Aug. 25th, 2012 04:14 am
rainspirit: (Default)
I ought to write something.

I was saving a whole bunch of it for The Book, but I don't quite know what The Book is about yet, and I don't trust my intuition yet.

It's been a while since I wrote at roughly four in the morning. In fact I think this is the first night at GIFTS that I've stayed up this long. It's the first time all summer I've let things get away from me, but I'm doing okay in spite of that.

This has been a pretty blah, pretty bland, pretty predictable week, and that includes me being predictable. Getting up at a regular hour, coming down and working away. Waiting, waiting for it to be done.

I think I'm looking forward to classes, but how can I know? What am I looking forward to?

I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm sad because I can already imagine this year speeding by and things not meaning a good goddamn.

I'm sure it all will, in the end. it all adds up, it all leads to somewhere, even if it's just a sudden end. (I've had sudden death and other morbid thoughts on my mind lately.) It should be meaningful, somehow.

Starting classes, first year all over again, infinite loop until I learn better. Until I figure out how to be confident and I can just belt things out and things shall come alive.

Until I figure out how to self-motivate and not get burnt out?

This is my fourth year at GIFTS and I feel all of my passions turn to embers, all of what is myself grow dark and dim. I look at myself and I see myself getting better, but not recognizing it. Things are getting better as foretold, years ago, when I was in the shit. But I miss being in love, and I miss being gentle. I miss feeling love for grand things larger than myself. I felt it for just a minute, talking with a girl about her little loves, about learning to say no. But I feel too old and too young all at once, a frightening in-between place where I'm not spending any time with people my age. Story of my life, really.

Right now, I'd give anything for someone to just hug me and tell me that it's okay, that it'll be okay. A friend, or just someone I know. Someone with a glimpse of understanding.

I flirt with someone that I know I shall not speak to again once we are no longer playing with each other, no longer dancing our dolls in front of one another. I feel emptiness at what my social circle has become online, but for a few that are dear. I feel emptiness at what I now recognize as boredom from this quaint little world I built for myself, the self-imposed walls of entertainment I crafted. The habits of checking, searching.

Do anything for long enough, even running away, and you'll get bored, I suppose.

I better just do what I need to do and go to bed.
rainspirit: (Default)
It's been like getting my wings back.

I'm remembering the times that I used to write prose about rollerblading - how much I genuinely enjoyed traversing cities with them, to the point that I never touched my bike. There's freedom of movement in rollerblading, the ability to move your body around and let it breathe. And for me, it's safer - my sense of balance is enough that I fall only rarely, and I always have my hands outstretched to catch me. Well, and my backside, of course.

Yesterday was a bit of a fright, but I found my study notes, more or less. Just have to compare notes on the finer usages of... god, I don't know, fucking punctuation? CP Style? Plagiarism? Who knows. But I know that I can fucking write, so if I look these articles over and write some notes on them (or something) then I can get through this.

On a completely unrelated note, yogurt-covered blueberries are amazing and I need to stop eating them. Right now. Put them down, Tito.

Have to pack away groceries now. The best thing that happened today was that I saw that the grocery was about to close, and I just put on my rollerblades and skated over. Had a big bag, loaded it in a shopping cart, wheeled around the place - after checking to make sure it was okay to do so. The local grocer is widely spaced enough that there's little awkwardness in doing it, and it's a lot, lot more fun. So long as I don't crash into anything. (Which I didn't.)

Thinking now. Have to brew some tea and get to work.
rainspirit: (Default)
I'm almost back to where I used to be. Or maybe I'm beyond that, but things are starting to become familiar again.

A quiet breakfast. iTunes playlist. Computer, free of distraction. Free to be me. A moment of contentment for where I am, who I am, what I'm doing.

I'm writing, thank God, I'm writing, and it's beautiful, and I can do this, I am capable of this.

And I am thankful that this is not manic, that this isn't some mood swing. That's one thing I have to be thankful for, among other things, like the fact that I have ears to hear, hands to type, eyes to see. I have an ingrained sense of responsibility and self-reward, like making myself french toast with maple syrup after cleaning up the kitchen sink, washing pots and pans by hand.

It's the morning, and I'm awake, I'm not sleeping in, I'm not seizing distraction. I'm here, I'm here.

It's all fine. I'm almost to the finish line. I thought it was so close, so urgent. I was so scared. But it's still a way's away, I still have time to make a good end of it all.

