why fight how much we love our wifi? also, you are a cloud.

Noooooo Internet!!! Hello! Hello from the past. I suppose every post I post is from the past. In fact, I am very suspicious that there is anything but the past, that there is anything but clouds. I'll get to the cloud thing in a minute. In the future, I will get to that weird cloud statement I made in the past. Wait wait wait, is there a future? Now that is another thing of which I am suspicious. So let us make ourselves at home with the past, which is our present, which doesn't exist except for in the form of the past. The present is the past. But don't take my word for it. I have often been wrong in the past.

And then there's that weird thing I said about clouds. Buddhists have been saying it for decades now (not that decades are an actual measurement of time because there is not really any particular way to measure the imaginary) -- we are clouds! You came from a cloud and you will return to a cloud. This little pinpoint of energy BOOM and then all of creation came from it. So maybe clouds are energy and maybe I'm using up my energy running circles around myself with this insufferable style of writing. Style? I have a style? I guess I do. I am sorry for how disjointed these posts have been lately. I would be pretty annoyed of them by now if I were you; I would stop reading them. I don't blame you. I never have! But if you must read on, then you must. Bless your heart. Bless your heart, which is a cloud and is a part of me. I see shapes in your heart, but for some reason they never cover up the sun.

Okay, so still no Internet. I don't really know why and I am no Internet scientist, so I can't properly fix whatever it is that is wrong... Assuming that having no Internet is a malady. I think it is. Well, it is today. Except except except it is also a bit of a relief. As I've never said before, but will say right now: "Give me the Internet or give me freedom!" And life has forced me to have freedom these past 24 hours. I have been banished to the land of watercolors and books with actual paper pages and in person conversations with in person persons. I have had to step outside and see ourselves floating by in the sky that has, remarkably, always been there. We just needed to log off and look up.

So bye bye, Internet. For now. I will absolutely allow you to trap me in your web when you return. I'm no genius; I am a pleasant fool living in a temporary present. It is nice, it is fleeting, it is providing me with some paths to wander around instead of running around in circles with a distracted mind and multiple tabs open. But again, it won't last. I'll be the first to admit that the last thing I tend to do is stay in the middle. But maybe I'll let this no connection connect me to what I have shut up for too long. Open the door, Meg! Open and enjoy the circus of wonder above.

scroll

I am typing this in front of a window and there is a strange man standing directly outside of the window. And so begins my great horror novel! Or mystery! Or spy thriller! Or downright racy romance. Definitely a romance. Psych. But not psych about the strange man standing in front of me. He is wearing a blue and gray striped beanie. Grey. I like to spell it "grey" and I'm not sure why I decided this morning to spell it with an A. So be it. This strange man is only strange, as far as I know, because he is a stranger. I figure he is perfectly normal based off of the perfectly normal blue and grey striped beanie. But what if underneath this beanie is some kind of a compass or a pouch full of chicken bones? Maybe he is hiding some lost bible scrolls up there. I wouldn't be surprised. No, that's a lie. I would be the most surprised I have ever been in my life.

Oh yeah, right, so this dude is just the Direct TV dude. (Apparently it's "Direc TV." Thanks, Google. I would have looked like a damn fool without you.) And so concludes the mystery of the morning. Although he could still very well be stashing those scrolls up in his beanie. Anything is possible, even this. Especially this.

This morning started out rough. I wake up from a violent dream, sore and sorely lacking sleep, stub my toe, snap at my sweetheart mom because of stubbed toe and because I am a snot, wet my pajama bottoms kinda sorta (well! it's true! my bladder! has! issues!), lose my last contact, spill makeup all over myself, and then discover lost bible scrolls only to accidentally use them as kindling for a fire that got out of control and burned down Mr. Rochester's home. Just a little Jane Eyre reference for you on this Friday morning! You are welcome! I'll try to keep referencing gothic novels throughout my blog, I promise.

So although this morning kind of sucks (or sucked) balls, I vow to not let the rest of my day get to me. Unless I do happen to burn some bible scrolls, then fugg it all to hell. It will make my life and the lives of those around me muuuuuch more pleasant if I just... Stop acting like a victim. I've been on a kick lately where I tend to view everything as a problem or that the universe is against me. It's gotten to the point where I'm simply just bored of feeling sad. I know I need to make some other changes relating to my physical health, but I also desperately need to change my perspective. Just a slight shift would shine a light on my life and make everything so much brighter. That was the lamest thing I've said in a long time. Buuuut alllllsooooo truuuuue!

Okay, this perfectly normal bible scroll thief disguised as a Direc TV dude just took off his perfectly normal and probably fairly warm blue and grey striped beanie. Turns out he has a receding hairline and no scrolls... That I can see. But how would I know? I lost my last contact on this perfectly perfect and glorious and beautiful and dark and stormy morning. Mwah.

spine

Minutes! Merely minutes until I need to get ready for whatever it is that I have to get ready for. Oh right. Work. Work was so much better yesterday. Not great by any means, but I think I just resigned myself to the fact that I had to be there and so I was just... There. I didn't let my mind wander off thinking about all of the other places I could be and all of the other things I wish wish wish I could be doing. And so I just sat there and graded boring papers or stood there and made sure milk cartons were opened properly. And it was okay. At the very least, I was more pleasant to be around.

No, this won't be another post about my job. You are welcome. Why do I feel so compelled to write a post every morning? It has almost turned into a soothing ritual. I have other rituals, ones much odder than writing a blog post, that I shall not mention because they are too odd and complicated to explain. And why would you want to hear about them anyway? What do you want to hear? I'll tell you anything! Almost anything! I'm an open book! An almost open book! Like, I'm open, but the spine hasn't been completely cracked.

When I was a kid, the school nurse was worried I might have a curved spine. We kept our eye on it, I think, and it never created a problem. I think. I don't think it matters anymore. I am a lot older now and my spine seems just fine. My eyes, fingers, and toes, however, are taking a beating. I know a lot of people say this as kind of a joke, but the day I turned 30, I swear I started noticing more aches and pains and sheer terror about the future. I'm overwhelmed. Does it get easier? Or maybe we just get used to feeling like a rusty bike. I'd go back to training wheels if it meant the rust would disappear.

Now it's time stop chewing on ice and talking about bikes and spines and get ready for the BEST DAY OF WORK EVER. I won't let the dumb little things get to me today. I won't I won't I won't. I swear. I will be perfectly content doing menial tasks and making small talk with adults who don't know my name and constantly interrupt. I will feel my spine and remind myself that it is straight as an arrow. I will ignore the pain in my fingers for one more day and pray that tomorrow I drink less caffeine. I mean it when I say I love all of you and that I promise to step up by blogging game. Because this is all just a game, isn't it? Batter up.

vapidity

It's okay to complain about my job, right? I mean, it's what adults do! Talk about the crazy weather, the dead end job, last night's sports game, the weather, how crazy the weather is, how much you are looking forward to the weekend/retirement/tonight's prime time season finale of that one show that everyone loves and talks about after they finish talking about how the weather is just one big crazy thing in our one small crazy life. And I do discuss these things with other adults, except for the sports game or retirement. And the weather is so so so crazy sometimes. And I purchased those penny loafers the other day, which was my gateway into the drab land of adulthood, so I guess it's perfectly acceptable for me to complain about my job.

