When You Ask The World To Move, Be Prepared To Spin With It
Things are a'changin'. That's what they say in the country songs on the radio anyway. That's what I've been saying, anyway. That's what I've been whispering to those willing to listen over the last several months. Like the crest of a wave, things form, they raised high, and then broke in a crash that scattered the sediment exactly where it was fated.
Wait, was that a bit more overdramatic than it should have been?
Probably. I'm a writer. What do you expect?
I've moved. Officially.
Here I reside in my own space. A small space, but a humbly small so. A modest residence.
I have a bedroom with a door to an attic and a big but hunched down closet which is filled with a dresser, shoes, and closed unwrinkly hanging to the side on their hangers. There's a space above that's filled with clutter not yet to it's destined destination. I have a wicker basket for dirty clothes filled with junk, and the clothes lie on the floor, just like they used to in a different room that served the same purpose. My bed is shorter than it used to be - it was assembled incorrectly before - you no longer have to long jump to reach the plateau, though I kind of miss the ritual. It makes sleeping that much more challenging, not that I need more of a challenge to sleep - I'm encumbered enough. There's a desk I don't use taking up half of a wall; my bike fills in the rest of the space. The room smells like me.
I have a bathroom that's in disarray. The floor is dirty, the walls haven't been finished, the sink is shoddy, and the toilet is small. But the shower works and the water runs. Who can complain? The kitchen isn't a kitchen, because you can't prepare food in their, despite the presence of an oven and fridge. The fridge is empty except for catfood and stains from the previous owner. The floor is damaged, but soon to be replaced. There's a table stuck to the wall and a sink basin that collects water that doesn't drain.
I have a living room. It looks very nice, and the windows are fabulous, though they look out on nothing in particular. There's a TV without cable, and that's the way I like it. There's a throw rug I didn't like who lives on my floor now; it grew on me, and I kept it like a stray. There's a wonderful bookcase - it's the greatest part of the house - it's filled to the brim with literature and films and music - treasure. There's a nice loveseat that gets thoroughly used. There are gabled ceilings that tout rafters. There's lots of natural lighting. This room is my favourite.
It's my new home. As I hoped, it is much more comfortable being able to distance myself from those who stress me out. It's lonely up here, yes, but that's only because one person has come over. There's a sense of privacy I've never known. I can do what I please up here without anyone else being concerned about my actions. And I do. I do act. Verbs are in effect. The house gets VERY cold some night, but that's when you're supposed to be hibernating in a warm bed anyway; my bed is lonely, but so is my house, and you don't see me complaining about the latter. This is my new house. And it's quite flawed. But I quite like it. Flaws and all.
I'm officially attending UTA. I have kind of kept this somewhat under the radar thus far - my attendance to UTA - because I haven't exactly been sure if the entire ordeal was going to follow through or not. I was accepted prior to my trip to Chicago in December, but have only now begun to finish the entire registration process, an entirely separate ordeal that has strung me about for the better part of a month. As plans finally finalize, and I finish the last final steps, I stand ready to venture forth into another step of education. This is definitely an improvement over TCC. With any luck, my tuition will be free by fall semester. I hope to meet new friends; you better believe I need them these days; maybe the few I know who have attended prior my arrival can introduce me around. Or maybe this is a task best taken alone. We'll soon see.
As I mentioned previously, before the New Year, I wasn't particularly fond of 2008. It had its moments that gleamed like diamonds. And then the rest of the year gleamed more like muddy rock. Like a sick joke, the coup d'grace was a slashed tire on New Years Eve. New tires can be purchased, and were. But I've lost some things over the past year. And I realized what was missing from my rucksack of the soul. My patience and my creativity. I used to be the most patience person I knew. It was hard to stress me out; I really took things in stride; it took a lot to stress me out, and anything that didn't was easily dealt with in a slow and productive manner. With the unbearable amount of stress, my patience got warped out of shape. I can't tolerate bullcrap anymore. I'm snippier. I'm more quick to argue. I get angry VERY easily. And I hate it. I hate the lack of my patience. I hate that I'm so angry these days, at the littlest, silliest things. But I'm trying to fix this. Patience is like metal: it's tough to mend or alter, and sturdy, but if you temper it slowly, just right, you can bend it into any shape. I'm tempering my temper. I'll build my patience back, I hope. I miss is. And I don't want to hurt anyone while my soul is still bent out of shape.