I'm a writer. I'm a critic. I'm a dreamer. I make up worlds, and characters, and ideas, and though I squander some, I learn more about myself from the ideas I throw away than I will probably ever learn about the ones I publish. It's not a waste, it's my life. It's how I experience life.

And though I despair inwardly about my lack of physical and sexual fulfillment - all that junk - I realize how disconnected that all is from my larger personality. The fact that I'm a male with sexual organs seems increasingly disassociated from my overall personality. The idea that I am two entities, a mental and a carnal, and the idea that I don't have to guilt one for the other, is freedom. It's one less set of baggage around my neck.

I feel better about a lot of things.

Anyway, that's my thoughts put down.
rainspirit: (Default)
Someone remember to make me read this entry.

Please, remember. Because this is the most important revelation I'll make all year.

Today, I was dogsitting. My lovely sweetheart of a golden doodle, Rosza, was with me. We went out at five to the park. We were there for about two hours - time flew. And then, I went to the bank, because I was out of money and I needed to buy groceries.

The bank is about ten to fifteen minutes by bus. But walking there, with a dog in tow, all the way from where I was? It took somewhere between forty-five minutes to an hour.

Both ways.

That means I was out of the house, with my dog, for four hours straight. I went to the bank, got money, borrowed books from the nearby library, and groceries from the nearby grocer.

It was around 8:15 PM or so when I left with dog in the direction of home, with one heavy bag full of groceries in one hand and a big bag of books and games in another. It was 9:00 when I got home.

I walked for about forty-five minutes carrying that, through darkness, across a busy road full of cars with a skittish, nervous dog, who was already neurotic from being away from her Mom. Mine, too.

I was so tired at the final stretch, so tired. I was already sleep deprived. My feet hurt. My legs chafed. My eyes were heavy.

But then, something amazing happened.

I started congratulating myself. I started telling myself that yes, I'm 23, I'm handsome, I'm smart, I'm talented. I'm good at what I do when I put my mind to it. And these are going to be some of the best years of my life.

If anyone knows me well, they'd know it's hard as hell for me to try admitting any of those things. It's hard to take credit for when I do something good. And when I screw up, when I embarrass myself, I remember it forever.

But today I was on my feet for at least three and a half hours or so, if we don't count the times that I was sitting down and resting.

I don't remember doing anything that active in the past decade of my life.


Then I went home, sat down, opened up my computer.

And disappeared into the internet for four hours. Because an online friend was in trouble with another and I had put myself on damage control.

Four hours, sitting down, not moving from the couch. Four hours, not thinking about anything else, staying committed to this. Four hours, not giving a thought to anything else but this, this, this.

Four hours, equivalent to the time of an occasion that resulted in a life-changing experience.


Holy shit.


That's time in which I was planning on starting and finishing a theatre review for my best friend's website.

That's time in which I was hoping to cuddle with my puppy while she slept, caring about nothing but holding her.

That's four whole hours in which I could have made myself a fancy meal.

That's four hours in which I could have been writing this.

And now it's late, it's late, and I will be tired tomorrow. It's late, and I have no one to blame.

Well, I do have one person to blame, but I'm done putting that kind of weight on my shoulders.


So this is a call. Whenever I'm depressed, whenever life sucks for me, whenever I'm hating myself.

Whenever this happens, please make me read this.

I want to change. I want to change so much. And the first start is taking care of my body. This has now, officially, become priority one. To all those who care: Please give me shit about this, because you know it'll make me feel good. Make me care, when I stop caring.

Please help me to get better, because I have a life-debilitating addiction and this is the only way I can overcome.

Get angry at me if I don't. Get angry, because you are watching me squander the best years of my life. Get angry because you love me and you know this is what I need.

Or something simpler. Something you can remember to do. Whenever I am down in the dumps emotionally, and you see me despair about my own flaws. Just ask me, "Tito, have you been exercising today?"

And if I say no, then we'll know what needs to be done.
rainspirit: (Default)
I have to write a review of a play I went to yesterday. I didn't understand a goddamn word of it. THIS WILL BE FUN.

Ten minutes before the coffee place closes so I'll make this quick.

I'm getting back into recording the stuff I eat. I went out for lunch with a girl who actively dislikes Shakespeare and realized that this may already be a potential dealbreaker - I still can't believe this is a thing for me.