But who wants to get onto my blog and read about my job? That was an example of slant rhyme, folks. Blog job. My job is my blog. I am a bored housewife and I've put all of my pent-up aggression and disappointment and general feelings of unease into my popular mommy blog. Look! Look at these fancy sugar cookies I have iced! And look! Look at my three blonde children with flour covering their noses as we sit around baking fancy sugar cookies in my relatably messy kitchen! But my kitchen is still fancy. Come on. I'm not poor or anything. I have a mansion in San Diego and I drink green juice and I wear yoga pants to the farmer's market where I buy the organic ingredients for my fancy sugar cookies for my fancy and popular blog. I am sad.

The above paragraph should probably be left out of this post, but there it is. And the last sentence "I am sad" was the mommy blogger character speaking, not me. But I guess I AM sad because I have clinical depression. So sadness is just a comfortable old shoe, you know? But lately I've been feeling more anger than sadness. I think I'd rather take the sadness. The anger feels dangerous and out of control. Not that I punch anyone in the face or even really do anything that would let the other, unfortunate victim of my anger know that I am angry, but I come close. I come close to just freakin' the fudge out and it worries me. And this is where the part about hating my job comes in.

I feel frustrated. Maybe frustration is what I am feeling, not anger. I am frustrated that I've allowed myself to take "whatever" jobs for, well, my entire life. I don't try too hard or at all. I just secure a job and squeak by on whatever they pay me. I forgot that I have a college degree. I forget that I have a lot to offer. I find myself stranded in places where I am not appreciated or even noticed. It's weird.

This could very well be my ego talking. It usually is. My ego has a booming voice that tends to drown out anyone else who might want to speak. Yes, I should be grateful I have a job. Yes, I know I can try harder. Yes, I should try hard right now at whatever it is that I am doing -- do the job and do it well and etc. I also need to stop blaming everyone else and feeling annoyed of my situation. It's entirely up to me to change my situation and, perhaps more importantly, my perspective. And my attitude! My damn attitude. If I am where I am and I hate it, I might as well try to act in a way that will eventually cause me to like where I am -- or at least tolerate it. It's all just temporary anyway. And I know deep down that punching a face or a wall or myself won't help anyone, especially my fist. I don't even know how to throw a punch, to tell you the truth. I'd end up looking ridiculous and maybe even a little adorable, which would only further escalate my anger.

So I go to work soon. I pray to the big guy/black woman/buddha above that I can be calm. That I can be brave in the face of banality. That I can discuss the crazy weather if I must and that I will do so with a giant, crazy smile on my face. Because it will be okay. It always is.

unbleached

I am trying to get into science fiction and fantasy. I really am. Maybe I'm doing it wrong? Can someone direct me in the right direction? I want to dive into a world and get lost. I mean, aside from this world. I'm already lost in this world, so why not try getting lost in another?

It's my personality, I suppose, to be obsessed. Within me lies this blank canvas aching for an identity, a community, a purpose. And I find it for a few weeks -- whatever "it" happens to be -- but then I either grow tired or discouraged or bored and move on. It's as if I am a sprinter going for a marathon. I do wonderfully in spurts, but I can't seem to go the distance.

And that's why I change my hair often and often dramatically. That's why I experiment with various personas. That's why I'm drawn to religion and rallies and rituals. I want a passion, a direction, a focus. I want a reason, dammit! Instead, I roam. Forever and ever and ever. And yeah yeah yeah, it's about the journey, not the destination. Not all who wander are lost. Always question. Spare me.

Where was I going with this exactly? Oh right. Science fiction and fantasy. Can't quite get into them. Still gonna give them a chance. I'm tired.

The search continues, folks. My current, passing obsession is penny loafers and sensible slacks. I want to play it safe and clean for now. Maybe I need to befriend the blank canvas and see it as a strength. Who needs paint anyway? I don't even have any brushes. Yet.

This was a weird post. Here's a picture of a old people relaxing in chairs inside of a cave. I assume they're relaxing.

operation

Do you people wish I would blog less about my inability to overcome writer's block and more about my ability to bake cute cookies for neighborhood block parties? I don't mean to refer to you as "you people." That sounds condescending. It sounded. And sounds. And there are sounds outside of my window which I think can be attributed to either an owl or a leprechaun in distress. If it's the latter, I hope it doesn't need my help. I have limited time to myself in the blessed morning that I'd rather not get involved in an adventure with a fairy creature clad in green. Save that for my evenings. I am so okay with the fantastical in the evenings.

Last night I had a dream that Julia Roberts Horse Mouth and her husband Danny Whatshisnamewhocares were running a sex ring operation. A sex ring operation? Is that what they are called? It sounds like a medical procedure you'd have to elevate your sex life to new heights. But anyway, Julia and Danny and their unfortunate girls were holed up in a very swanky hotel suite in San Francisco. I was an undercover agent and was assigned the task of exposing America's sweetheart as the morally corrupt character that she is. Was. Is, was, it is what it was and it was all just a dream, sadly. I only say "sadly" because I think we, as a greedy and morally corrupt society, need a celebrity scandal of this level. No more iconic actors dying, please. Just sex ring operations and maybe the occasional fairy creature affairs.

What else, what else. Oh, I am almost finished with David Mitchell's The Bone Clocks. I've been reading it like a maniac simply because I am a maniac and reading allows me to temporarily hush the creepy voices of anxiety that creep into my creepy head and also it's a pretty good book. And... That's about it. I don't do much else. Maybe it's January? Maybe once spring and summer grace us with their presence (and presents because my birthday is in June), I will suddenly emerge from my slumber and take on the world! Or at least do more things than hole up in my house and read books that are pretty good. Maybe I'll try yoga for the millionth time! Maybe I'll watercolor on the porch! Maybe I'll build a new porch just because porches are nice places to paint and having more than one nice place to paint would be, well, nice! Maybe I'll set up a lemonade stand that does not sell lemonades, but sells the idea of lemonade! Like, a philosophical lemonade stand. One thing I will not do, however, is open up a sex ring operation with Danny Moder and his wife.

You know what, I'm beginning to think that is definitely not an owl outside of my window. If it isn't an owl, it has to be a leprechaun. I'm guessing the leprechaun needs me to help him shut down the Moder sex ring? You got it, dude. I'll meet you at the swanky San Fran suite at dusk. Roger, over and out.

pause

I am about to purchase my first pair of penny loafers. It feels like my gateway into adulthood. I use the word "feel" a lot, now don't I? And I ask a lot of questions. And I begin a lot of sentences with "and." And have I already mentioned these things to you before? Who are you, by the way? I sometimes want to know who my faithful readers are, but at the same time I feel (feel!!!) that if I knew, I would become self-conscious in my writing and begin to censor myself. Not that I think you need to read censored writing. No fucking way! (Sorry, mom.) I know you can handle it. All of it.

