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.