I have a huge, HUGE guilt complex. This was obvious, but what I find fascinating is that on my weaker, more neutral days, a guilty thought can occur to me and it freaks my brain out to the point that I compulsively mutter ,"Sorry," or, "I'm a bad person," or, "I hate myself." With the latter two, I have a system where I immediately say, "No I'm not," or, "No I don't," but then it turns really compulsive where I begin arguing with myself about whether or not I hate myself, or whether or not I'm a bad person, until I irritate myself to the point of sharply telling myself to shut up.

It's frustrating and sometimes a little scary.

I'm aware of it now, and I've come up with a more effective strategy: Just recognizing the guilty thought, the impulse to freak out, and stopping. Relaxing, taking a deep breath, and carrying on. It's better than the previous system of constantly trying to game my bad habits with reactionary put-downs or obsessive cheerleading.

I need to start this fucking freelance assignment and do all this other stuff I need to do, but I'm resisting it for some reason. I'm resisting taking the initiative, which is a bad idea in general. Soon it'll be too late to start. I need to start otherwise there will be consequences, but for some reason I'm having trouble committing. I don't want to, for some reason. I don't want to impose. I don't want to bring the attention of others upon me.

It's hideous and a little Aspie, yes.

At least I'm getting some more confidence. I'm learning how to talk to women. I can flirt with barristas, ask girls out (so long as they're not stunning and gorgeous enough that it intimidates me away from even considering asking them, like the hopeless nerd I am) and I'm figuring out what I want and what it is like to even have those of the fairer sex express interest in me.

Which is nice, I guess.

Time to get back into exercise, though. I'm so close to looking good, BETTER, physically attractive, and it's giving me more confidence. I'm feeling confident. I can do this.

Anyway, time to go.
rainspirit: (Default)
Thank you for the music, big sis.

Am I getting better?

In the grand scheme of things.

I'm getting older, and older, and older. I'm not getting younger. Soon, I'll be no longer young. To think, that I wanted to be no longer young so, so badly, and now I'm counting the years before I stop. I think about my social retardedness, about all the things I want to do and start and finish before I'm thirty and suddenly the generation's not focused on me, the energy isn't centred on my person, I'm no longer in the limelight amongst millions and millions and millions of others.

I panic, being in this safe, nice, welcoming, safe place, and thinking of all the smiling faces and the politeness and the good weather and the lax, almost lazy view to almost anything you can name. Going through too many first year university classes have soured me, taking courses among too many empty-headed teens.

I know I can write. I can fucking write to my heart's content, it's just that I must do it, I must WRITE, and keep writing, and never stop writing. Be prolific as hell. Keep fucking doing it.

Why am I not writing?

It's instinctive to reach for distractions. But no more. I'll purge them from me. I'll keep a notebook until I have stopped. Write down everything I need to do.

And keep making and breaking and then remaking these promises to myself, until I get it, until it WORKS.

Beat it into myself until I'm raw.

I will get better. I will stop being so lazy. I will stop wasting my time.

Motto, motto, motto.
rainspirit: (Default)
I am between places, on the way home.

I find it easier to write this way. Easier to feel connected with the self that is not distracted by tiny little things.

I am here, I am now.

My bike got stolen, but that is because I acted foolishly. I iwll not beg for a new one just yet. It will encourage me to find other methods of travel - to study my driver's manual, so I can finally, finally, learn to drive. Free myself in that way.

My mind is saturated by mediums of creativity, and I need to delegate my thoughts. I am learning how to be a game master with a similar, yet complicated system of rules. And I have a story, a collaborative one, waiting to be told with other people. I will have to playtest it, though - draft it for my purposes. See about the character creation system.

Spend a couple hours with friends.

Also, Ms. Bechdel herself. Have to get cracking on that. Get together with the partners, maybe file an email at the woman in question - she's probably too busy, but it's worth a shot.

I'm feeling better. Refreshed by my visit. The puppy was sweet as ever, and almost never boring. Even her foolish canine friend gave me amusement, in small doses.

I'm hungry, but there is food in the house, and I anticipate lying back in a couch, delighting in being back home, home again. Delighted to be out from the cold, with a roof over my head, and a living space I now find comforting. Simple pleasures.

I'm happy to be who I am right now.
rainspirit: (Default)
Every time I start a new entry, it has become rote for me to lament the loss of almost all my music. I really would have liked to start this out with "Space Kay" by Daniel Lanois. I guess this track works too, though.