And, it being the odd day that it is, I too can handle all of it. Or at least a majority of it. And what is "it" exactly? Well, it's the penny loafers and the entering into adulthood. It's the fishing the toilet paper roll out of the bowl and laughing about it. It's the dusting off of the Crock-Pot and cooking some hot meals for myself for once. It's the doctor's appointments and the depositing of checks and the sprucing up my resume and cover letter so I can get on with my life and afford to support myself and possibly a small tabby cat. No, not a tabby. I want a black cat with green eyes who occasionally struts around the house in a bonnet.

I guess I'm just feeling kind of stable and brave today. Like things aren't that big of a deal. Or if they are a big deal, they are still manageable, just more work. It's not a big deal that some things are a big deal. What's happening to me?

Again, it could be that I am simply sleepwalking today. The fuzziness of exhaustion gives everything a bit of a warm glow. Or is this spring fever? Nice weather always helps. And Sundays. Sundays always help. They are a quiet, welcome relief after the shit storm that is Saturday. I have also been actively attempting that whole "live in the present moment" thing people swear by. Turns out there's actually something to it. I don't know what it is. I don't know if it matters right now if I can pinpoint the cause of this okay-ness. Maybe it would be wise for me to enjoy being in this space. Shush my mind and just be for once. Me and my practical penny loafers, at one with the universe. Sounds about right.

root

God created the world in 144 hours and it has taken me almost 43,829 hours to begin writing creatively again. Just begin. Not even produce any completed, polished piece of work. There was that one piece I wrote a few months back that I suppose was "completed." Polished? Hardly. Readable? Depends on who you ask. Not that you can ask very many people because not very many people read these short stories I somehow extract from my head. And once they are removed from my head and placed onto the page, they are almost nonexistent. So I guess writing for me is a form of exorcism. Sounds painful. Sounds scary.

It also sounds necessary. Yes, writers are often that starry eyed bunch who passionately exclaim that they were "born to write." That is their calling! That is why they were placed on this 6-days-to-create earth! There is no other possibility for them but to write and to write often, feverishly, triumphantly. Usually, however, they find themselves in the back corner of a crappy coffee shop, notebook open, pen scratching, thoughts of grandeur flowing. Keep working on that screenplay, kid! I sincerely mean that. I'm sorry I called you kid. That can sound condescending. But kids are imaginative and chase after those dreams and hey! Don't give up on your dreams, reach for the stars, chase after stars, dream of stars, don't give up on stars, stars are dying or are already dead, but they do look pretty. As long as you look pretty, nothing else matters. Wait! Crap! No! Ignore all of my advice. Ignore me.

That's what I need to do! As Ms. Winfrey would say, I've just had an a-ha moment or whatever. I need to ignore me. The me that tells me I can't do it, I shouldn't do it, I haven't the time or talent to keep pumping out these odd jumble of words. The me is the ego. The ego is only about protecting itself. It needs to keep up the appearance of total togetherness, for whatever reason. Why does the ego try so hard? What's the point of appearing to be cool if it's all just smoke and mirrors? The mirror should be there to reflect oneself, not deceive. The mirror should be a tool, not a trick. I want to make peace with that reflection and then shatter the glass with no superstition. Hello, you. You look quite fine and you've served your purpose, but now it's time for me to serve my purpose. Take a hike while I begin to write. I'll probably write while on a hike because the open sky serves me better than the crappy coffee shop. Not that there is a me to serve, but... But I'm losing myself in a maze of words again. Perfect.

So what if God created the world in 144 hours while I've been sitting restlessly inside of my own head for god knows how many hours? Definitely more than 144. But again, so what? I'm not God (as far as I know) and I'm not creating the world. I am simply creating a dot on my own map. And in this place there are no hours or minutes or days or eons. There aren't even any mirrors. No, contained within this dot on my own map are skies and stars bright and alive and those dandelion puffs that litter the yard and create a sea for broken bikes and curious children. This region will be written, not named. It will be a refuge for the forgotten kids who find themselves in the back corner, myself included. And behold, it will be very good.

perpetual

Sometimes I want to be stranded in a small, appropriately-lit room with a book and a pot of coffee and another pot for when I inevitably have to pee out that coffee. (The pot will be in another, smaller room. Look, I'm not saying I want to be in a jail cell. Although...) Fresh oxygen will be pumped into the room every half hour or so, which is the only way I'll be able to tell time. Time doesn't really exist in this small, appropriately-lit room. Time just comes in the form of oxygen, of breath. So with no distractions and a healthy buzz and strong bladder, I read and read and read until my eyes fall out. But the great thing is is that my eyes don't fall out or even become tired or strained because this is my fantasy and in my fantasy I am indestructible.

Other times I want to live before books were born. I want to be in a cave or a hut or on top of a plateau looking for food or love or maybe both. Because aren't food and love inseparable? Eat your heart out and so forth. And so from this plateau I see neither of those things; instead I see time and how it stretches on and on and on. Not that I know what time is, at least not the way we understand it today. Actually, I may know time better -- I recognize it in its many forms, from the rising sun to the pockmarked sky at night. Time silences me. I sink my heels into the soil and plant myself firmly.

And then there are those times when I allow myself to dream of hopping fences and chasing trains. These are indulgent dreams and can lead me to places where I don't speak the language and can't find my passport. The clocks don't make sense, even though time should be a universal language. Is it not? Silly me. I should know by now that it's not. Paper-thin seconds pass differently depending on where you find yourself. But what if you can't find yourself? What if you keep getting lost in small rooms and on top open plateaus and inside of unfamiliar cities? Does it matter what you find on a map if you can't first locate yourself?

You are here. Here is the star. You are starring in your own life -- or at least you should be. But this time the star is missing. And now enters the understudy. The understudy has been waiting their whole life for this big break. The lights dim, the curtain rises, the play begins. The lines don't go as planned; in fact, they are abandoned all together. This performance isn't scripted. This performance is has no stars, no characters, only moments. This performance takes place in rooms and trains and ancient worlds before time, before books, before you were born. You get to decide. You get to decide when to come on stage, when to be born. Eat your heart out. Become inseparable, indestructible. Become infinite.

identification

I should probably create a better writing schedule for myself. Currently I do this thing called "rushed at 10am to shit out something for my blog or 'novel' or top secret project with Laura before I have to throw on stupid work clothes for stupid work where I babysit for four stupid mind numbing hours." It's really a thing. Google it. And let me clarify, in case I get Googled and my coworkers and or boss and or other official adults read this -- Look! Work is great! I am so lucky to have a job and I really like working with the kids, most days, and I am just being a typical bratty Millennial by bitching about a low-key part-time gig. And I'm just being funny! Sometimes we exaggerate when we are trying to be funny, you know? You know! You are cool! You are a great coworker/boss/official adult!

So maybe I am also an official adult. I will be 31 in June, which is the age when you are issued a card by the government (the government is chalk-full of official adults, by the way) as proof that you are an official adult. No, it doesn't mean you are capable of being an official adult, but simply that you are one. One in a million. More like one in 31 million. You are a lone 31-year-old in a crowd of 31 million. Don't laminate the card. Keep it with you at all times to prevent identity fraud. Slip it into your stupid work slacks and get back to typing/stapling/filing/copying/gossiping over the water cooler that doesn't exist. Why doesn't your office have a water cooler? All it offers is a vending machine, which steals your bills and is always out of Coke products.