And my creativity. It diminished into the cloud of stress, and confusion, and anger that arose quickly, and hung in the air like the fog that accompanied me to Missouri on my trip north. I lost my ability to write for awhile there; all inspiration vanished completely into nothingness. I didn't know how to use my camera, and I didn't know how words could be arranged just write to inspire passion, or drama, or humour, or intrigue in a paragraph in a story. I lost the talent. Which sent me into a panic, for without my creativity, I'm lost; without my creativity - my imagination being my strongest attribute - my rock - I felt lost, nothing truly left tying me down. Nothing I felt good at. You can see the potential self-confidence breaker there. But slowly, I've been finding my ability. I've started writing short stories again, successfully. I'm getting ideas and inspiration now. My personality is different, and the ideas are limping, bruised from rough changes. But it's back, for better or worse, and hopefully, I won't lose my grip on it again.
I miss my friends. And I'm eager to make new ones. I turn 21 next month; how surreal of an event. I'd like to invite my friends over to my friends house; maybe do something childish and immature so I can relish the immaturity before immaturity turns into a faux pas. Maybe it is a faux pas, but here I am critiquing a social faux pas when I wear a shoelace on my wrist (one I hope to never take off longer than I have to). I hope my old friends can meet my new friends. I hope I can spend time alone with cool people in my new home; make them comfortable, and make them smile; make them feel like this place could be their home if they wanted it to be. Because this is my home if I wanted it to be, and I want it to be. And here I am, in my gabled living room. I see the silhouette of a tree out of my window, and my reflection. It's not the same reflection from a couple months ago, but I didn't expect it to be; the angles and lighting are different, and you have to expect those things to change with the coming and going of the solstice, sunrise, and sunset. And when the celestial bodies are hidden behind a brightened sky, you've got to open your eyes to new angles and new possibilities, and hopefully, a better outlook than the last angle seemed to offer.
Wait, was that a bit more overdramatic than it should have been?
Probably. I'm a writer. What do you expect?
'Til next time.
Wait, was that a bit more overdramatic than it should have been?
Probably. I'm a writer. What do you expect?
I've moved. Officially.
Here I reside in my own space. A small space, but a humbly small so. A modest residence.
I have a bedroom with a door to an attic and a big but hunched down closet which is filled with a dresser, shoes, and closed unwrinkly hanging to the side on their hangers. There's a space above that's filled with clutter not yet to it's destined destination. I have a wicker basket for dirty clothes filled with junk, and the clothes lie on the floor, just like they used to in a different room that served the same purpose. My bed is shorter than it used to be - it was assembled incorrectly before - you no longer have to long jump to reach the plateau, though I kind of miss the ritual. It makes sleeping that much more challenging, not that I need more of a challenge to sleep - I'm encumbered enough. There's a desk I don't use taking up half of a wall; my bike fills in the rest of the space. The room smells like me.
I have a bathroom that's in disarray. The floor is dirty, the walls haven't been finished, the sink is shoddy, and the toilet is small. But the shower works and the water runs. Who can complain? The kitchen isn't a kitchen, because you can't prepare food in their, despite the presence of an oven and fridge. The fridge is empty except for catfood and stains from the previous owner. The floor is damaged, but soon to be replaced. There's a table stuck to the wall and a sink basin that collects water that doesn't drain.
I have a living room. It looks very nice, and the windows are fabulous, though they look out on nothing in particular. There's a TV without cable, and that's the way I like it. There's a throw rug I didn't like who lives on my floor now; it grew on me, and I kept it like a stray. There's a wonderful bookcase - it's the greatest part of the house - it's filled to the brim with literature and films and music - treasure. There's a nice loveseat that gets thoroughly used. There are gabled ceilings that tout rafters. There's lots of natural lighting. This room is my favourite.