For the first time in a while, I returned home from the craniosacral therapist without any kind of pestering, horrible thoughts that I have been routinely plagued by. I felt like I could just feel genuinely good about who and what I am, which is rare. Very rare.

But I'm falling into indolence again, which means it's time to kick myself in the ass. First things first: Cleaning the room. Organizing the books to go to charity so I can get these huge ugly boxes out of my room. Returning all the goddamn library books and getting my bike fixed. Bleh.

Deadlines suck, but it's the only way that I get anything done. So it goes. My brief deteriorations into a laconic manchild are always embarrassing on self-reflection, but useful - if not occasionally crushing when I go through my late-night before-slumer crises of mortality, in which I lament that another day has gone by that I will not get back, and that I am possibly maybe potentially wasting my youth and good looks on frivolities and a hermit existence sustained only by my parents with no real solid contribution to the world and what am I even doing here and

So on, and so on.

But I'll kick myself in the ass and try again.

Sometimes I wish I could switch to another journal format, but I think that'd be making too much work out of something that is spiritually and mentally sustaining. I've had this journal for what, six years now? Seven? Six and a half? Just writing in it makes me feel better, get me re-focused. Why the hell should I change that to something more readable? Why would I WANT to be read by a wider audience? That's crazy.


If my room is a mess, my entire life is a mess. Start with that.

Then get shit done. Though I never leave myself enough time in the day to do everything. I try, but I never do.

Maybe this weekend I'll go over to Galiano and start a few things.
rainspirit: (damiel)
First entry of the year, half a month after the fact.

I have some of my music back. But not enough. I'm pretty sure that's been affecting my writing output. Even now, I struggle to focus on some feeling or another, squinting at the screen at nearly seven in the morning, an hour before school.

I'm a little sleep-deprived, but not too bad. Spent an extra hour pouring over Alison Bechdel's Fun Home. Great, haunting stuff in it, though I wonder if it goes a bit too long, and the final two chapters a bit too indulgent and spread out. I feel like I'd have to read it again to be sure, but I also wonder if I should share it among other teammates.

I have to get down to figuring out what the hell we're going to be talking about, with her. Why is she so noteworthy? How did one comic centred around a histrionic, anal-retentive lesbian with a political activist bent turn into such a thing starting from roughly twenty-five years back?

Feels like it should be self-evident, but too fucking tired. Wonder if I can get to school and get some heady expresso of some kind. I don't like coffee very much - it doesn't make me less tired, but on a good day it sometimes pins my eyes open, moving my body against its will. Sparing me time enough before I must crash, and sometimes burn.

What's for breakfast, then? Eggs and toast? Grapefruit? Something else? My breakfast is starting to become formulaic - the only change is the granola I bought, the expensive but wonderful stuff from the nearby health food store. I really shouldn't indulge, but it's better than cereal, right? And I'm going slow with it, making it last. It's not fruit loops or some hideous children's indulgence. It's not hurting that much.

Trying to fix my regular diet, I try to figure out what I can get away with. What's not too bad for me.

I am losing weight, surprisingly. I noticed it for the first time, in the mirror. Body's getting thinner. Less round. Something I can appreciate a little more, even if I find myself going to seed in some other areas. Still need a haircut and shave.

It's far, far too easy to lose myself in other worlds, falling back into old habits where I am a desired commodity, where my own self is shelved away for creatures whose collective presence grows and wanes within me. I am ashamed to admit that it spreads outside, colouring my perception, occupying my brain's time with imagined scenarios, with a tasklist of objectives. It is too easy to fall back into rote - but at least I know what the problem is, and how to overcome it.

I have far too much on the agenda, and far too much time is squandered as it is. I have to keep writing things down. I have to, I have to, I have to.

Time to go.
rainspirit: (Default)
Started writing a to-do list again. Going to see if I can keep at it.

Need to have some sort of coherent task-list if I am going to survive myself. Right now I'm working with a consistently broken system. It's the same-old, same-old of my life, and I'm tired of it being a reoccurring theme.

Left things too late to do too much in the way of productive things, but maybe I can get two or three things down on my list. Clean up a bit. Get most of my junk out of the living room. Make it look nicer. Catalogue the books, call people, socialize.

Every day I go to bed reminding myself that life is finite, that every day counts, that every moment is another moment gone, wasted or fulfilled. I sleep to get away from the dreamlands I create for myself. I rest to escape from escapism.