And I could quickly and silently become a product instead of a producer if I hang on to this card. I'd allow others to speak for me and I'd stop creating. What's the use when you are wearing uncomfortable pants and are searching for a soda because you are so goddamn thirsty? Too bad you don't have any change left. You'd settle for a Pepsi. But you still have that spark that wants a change, that can't fathom settling for less than exactly what you want. It's figuring out what you want that keeps you up at night. It's figuring out what you will freely give your life to. It's figuring out how to keep the hope alive when the oxygen in the office starts coming in short supply.

Whoa. What in the hell am I writing? Are you still reading? Have I worried/offended you? This was fun to write, though! Hey! Fun! That's good! But I want to get at something as well. Maybe I dig too deep too soon. Maybe I try to wrap up all of my posts/thoughts with profound insights. Not every story needs an obvious moral, though. A to B can be kind of boring. Voluntarily getting lost in the labyrinth has its value. I think I'll keep wandering and see where it takes me.

I just hope it doesn't lead me to a deceitful vending machine.

paddle

My eyes, hands, and feet hurt. And toes. One toe, maybe two. Two toes, all of my fingers, and my eyes, especially my right eye. My brain is always begging me to put my pajamas back on and crawl back into bed for a few more hours. My joints are just confused at this point. Then there are the split ends and cracked skin, brittle nails and bloody noses. Winter is the harshest season by far. Why has this winter been going on for years?

Hey, I'm not terribly morose, folks! Although that paragraph above sure makes it seem like I am. I'm just kinda physically worn out, which naturally takes its toll on other facets of my life. It seems easier and more rational to move to Canada than try to pay for my own health insurance here. Should I become a Canuck? Is the word "Canuck" derogatory? Do I like maple syrup? I do love Degrassi and canoes. And here is where I've told my first (and probably not last) lie of this post: I have never been in a canoe. But then again, can't I still love something without ever having experienced it? Let's get into a philosophical discussion on the nature of love, shall we? Experiencing the Canoe of Love: A Discussion with Dr. Meghan.

The solution to all of these ills might simply be to drink more water. That seems to be the answer to a lot of health-related questions. "Hey, Dr. Meghan, what do I do about this gout?" "Drink more water, Kim Jong-un!" "Dr. Meghan! Quick! I have stigmata!" "Here is a glass of water. Drink up, my child." "Dr. Meghan, I've never been on a canoe and it's causing me to fall into a deep depression out of which I never believe I shall emerge." "Water. Water everywhere. Standing in water and complaining you are thirsty." "You are a real smartass, Dr. Meghan." "Even asses need to drink water. The smart ones will drink filtered water."

I don't drink filtered water anymore. I hardly drink enough water period. I get most of my water in the form of ice cubes and tears. No, not tears. There's my second lie of the post. But I am a doctor! That was in no way a lie. Why in the world would I lie about being a doctor? Just so I can have access to healthcare and white lab coats? Psssh. You must be taking crazy pills. Prescribed by me. I prescribed you those pills and I also prescribe you some water and a day out on the lake in a metaphorical canoe. An ounce of experience is worth a pound of maple syrup.

Well, time to teach America's future! After reading this post, I sincerely wonder if you wonder if America's future is in the wrong hands. But stop worrying about it. The only thing wrong with my hands are that they are incredibly achy, sore, and tingly. Not a problem, kiddos. At least they can still hold an oar.

reservoir

Hi everyone! I want to write! I really like writing right before work because I feel like I can -- and it's the only time I can -- so here I go! Time to write! But oh my oh my, I don't know what to say. That must be a lie, right? I probably have a lot to say. A LOT. Too much, in fact, which makes me feel overwhelmed and directionless. What questions do I ask myself in order to get closer to what is essential for me? In other words, how do I find that one critical story sitting inside of my soul/heart/brain/toes just waiting and waiting and waiting for me to let it out? I'm sure I know what it is already, but I am apprehensive about admitting it. Because once I admit it, the dam breaks and I have to learn how to swim. It'll be quite the ride, but right now I'm comfortable being dry. But nothing grows on this barren land. There's gold in the water, an embarrassment of riches.

It might be found in my pain. That was a cheesy thing to type, but it's true! My story might be found in the various disorders I've housed comfortably throughout my life. The secrets I've kept in order to keep the wound open. The struggles and small triumphs and massive setbacks. The diary pages! The lost loves! The oops I really should have not done thats! The long nights full of every thought and everything to numb those thoughts. The days short and distracting. Flights of fancy and fancy flights to various locations with various men. Yes yes, I know what the story is.

So will the cover of this sappy memoir have a butterfly on it? Like, it can be a stock photo of beautiful peachy hands releasing a vibrantly hued butterfly. Or maybe I'll just go with a butterfly resting on a daisy. That one would be easy enough. I could get a little edgy with the font, however. The font will make the reader think, "Hmmm. This is going to be an edgy book!" And the stock photo of the butterfly will make the reader think, "Sure, it will be edgy, but it will also be about a radical transformation! For the better! Hopeful! Inspiring! Delicate, yet strong!"

I'll worry about the stupid cover and stupid font later. Or I'll let someone else worry about that. What I want to concern myself with now is how to blow up this dam and how to muster up the courage to dive in headfirst. I've got to submerge at some point in order to get the gold.

valetudinarian

You know how you wake up convinced you have diabetes? Yeah, pretty fun way to start my Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! Not that it's MY day. I mean, it's his day, I just get to reap the benefits. Not reap the benefits in the way that I am black and he opened up a lot of doors for me. Reap the benefits in that I don't have to go into work today. Thanks, Martin!

Anyway, diabetes. Today it's diabetes, tomorrow it may be fibromyalgia or arthritis or Lyme disease. Heaven forbid if it's stigmata! I guess you could call me paranoid or a hypochondriac or just a simple girl with the inability to produce insulin. I worry, okay?! Who doesn't?! There are people out there (are you one of the lucky ones?) who don't obsessively worry about every ache and pain and possible event and imagined catastrophe. There are people who can go with the flow and hit those curve balls life throws out them. They hit those balls OUT OF THE PARK, too. How do they do it? Can we switch brains?

I realize I'm "only" 30. Thirty isn't necessarily old, but it sure isn't young anymore. Oh, my reckless 20s. You were good to me and I was so bad to you. I was invincible and could bounce back from just about anything and never felt like I had to worry about those pesky adult things, like health insurance and health and insurance and how I might die alone surrounded by a pile of medical bills and pill bottles and cats. So many cats. At least I have my cats -- guess I won't be alone after all.

Instead of incessantly fretting, maybe I should just accept that weird and unfortunate crap happens in life and to just, you know, deal with it. Handle whatever comes, when it comes. Worrying will make life miserable; acceptance will allow me to at least enjoy those enjoyable moments that are always there if I can just open my eyes and see them. And taking life in moments will help. Digesting seconds rather than minutes is easier on the psyche. Days don't have to be a battle. Days can contain continuous pockets of heaven.

