, what goes on in the minds/lives/hearts of others. Though my interactions with others have indicated to me that if I am ever brought up in conversation, it would not be very interesting. Not to say that I am a dull person. Others just tend to dull me until my edges have rounded.
        But I am sure that I am not so strange, that conversation about me in my absence would sound a lot like conversations I conduct about others in their absence. A judgment, either negative or positive. But I’ve noticed that people remember the negative much more than the positive. I seem to receive much more advice than I do acceptance. Still, I am not remarkable enough to have ever caught anyone talking behind my back. No one bothers to spread rumors. Their greatest complaint of me, is that I complain too much.
        I will admit, I do complain. But I do not see how I complain more than others, or louder than others. I often refrain from speaking out loud for fear of sounding whiney. Most of my complaints are trapped up there in my brain, stuck in the airtight tupperware of my skull. There are so many trapped in there, I can’t figure them all out. I only know what is said to me, I cannot fathom what is said of me.

*

        What the gorilla, Ishmael, has taught me is that reason teaches us that our ideal selves would have had to live ideal lives in order to exist. But nothing is ideal, and so we have every excuse not to be our Selves. But what I define as reason is whispered into my ears by Mother Culture. (Quinn 42). Leaver culture must have another word for reason altogether. Maybe it is simply life and thus it can go on.   Through Ishmael, Quinn has put many of my fears of self at rest. I know now that my nature is not wrong. There never was a drop of poison (Quinn 35). In Buddhism, Damien Keown describes an Indian creation myth that unlike the Christians and the Greeks does not blame women for the fall of mankind (32). My nature is not derived from a mistake at all. It is instead a hunger that needs to feed. We must consume something, but what? How important is the answer to this question?
        I want to consume passion. To feed off of the dance and raging pits. I want to get high from belting C notes, blasted on rhymes. In reality I focus on consuming sleep and oatmeal pies. I consume anger. I try to brush away hate but am consumed by grudges.

*

         Buddha teaches anatman; the self is not real (Zornado 1). At first this scared me. If I am not real than why am I doing anything? There is no point. So much of my time is spent in madness for what?  Earlier this year I was confronted with the term derealization, a condition in which one believes that either they are not real, or that they are the only real being in an unreal world. I could not decide which one I believed.
Maybe in Buddha’s language the words were defined more clearly. English tends to lack in many areas, despite its rawness in beauty. After contemplating my self, I realized how selfish I was being, because I thought I was only seeing me. Now I know that the world is not a projection of me. I am simply a small projection of the world. Everyone is a small projection. Everything. We make up a whole vision of entirety. I am not real by myself but we are all real together.

*

        Sometimes I know I’m special. Not any more special than anybody else, but there is something I need to tell people. It sits on the tip of my tongue. It squirms deep down in my cerebellum. I am not quite sure of the words exactly, but I know my self to possess the idea.

Works Cited

Hesse, Hermann. Siddhartha. New York: MJF Books, 1951. Print
Keown, Damien. BUDDHISM: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. Print.
Quinn, Daniel. My Ishmael: A Sequel. New York: Bantam Books, 1997. Print
Zornado, Joseph. Buddhist and Hindu Terms, Sutras and Assorted Background Information. Rhode Island: English 263, 2014. Print.

Rock Lobstah

Original artwork by Charmaine Gray. 

Crayon on loose leaf.   

I'm waiting for Wendell.

I know she’s gonna be here anytime now, cause that bitch of a monster Terry tried stealing my blanket the other night. I can’t believe he’s back…probably never left. I’ve been thinking and I figured it out, the bastard’s living in my attic! He’s the tapping I’ve been hearing—the reason why the pipes are leaking. There was never a need to fear a poltergeist (it’s such a relief to finally be able to say it!!).

I was confused for a bit, cause the new place doesn’t have any baseboards, and I’ve peered into the space heater on the stove way too many times to have not seen him. His gramma musta kissed then kicked him out. I bet he followed me home the night Tanya and I went investigating the paranormal of Hillcrest. There was a familiar smell that night. And I just remember running affright. Tanya stumbling right behind—the streets—ada, orteleva, maynard, sisson, unit, cloud, gray—all the way home to gray.

Imagine me—afraid of the Blankie Monster.

What I was thinking on New Year's day

Oppressed by others I begin to suppress my Self until my mind depresses into vacancy. I am e-e-e, I go tripping. I have found nothing in Self focus. I have found nothing in my Self. Because everything, it is so much better. The world focuses on all, revolves in circumference. I am small. Quand j’étais petite, I am one, tout est un, but everything surrounds me. I feel it everywhere. Je me sens bien. Je me le sens partout. Je suis dans un lieu noir. Here, there, I hear the wind. It whispers in a wheezing breeze. I laugh. Ils rient. Ha! I am— Je suis perdu.