It's my new home. As I hoped, it is much more comfortable being able to distance myself from those who stress me out. It's lonely up here, yes, but that's only because one person has come over. There's a sense of privacy I've never known. I can do what I please up here without anyone else being concerned about my actions. And I do. I do act. Verbs are in effect. The house gets VERY cold some night, but that's when you're supposed to be hibernating in a warm bed anyway; my bed is lonely, but so is my house, and you don't see me complaining about the latter. This is my new house. And it's quite flawed. But I quite like it. Flaws and all.
I'm officially attending UTA. I have kind of kept this somewhat under the radar thus far - my attendance to UTA - because I haven't exactly been sure if the entire ordeal was going to follow through or not. I was accepted prior to my trip to Chicago in December, but have only now begun to finish the entire registration process, an entirely separate ordeal that has strung me about for the better part of a month. As plans finally finalize, and I finish the last final steps, I stand ready to venture forth into another step of education. This is definitely an improvement over TCC. With any luck, my tuition will be free by fall semester. I hope to meet new friends; you better believe I need them these days; maybe the few I know who have attended prior my arrival can introduce me around. Or maybe this is a task best taken alone. We'll soon see.
As I mentioned previously, before the New Year, I wasn't particularly fond of 2008. It had its moments that gleamed like diamonds. And then the rest of the year gleamed more like muddy rock. Like a sick joke, the coup d'grace was a slashed tire on New Years Eve. New tires can be purchased, and were. But I've lost some things over the past year. And I realized what was missing from my rucksack of the soul. My patience and my creativity. I used to be the most patience person I knew. It was hard to stress me out; I really took things in stride; it took a lot to stress me out, and anything that didn't was easily dealt with in a slow and productive manner. With the unbearable amount of stress, my patience got warped out of shape. I can't tolerate bullcrap anymore. I'm snippier. I'm more quick to argue. I get angry VERY easily. And I hate it. I hate the lack of my patience. I hate that I'm so angry these days, at the littlest, silliest things. But I'm trying to fix this. Patience is like metal: it's tough to mend or alter, and sturdy, but if you temper it slowly, just right, you can bend it into any shape. I'm tempering my temper. I'll build my patience back, I hope. I miss is. And I don't want to hurt anyone while my soul is still bent out of shape.
And my creativity. It diminished into the cloud of stress, and confusion, and anger that arose quickly, and hung in the air like the fog that accompanied me to Missouri on my trip north. I lost my ability to write for awhile there; all inspiration vanished completely into nothingness. I didn't know how to use my camera, and I didn't know how words could be arranged just write to inspire passion, or drama, or humour, or intrigue in a paragraph in a story. I lost the talent. Which sent me into a panic, for without my creativity, I'm lost; without my creativity - my imagination being my strongest attribute - my rock - I felt lost, nothing truly left tying me down. Nothing I felt good at. You can see the potential self-confidence breaker there. But slowly, I've been finding my ability. I've started writing short stories again, successfully. I'm getting ideas and inspiration now. My personality is different, and the ideas are limping, bruised from rough changes. But it's back, for better or worse, and hopefully, I won't lose my grip on it again.
I miss my friends. And I'm eager to make new ones. I turn 21 next month; how surreal of an event. I'd like to invite my friends over to my friends house; maybe do something childish and immature so I can relish the immaturity before immaturity turns into a faux pas. Maybe it is a faux pas, but here I am critiquing a social faux pas when I wear a shoelace on my wrist (one I hope to never take off longer than I have to). I hope my old friends can meet my new friends. I hope I can spend time alone with cool people in my new home; make them comfortable, and make them smile; make them feel like this place could be their home if they wanted it to be. Because this is my home if I wanted it to be, and I want it to be. And here I am, in my gabled living room. I see the silhouette of a tree out of my window, and my reflection. It's not the same reflection from a couple months ago, but I didn't expect it to be; the angles and lighting are different, and you have to expect those things to change with the coming and going of the solstice, sunrise, and sunset. And when the celestial bodies are hidden behind a brightened sky, you've got to open your eyes to new angles and new possibilities, and hopefully, a better outlook than the last angle seemed to offer.
Wait, was that a bit more overdramatic than it should have been?
Probably. I'm a writer. What do you expect?
'Til next time.