My writing has gotten weird, I know. Is this a symptom of something? Should I WebMD it? Noooo no no no. But I should probably get a physical to make sure. I might as well now that Obama forced me to get health insurance. Maybe the doctor will tell me I am A-OK. Maybe the doctor will tell me that I'm not. In either case, it will be okay. But if I'm not A-OK, please let the doc write me a prescription for cats. All of the cats. Extended release cats.

stoop

Every morning it feels as though my brain has one quick burst of AH-HA! I'm awake! I'm inspired! The muse has arrived! I have so much I want to do/say/tell! Do! Say! Tell! Oh hell. It's gone. And then, well, it's gone. That quick burst of energy or insight or motivation or whatever the hell it is is gone. Where in the world does it come from and where in the world does it go and how in the world can I get it to stay juuuust a few minutes longer? Maybe this is why people do things like drink 18 cups of coffee before noon. I already kind of do that, though. Maybe the trick is to not drink any coffee? Pssh. Yeah, right. Maybe the REAL trick is that there is no trick and that I should just let it go. Who cares if I become a mass of dullness (a dull mass of nothingness? nothing but a dull master of nothing but boringness? boringness is not a word, and at one time "word" was also not a word) for the rest of the day after my brief glimpse into the world of awareness and cleverness and -ness words are really annoying me right now. You too? Good. We're in agreement. We agree. We totally get one another. Let's be best friends. Forever.

I need to stop dwelling on my little hangups before they turn me into a crazy person. How do I become that kind of person who is just, like, "Whatever! YOLO! I drink wine on my veranda and write sweet notes to the old ladies at the nursing home and sometimes I even wear funky hats into town and everyone thinks I'm so charming and approachable and here, darling, here's a glass of wine as well. I love your outfit, sweetie. Let's go get our nails done." In other words, how do I just reeeelax and live a relatively carefree existence? And what exactly is a veranda? Should I spend my time reading about the history of the veranda on Wikipedia? Please tell me! No, I'm kidding. You don't need to tell me anything other than "relax."

Ugh, I guess meditation is obviously the answer, huh? Not "ugh" in a "I hate meditation" kind of way. "Ugh" in a "I've known how to help myself all along, but I just wanted a super quick fix" kind of way. If I just shut up for a second and listen to my "inner self," I would know that doing meditation and yoga, eating a balanced diet, having NO stimulants (sorry, 18 cups of joe), serving others, and simply drinking water would probably turn my life around and turn me into that YOLO lady on the veranda with not wine, but, like, a green smoothie or oolong tea.

So why don't I just do these things? Well, easier said than done, for starters. And I've always been a little bit suspicious of this self-improvement business. Those self-help sections at the bookstore are tempting, very tempting, but they can also lead to failure/not measuring up, which leads to more self-hatred, which leads one back to the self-help section to purchase more books and try newer, shinier plans for a newer, shinier self, which will just be another set up for disappointment, which keeps the cycle going and going and going and I'm exhausted just typing this.

I also think that a part of me holds on to this "troubled self" because it feels more honest -- and because I believe it is part of a creative life. I don't want to feel wonderful and content because then I will lose that rich tension in my art, whatever the hell that means. It might be juvenile (and dangerous) for me to think this way, but I can't help it.

Oh, fine. I'll start meditating again.

What do you do when you get caught in this trap of wanting to get better, but also wanting to hold on to your neuroses? No, really -- I want to know what you do. Should we all just log off, close our computers, and meet each other for a glass of Merlot on the veranda? Wonderful. We are in agreement. We agree. BFF.

becoming

Halfway through January we start realizing all of those resolutions we made might not be kept. In fact, we've probably broken most of them by now. We've smoked that cigarette, eaten that dessert, skipped the gym four mornings in a row. Whatever it may be, we've most likely already stumbled a few times and have become discouraged. Or maybe not. Maybe you are one of the obnoxious few who have their life totally under control. How do you do it?! And why must you make the rest of us mortals look so foolish? Come on. Give into your vices. Everyone else is doing it.

I suppose this is why the really smart ones don't make resolutions in the first place. They don't care to set themselves up for failure. Am I being a complete pessimist right now? Or just realistic? Perhaps a healthy mix of both pessimism and realism washed down with a swig of self-loathing. Ah! No! No more self-loathing. For the love of whichever deity you subscribe to, no more self-loathing. Please.

But maybe I can be a fool again. Maybe I can make January 15 my new New Year's Day. I want to start over. And I guess we are able to do that in each moment, right? Like, that's what those self-help gurus tell me. In every moment we die and are reborn. So I will take that piece of information (sage advice?) and go with it. I am going to begin again and this time I want to begin to be, well, nicer. Yep, nicer to myself. I know that's ultimately the wisest place to begin. I also want to actively serve others instead of immediately seeing them as a threat/enemy/annoyance/hindrance. What a crappy way to live, thinking that everyone is against you or an impediment to your happiness. Crappy and super false. People are not inherently awful. We's alls just-a sufferin', man. We's alls just-a tryin' to be happy the best way we's know how. Oh boy. I'm tired.

I don't quite know how I'll go about being nicer. Maybe, uh, just by being nicer? You know, trying harder? Maybe I need a plan. Ugh, resolutions are a lot of work, huh? It actually takes effort! Hey! Who would have guessed? Things worth doing might actually require a little bit of sweat! Well, fine. I'll start small. I will pause before I speak or think negatively. I will go out of my way to open doors for people (already do that), let the person behind me go in front of me at the grocery store (unless they have, like, a billion items), give that car the parking space (well, not if it's snowing), give a gift just because (but not if the receiver is an asswipe).

Okay, so I still have some work to do on my perspective. But the good thing is is that I am making the effort? At least for now? I might need a new new New Year's Day on January 16. But that's perfectly fine. I forgive -- and love -- my future self. Hell, I even kind of like my present self. This is progress.

express

I called in sick today to work. I don't have the swine flu (as far as I know) or the case of the Mondays (because it's Wednesday), but I do have depression and anxiety. I forget that those are also illnesses, both being very real illnesses which demand attention and care. Too often we believe that we should just "suck it up" and go about our daily business as if nothing is wrong, as if the tidal wave of overwhelmingness won't knock us out and sweep us away at any moment. But it eventually will if we don't take care of ourselves because something is wrong -- and there is no shame in admitting that something is wrong. There is no shame in just waving that little white flag and going back into your bed under a blanket until you feel ready to meet the world. There is no shame in letting go, in telling yourself and whomever else that today and maybe even tomorrow you just can't. And when you can, when you finally can, you will thank yourself for knowing your limits. There is no shame in "not being enough." And there is no shame in asking for help.

I still have a difficult time asking for help. I believe most of it stems from me not wanting to be a bother to anyone else. I don't know if it has to do with embarrassment. I mean, I doubt I would write publicly on the Internet about my struggles if I was embarrassed. I wish to have an open dialogue about mental illness and I no longer want it to be a taboo subject. That being said, I want to be the one who helps, not the one who needs help. I want to be the therapist, not the patient. And maybe one day I will get to that point -- and that will be a wonderful day! Dr. Meg! I'll have a framed diploma and everything! Business cards! A potted plant and leather couch and giant oak desk in my VERY OWN OFFICE! But I can't get to that point if I haven't made it a point to get myself "fixed" first.