I don't know what I'm escaping from, but I know at this point it's just easy.

I have this horrible, horrible whining critter controlling my body and mind, telling me to just indulge, keep indulging, there's no one to stop me.

I literally, have to shout at myself to get off the trip. I have to bully myself to get moving. I have to fight with myself every step of the way, and it gets exhausting. It never gets easier.

We all have our demons. This one's mine. I look at myself in the mirror and I remind myself what reality is, because I'm losing my hold on it.

It's strange how different your face looks when you don't spend enough time inside your own body.

There. That's one thing on my list down. Now for the next.
rainspirit: (Default)
Thanksgiving is come and gone in our country, but as usual, everything bleeds over from the States. On one of the social networks I frequent, I wrote this in response to a "What are you thankful for" question:

"I'm thankful that no matter how many times I've fucked things up for myself since September, no matter how many times I think that this is it and I've become a useless fucking human being with no hope of climbing upward, I'm still here. I'm still breathing and continuing on and trying to make the best of my missed opportunities and haphazard planning.

No matter how emotionally crippled and socially retarded I am, life is hope, and I still have a chance to make things better."

I was in a pretty bad place when I wrote this, but it feels reassuring to re-read. It's helping me get through today.
rainspirit: (Default)
Dishes are clean and put away. Pots and pans are in the drying rack. Living room's a mess, but a manageable one. I'll throw some stuff away and clean up the coffee table. Organize my games.

Got back from a great rendition of Glengarry Glen Ross by David Mamet, featuring some of my comrades from the Laramie Project. Tomorrow: Journalistic interview with one of the actors from the play. A test I should pretty easily ace. A rally to help stop Canada from being ridden further into the shit by creeps in Parliament. Busy day.

I should get some sleep, but I'm too wired.

Started writing in my food journal. Feeling more confident. Lost fourteen pounds since September. Started drinking V-8, for fuck's sakes. Got a bottle of it in the fridge.

I've gotten a rush of exhilaration, of energy. I don't know how long it'll last, but it should be good for a while. I think I can power through tomorrow.

The urge to turn my brain off and play video games is strong.

I want to so bad, but I can't. I have to start saying no to myself.

I fucked up my visit with Andrea. Was going to meet her at 2:10 - slept in till 2:00. Missed the bus to get there faster, so I took my bike, cursing myself the entire way over till I was yelling at myself to shut up like a crazy person. I need to stop doing that.

I need to stop giving in and be stronger than this.

So go to bed, Tito. Just go to bed. You haven't had anything to eat, you're not going to leave anything digesting in your stomach.

Go to bed and get some rest.
rainspirit: (Default)
I am awake. It is early. I have had breakfast. I have had tea.

I dwell in a temporary paradise, abusing my body through inertia. I am happy, though I know I am unfulfilled in some respects.

I have a list of things to do. I resolve to do at least three things on this list, then I will let myself fall back into the void.

Because if I do not, then there will be guilt. I will be unhappy. I want to stop making myself feel bad about doing the things I enjoy.

But if I complete three things on this task list, including going to class, then today won't be a wash. I will have gone a day without feeling like I am doing nothing here.

And then once the list is complete, I can make a new one. And keep doing three things, every day.

I do not know if this is the road to getting better, but at least it is a road leading somewhere.

I do not know what my best is anymore, but at least I have support, love, and the ability to get somewhere.

I am fortunate. I am here, and I will do what I can.
rainspirit: (Default)
I wrote down everything I need to do this month.

And I'm going to try quitting the game for a week. For real.

Hope it helps.

(Though it's not helping me get to bed. Fuck.)

Thinking I'll go to Galiano today, or tomorrow.
rainspirit: (Default)
I don't know how to write this article.

Paralyzed again. Could've gone over to Mom's place and written this out, but I didn't.

Could've started work on it yesterday, but I did nothing. Just distractions. Like I'm doing now.

Two and a half hours later and I've written a single unedited paragraph. This, along with everything else is a problem that's not going away. I want to solve it, but the discipline I possess is non-existent.

I'm at the SUB right now, trying to type this up. Better than home, but I'm still going on the fucking internet instead of concentrating. I wish I had my music. I wish I could trust myself to just work through this.

I wish I had a functioning headphone cable. Can't listen to music in a public space like this.

Wish I could make myself something to eat.