I am not necessarily asking you readers at this moment for help. Or am I? I am not sure what I am asking or if I am even asking anything. I guess this blog is mostly just my diary. So there you have it. You have the key to unlock my diary! And the key is just typing in the web address. You don't even have to look under my mattress. Dear diary, I need help. I need to seek help outside of books, although books are glorious and will most definitely help as much as they can. But living and breathing (you know, as opposed to dead and breathing) creatures such as humans and dogs can also help. They will be crucial on my road to recovery, my path to peace, my highway to hope, my freeway to freedom, my parkway to paradise, my, uh... avenue to awesomeness??? You get the point. So to continue this road theme I have going on, let me hop into my hybrid car and start the long drive. I may need to stop and recharge every 90 miles or so (is that how hybrid cars work? never mind). I may need to open up the windows and get some fresh, smoggy air. I will definitely need to stop for some overpriced snacks and for Selfies taken at various roadside attractions. And occasionally I may need to call AAA. And that's okay. All of it's okay. The important thing is that I start the car. Let's go.

ascend

Is it the 13th already? Is it one of my cousin's birthdays? His name is Ingemar and I'm fairly certain it's his birthday. Ingemar Wiemer! Imagine! Imagine growing up in Utah with a name like that! I mean, if you had grown up somewhere foreign (foreign to us, but not foreign to you because you hypothetically grew up there), your Ingemar Wiemer name would be Joe Smith or Taylor Swift. Taylor Swift has kind of a funny name as well. An adventurous name, actually. She sounds like a character in a book about a kid who solves mysteries on a sailboat. Some people solve mysteries on yachts, but not Taylor Swift. Taylor needs no bells and whistles, just the high seas and a telescope. And probably a notebook. Yeah, definitely a notebook -- FOR CLUES.

But yeah. Imagine growing up somewhere so foreign that it's not foreign.

This post is off to a great start! I feel so rushed! I have to work soon! But I only feel happy when it rains, like Shirley Manson! That is true. But what I wanted to say is that I feel satisfied when I have written something in the morning, whether it's a blog post or a letter to my best pal Laura or... Well, that's about all I write these days. Except for grocery lists.

Oh what I wouldn't give (I wouldn't give a limb or any of my toes) to be able to write without interruption, without noise or obligations. And without doubt. But even then, if I had the right environment and the time -- oh the elusive time! --, I could handle the doubt. I would punch the doubt in the face or maybe I would be less violent and more hospitable and invite the doubt in for Egyptian licorice tea and gently interrogate it. Then I would show doubt the door with some fresh insights in my head and a newfound confidence. I would lock the door, crack my knuckles, and begin writing.

What a luxury! I can't imagine a life where this is possible. I can imagine it once one is a bestselling, in-demand author. But how do you get to the point of being a bestselling, in-demand author if you have no time to write? Who am I kidding -- I have ample time to write. Like right now. I mean, twenty minutes isn't ample, I suppose, but it is time. And the amount of time I put into other things, things which are ultimately self-destructive, should be time spent writing (which can also be self-destructive, but I'll worry about that later). It should be, but...

Time time time time time. A social construct? A flat circle? Of the essence? An equation? An illusion? Of great or little importance? Just the act of typing out these conundrums confused me. I can't even begin to answer them -- it would take too much time. Instead I will hide the watch I never wear and drown out the ticking of the clock with the clicking of the typewriter keys. That's the key, don't you think? To drown out what's unnecessary and stick with what keeps your soul afloat. I think Taylor Swift in her sailboat would agree.

wholesale

The most interesting thing happened to me this morning!!! Psych. But I DID have to go to Costco to order contacts. And I was dreading it. All morning. And last night. And the days leading up to today. I just can't with Costco. The crowds, the shopping carts, the people, the carts, the people with shopping carts, and so forth. But, like, everything else about Costco is pretty cool. They treat their employees well, their Clif bars are a decent price, and the pharmacist always flirts with me. Okay! That concludes this post! Psych again. I am not sure where I am going with this, but I wanted to write before going into work. Oh, did I say "work"? I meant "stapling papers in a dark corner for minimum wage." Hey, I guess that is work. Someone's gotta staple the papers. Like my old zen master once told me, "When you sleep, sleep. When you chop wood, chop wood. When you staple papers in a dark corner, find a new job."

Oh, so Costco. Here's the thing: It wasn't bad. At all. Like, it took ten minutes to drive there, order contacts, and drive back. And here I thought it was going to take up my entire morning and I would have no time left to read my books and write my blog post about Costco and, you know, dick around before my hours spent stapling. But no! Now I have too much time! Well, you can never have too much time, especially since it's non-existent.

I should stop worrying so much. About everything. Why? Because in reality most things are waaay less of a big deal than they are in my head. Real life is, like, "Meh." And I'm, like, "Help!!!!!!" Not everything is a massive mountain, Meg. Relax. Gingerly step over that molehill. You'll be fine.

I think I need to remind myself to, yes, live in the present moment. Or rather, I need a rich white dude from Napa Valley or wherever to remind me in the form of a bestselling self-help book to live in the present moment. Maybe I should attend one of his workshops for a thousand bucks and have him tell me IN PERSON exactly what he shit out in his book. What I mean is that I am sick of being told by millionaire gurus to breathe and be present and live in the now. But maybe I should actually start listening. Like my old zen master once told me, "You can take the rich white dude out of the present moment, but you can never take the rich white dude out to lunch because he's currently on a juice cleanse."

Let's stop worrying, sweethearts! Let's challenge ourselves to stop seeing every situation as an impossible challenge! Let's ride around Costco in a shopping cart while singing show tunes at the top of our lungs and freak out the establishment! Let's live a little, love a lot, and link our arms together while we make the world a less scary place. Because it can be so beautiful if we just let it be.

mundi

I need a teacher in front of a classroom giving me a writing prompt. She'll scrawl it on the chalkboard (because in my fantasy chalkboards are still used -- to hell with the whiteboard!) just in case the class forgets. But we won't forget. It's always the same prompt: "What I did over summer vacation..." Okay, it's not always that prompt. On occasion, usually in October, she'll have us tell her what happened one dark and stormy night.

So. One dark and stormy night during my summer vacation, I... I can't. I can't start with either of those prompts. I mean, I can, but I won't. I will begin with this prompt instead: Where in the world is Meghan Sandiego/Wiemer?

She is in Tokyo with someone she began to love when her life began to fall apart. No, she didn't love him. She loved the idea that there would be someone there. And it was just an idea. She lost him briefly in the crowd in the arcade with popping sounds and flashing neon lights. There were prizes to be given to teens who held on tightly to tickets they had won. Give up the ticket, get the prize. She was distracted. She needed to find him because she didn't speak the language and he did. She needed to find him in order to translate the chaos in her head.

She is in Greenland with pictures to send home. Or rather, to send to her family at their home. This is her home now, she keeps reminding herself. It is a charming country in the photos, but the pipes freeze and the whale meat doesn't sit well with the former vegetarian. But homes aren't heaven. Homes are worn-in and comfortable, like the pair of wool mittens knitted by the previous owner and left behind. She left behind a lot to come out here in search of her roots. But I wonder if she knew how hard it would be to grow fruit out here? What's important to her has to be imported.

She is in another corner of another country, combing her hair that won't grow past her shoulders. She is also combing the beach to pass the time, an activity which seems absurd in a landscape that remains frozen and forgotten. She looks for a bottle with a message, but feels foolish for even assuming that items like that wash up on shore outside of the pages of a book. It's difficult for her to stay concentrated long enough to finish a novel. She blames it on the fog and sometimes she blames it on the elusive sun. She concentrates instead on where her feet hit the sand. She doesn't want to cut her sole on broken seashells.

So where in the world is Meghan? Or at least in which season is Meghan? Once we figure out the date, maybe we can figure out the location. Some summers are shorter than others. Some places don't have a fall. And in some places winter months stretch out like backroads on a weathered map.

blank wall, blank page, please just give me a blanket

I ALMOST read an article online titled "27 Wacky Ways to Beat Writer's Block." I probably would have read it if they had left out the word "wacky." Don't get me wrong, I am a fan of the word wacky, but I use it because it is so wacky and stupid. I'm not a serious user of the word wacky and I have a feeling that website was very serious about their list, the list which some grad student shit out in 5 minutes in between checking Twitter and adding more cream to their coffee. Did you know I always take my coffee black? Well, I do. I have my reasons. None of those reasons are very interesting, but they are wacky.

So I might have writer's block. So this might not come as much of a surprise to you or me or even Obama. He's likely not surprised by much anymore. I need direction maybe? I need a professor to tell me what to write. Ever since graduating, the most I have written is one weird stimulant-fueled short story about a man wandering around a park. I had a brilliant idea two years ago for a novel, which I started to write and of course stopped after about 500 words. And then a few months ago I had another idea, more or less brilliant, for another novel. It too was abandoned after, like, a paragraph. Maybe I'm not cut out for novels. Maybe I should stick with poetry. Poetry is a comfortable and musty fur coat I've owned for years, ghosts of previous owners still hanging around in the pockets and under the collar. I like plays as well. I'm confident in writing dialogue. Well, confident may not exactly be a word I choose for anything I do, but it's something resembling confidence.

Or I could always stick to blog posts about how I am struggling. That's always fun.

Okay, fine. I'll just tweet. And only tweet. Why would I do anything else? Give up the hours spent hammering out a novel! Give in to the hashtag! Give me a spot on the bestseller list! Give the public what they want!

Oh screw it. Give me a pen and let me get to work. Less stewing in self-doubt, more kicking ass with words. Not just any kind of words, though. Wacky words.

commune

Rest assured, I am not always gloomy. I am not always thrown into the pit of despair, people! Just more often than not in the winter! That's to be expected! These exclamations are making my heart race! Or maybe that's the caffeine! How many of us decided to give up caffeine in 2015 and are already on our third cup of coffee? Well, we tried!

There are many wonderful things in my life. And by "things" I mostly mean "people." I have a family who, despite our quirks and expected shortcomings, are loving, sensitive, and just damn good folk. We struggle, we're mostly solitary, but we still stand by one another.

And then there are my best friends, Ben and Jerry. GET IT?! Like the ice cream. Ben & Jerry's. Like, I love ice cream. So much. I like Cherry Garcia, which surprised me because I'm not a huge fan of cherries. Sure, I like cherries better than I like, say, being waterboarded, but they are not my favorite. WHICH is why it's odd that Cherry Garcia is my favorite! It must be because it's the only flavor of Ben & Jerry's that I've tried. That could be why.

Oh yeah, best friends. So I have them. And they are great, which is a relief. Wouldn't it be a bummer to have best friends who also happen to be your worst enemies? That probably happens in high schools all across America, huh? Oh what I wouldn't give to be an insecure and hormonal teenager again. Okay! Back to my best friends! I am thinking in particular of Laura. She and I have been friends for over 15 years. We have never been enemies, either! Although there were those 6 months when we weren't talking to each other because our feelings were hurt over something I can't now recall. Not a boy. Definitely not a boy. Laura and I have never really competed over boys, thank the lord. In fact, I'm just holding out for the day when Laura and I retire to a New Mexican ranch with our five dogs and our fleet of Subarus and our REI memberships.

The last thing I want to discuss ever is my job because it usually sucks my soul dry, but briefly I will mention the kids I work with: They are also great! They are the only reason I stay at this black-hole-of-a-job. I do not get to interact with them as often as I like (I'm usually banished to the back of the classroom to staple papers), but when I do they remind me that we are all awful when we become adults. The children are refreshing, curious, and far better conversationalists than the gross grownups!!! Down with grownups!!! (Does this mean I have Peter Pan Syndrome? It's a thing. I have all the things. I have all the syndromes.)

Then there are YOU LOVELY SOULS. You really do make me feel less alone in this universe. Knowing that you take the time to read the ramblings I throw up (as in propel with force through the air, not puke) on the screen is deeply flattering and humbling and sometimes embarrassing. But everyone should be embarrassed at least once a day. Preferably in front of children because they are forgiving and also do embarrassing things, like, all the time.

There you have it, cuddle bugs! My outlook and my life really isn't always a cloud of sadness. In fact, clouds are never sad. Clouds are beautiful and ephemeral and us. Clouds are us. We are born from clouds and we live with that knowledge buried deep within. Now that you know (or rather, remembered) that you are a cloud, go out and celebrate with triple scoops of Cherry Garcia. You deserve it.

oh woe

Remember how I made a lot of resolutions to, like, learn shit? Sorry -- STUFF. I forget that my blog is PG. Psych! My blog is unrated. Uncut and uncensored! Unintelligible! Unimaginable! Under where? Underwear! But yeah, so I plan on learning a lot about science and spirituality and Spanish and other shit/stuff. Maybe I should make some more resolutions. Why not. Why not resolute my life away? I have been thinking and, well, here are my thoughts magically transformed into words (which are magically transformed into run-on sentences)...

I'm mean. No, I really am. I am such a grumpass to complete strangers and even to those who happen to be my best friends. Best friends! What a lousy BFF I must be sometimes. I have a feeling the sour puss side of me comes out when I am feeling very insecure and frustrated with myself. In fact, that's the only time it comes out. If I am at peace in my body and mind, I am almost too chipper. I am, like, "Here! Let me get the door for you, you wonderful creature of the Universe! And MY GOD! What beautiful eyes you have! It's as if I can see into your soul and your soul is pretty darn special and wow you are amazing incredible glorious mwah mwah mwah." That's who I am when I'm not at war with myself! Hmmm... Maybe being a grump would be a lot less obnoxious for everyone... But no! No, as tempting as it is to continue on the curmudgeon path, I must chart a new course! I must not let the small (and I mean miniscule) annoyances in life turn me into a person I'd never want to meet walking down a dark alley. In fact, I don't even want to be walking down a dark alley. Why am I down an alley in the first place? I should be up at the top of a peak, sitting in the lotus position and radiating loving-kindness.

So here's where the work comes in. If I want to get to the point where I am that groovy weirdo with an attractive aura, I have to begin cutting myself some slack. I have to begin to open the door for myself, so to speak. I keep shutting myself off from everyone and everything because, sadly, I don't feel like I deserve whatever good things they/it have to offer. I tell myself that I haven't "worked hard enough" for any kind of reward. I haven't paid the price yet or maybe I deny and restrict as a form of self-punishment. But do I ever forgive myself? Rarely. It's a dismal way to live, isn't it? At least I'm beginning to realize how much of an armpit I am to myself.

I don't quite know where to start on this, uh, journey to self-compassion, though. Ideas? Suggestions? Has anything worked for you? Hey, look! I'm reaching out. I'm actually asking questions to my reader(s). I haven't been the best at responding to comments, but I do read and appreciate them all. Except for the mean comments. I'm already mean enough to myself that I don't need anymore anonymous bozos to help me out with feeling gloomy. Anyway, thank you for reading what I post. I am humbled.

senseless

It's time I find more things which inspire me. I feel like I was constantly being inspired when I was in my 20s. Was it just my age? Was it who I surrounded myself with? Was it simply that I had more exposure to creative material due to cool college classes? It is probably a mix of all three. I remember making zines and painting and creating little dolls out of clay. I remember cutting up magazines and rearranging the pictures into something pleasantly perverse. I remember writing poems compulsively on whatever I could find. I left messages of hope on slips of paper for strangers to find. And all of this was merely second nature. I did it because I could, because it felt good, because it woke me up. Now it all just sounds exhausting. And overwhelming.

I wonder if my hesitation comes from the fact that I think too much. I want whatever it is that I do to be perfect, the absolute best, or else I don't see the point in trying. I've abandoned the spontaneity that is crucial to creative work. I look at projects and my work through various filters instead of through the beginner's mind. Yes, you can look with your mind! You can also look with your ears and your nose and your fingers. I guess what I am trying to say is that maybe it's time for me to mix up my senses a bit. Get a little senseless. Let go of what is rigid before I break and never create again.

Where do I start? I don't think I should even ask that question. Just start. I need to give myself more gentle commands instead of paralyzing questions. More going, less stopping. More doing, less doubting. More paint underneath my fingernails, less biting of my fingernails due to fear. Fear, specifically the fear of messiness, kills the creative spirit. If I let loose, not only will I survive (for I am not separate from my creativity), but I will soar.

interrogator

There are very few things which give me a sense of accomplishment. In fact, I can only think of three things. One, running. Two, creating. Three, reading. And by creating, I mostly mean writing. Sure, back in the days during my creative peak, I painted and collaged and stitched and even made music. I was a renaissance woman! A real trailblazer! Now that those days have packed their bags and left me standing at the train station of nostalgia, I... Oh my. This post might be all the proof you need to see how shoddy my writing has become. "The train station of nostalgia." Good one. Sigh.

Okay, so I should give myself a break. I can do this! Do what? Write? Yeah! Write what? I don't know! Should you know? I don't know! You don't know if you should know? I don't know! You don't know if you don't know if you should know? Yeah, pretty much. Pretty much what? Hey, who the hell are you anyway? *disappears in cloud of smoke*

That is my inner dialogue, folks. All of the time. About all of the things. All of the things which enter my head go through this interrogation, this maze of questions. This might be what is holding me back from creating. I silence it when I am running and while I am reading, but when I sit down to write? Well, this is when I give up my power and allow the doubt to creep in. No, it doesn't creep in. It rips the door off of its hinges and storms in. The time when I should showcase and own my voice is when I lose it without a fight.

Well, that stops now! How? Hey, I don't know. Shouldn't you know how to stop the doubt? You mean how to stop you? Am I doubt? Or am I reason? I think you are an asshole. Are you sure? This might be the one thing I know for certain right now. So you are going to write without any kind of direction? Without any destination or purpose? I'll figure it out. Are you sure? Sorry, I can't hear you. I said, ARE YOU --

Am I what? I didn't give the interrogator time to finish. I went into another room. That's all. I just got up and left them in the small space with the broken door and went somewhere quiet, somewhere that didn't even need doors because it was so open. And this is where I'll shout and sing and say whatever I want. And this is where I will claim my voice. And this is where I will begin. Will it be where I end? I don't know and I don't care. Right here is all that I need with an unlimited sky above.

two oh fifteen

Here we are, kids! Another year! We made it, even if we are bruised and all of our stuffing is falling out. Just a few patches here and there and we will be well on our way. On our way to what, exactly? What is it that we need to do this year that we didn't do last year? Does it matter? I know we all probably have our hangups when it comes to resolutions -- they are a recipe for failure, they take us away from the present moment, they make us feel as though there is something just so crappy about us to begin with that we need to really make some huge changes in order to be simply acceptable. Then again, resolutions help us to continue. Resolutions can help us become more aware of our actions/words/thoughts. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah. Resolutions. Deep sigh.

So if you are at all interested in reading about my sorta resolutions, then keep on reading. If you aren't interested, I am not offended. Just deeply, deeply embarrassed. Psych. This is the year I vow to not be embarrassed or apologetic for WHO I AM. This might also have to be the year I discover exactly who I am or if the "I" even exists (pretty sure it doesn't, but I'm willing to be wrong).

I want to learn. A lot. Last year I read a lot of literature. This year I want to shun literature and read all of the non-fiction. All of it. Science and nature and religion and history and philosophy and biographies and maybe even dictionaries. I especially want to read the major religious texts. Does this mean I have to read the bible again? Guess so. But this time I want to read it in Hebrew! That means I will have to read Hebrew for Dummies, doesn't it? Better get started.

Oh yeah. I need to learn how to swim. Eventually. Maybe this summer. Maybe in Crater Lake. Maybe in the Great Salt Lake! Then I can just float.

I would love to become more autonomous. I swear I overuse that word, by the way. I just feel so smart saying "autonomous." Anyway, how do I gain this desired autonomy? It might mean finding a higher paying job, moving into my own li'l apartment, paying for all of my own bills and doing other adult things like getting my oil changed and teeth cleaned. At the same time! A Jiffy Lube dentist office.

Cook more. Eat with other people. Eat in general. Eat a general. Cannibalism 2015!

Date. Ugh. Try it out. Maybe. Screw it! Screw me! JUUUUST kidding. Sorry for that joke, mama. It wasn't even that funny!

Write daily in a journal. Hide the key under my mattress along with my wads of cash.

Watch a lot of good films. Some good, some great, some so weird that it makes my head explode and my brain fall into a black hole. A cinematic black hole.

Know everything there is to know about every National Park in the country. Be that person who charms people at cocktail parties with random National Park facts.

Volunteer more in an attempt to not be an asshole. There is more out there than just me. If I can help at least a little, let me.

Learn. I already mentioned this, but seriously. I want to learn and keep on learning and discover and rediscover and uncover.

Get out of my comfort zone, whether that is through traveling abroad, working in a National Park seasonally, becoming an organic farmer, or giving cannibalism a try. (Okay, so I think it's kind of disgusting that I keep making cannibalism jokes. Cannibalism is horrific and I should just not attempt at making it hilarious.)

Go to Dollywood.

Love you, kittens. Thank you for letting me be a weirdo. Even if you tried to stop me from being a weirdo, I wouldn't let ya.

LET'S TACKLE THE NEW YEAR. TACKLE IT WITH HUGS.