I'm not doing enough. Haven't set up an appointment with the trainer since I forgot to go AGAIN. Barely keeping up with ONE SINGLE CLASS. Not going job searching. Need to go grocery shopping. Managed to do laundry, good for me? Cleaned bathroom, sort of, didn't do as thorough a job as I could've done.

Cleaned room a little, but not enough.

If I do this one task, finish this one paper, I'll go back to the game. I'll be lost in it, until something pulls me back out.

I don't know how to moderate.

Why do I have just no good study habits of any kind? Why do I resist exercise? Why do I never get tired of just staring at the computer all day and all night, interrupted only by sleep? Am I ever going to make something of myself? How is this me getting better?

I guess it was easier when I was living on rez, closer to class. It was better when I had a more organized school schedule. It was better when I wasn't twenty minutes away, and yet: I LOVE my new place. I love the furniture, the comfort of just having a house that feels like a house. I love not fearing being evicted from it every seasonal holiday. There's stability. But I do not love the fact that it's distanced me so far away from the university. And I do not love that I am so terrible at adapting to new situations.

This is not my best. I wish I could tell you what my best was.

I can't ask for help without a concentrated effort. I can't monitor my own impulses without a concentrated effort. I can't study without aid. I can't be trusted to do work without some kind of monitor over my shoulder.

I better get something to eat before the pub closes, if it hasn't already. Might as well get a burger in me. And try to work. Try to start and finish this.

I better have some kind of fuel.

An Attempt

Oct. 21st, 2011 09:06 pm
rainspirit: (Default)
Let's start this again.

Things that I need, that I don't have:

1) My music. I think I left my iPod at GIFTS. Or at my Mom's place. It has all my music. Over a thousand and a couple hundred songs. I used it when I needed to concentrate, and now I have absolutely no concentration. No peace of mind.

2) My notebook. I bought an expensive notebook and pen before the beginning of summer, and it was absolutely vital for a little while. I wrote in it every day, or at least tried to do so. (Sometimes I failed.) Kept my food journal there, my task list, kept repeating things I needed to do over and over until it stuck.

I left it in Seattle, along with a pair of new shoes. I got the shoes back, but I really was anxiously, hopefully waiting for the notebook. I needed it back. And now that's just not happening at all, with the advent of my friends' difficulties.

I should get a new one, I should. But what felt important was the method in which I chose it. It all felt unique at the time, a positive experience of just finding the right thing of blank paper and a beautiful looking pen I could entrust with my thoughts.

3) My day planner. Where the hell is it? One minute it's in my hand, then it's somewhere else in the house, forgotten while I'm dithering away on something else. Barely touched it since Dad bought it for me. And it's too small, can't get in everything that happens from day to day. Can't figure out how to use it effectively. Don't look at it enough.

I don't know how to get back to where I was. I've ceased to remember where “was” used to be.

It's my fault. I got too engrossed in too many imaginary stories with too many people, people I've never met in my life. I got so engrossed, I played more than any of them did, at times when I should have been in bed and no one worthwhile was around. It's where all my energy has gone, and it took me away from debating the question of my own story, my dilemmas.

So many 'shoulds' flit across my mind, only to be swiftly forgotten. They come in overwhelming waves, and when I try to focus on the task of resolving them, more tasks pile up in conjunction, things that must be done first, in an agonizing thread of objectives too complex for my unfocused head to parse out. I'm not equipped to deal with this. There's not enough of me to stop myself from wasting an entire day, not even making the effort to go outside.

I stopped writing, that's another thing I did wrong. Writing is the lifeline to my own self-understanding. I need to keep writing in order to keep thinking.

At least I'm cooking, though. Maye I'll write up an entry on that later.

I'm reluctant to talk further about the going-ons in my life.
rainspirit: (Default)
Time to wake up.

Stop with the games. Wake up and start paying attention to class.

Stop procrastinating. Start doing.

Time to wake up.

Where I Am

Sep. 29th, 2011 09:45 pm
rainspirit: (Default)
Gentle music plays in the background. I am amidst a catastrophe of books, strewn around the floor of my bedroom. My hubris has caught up with me - my greed, and my unwillingness to let go of old things.

I stuff them into little corners I make in the limited space of my shelves. I hide books behind other books, stacking them atop each other. Too little room to go around. No time to get rid of them all.

And a quiz, tomorrow. First world problems, that is my life right now.

Really should go to bed.


Sep. 9th, 2011 09:24 pm
rainspirit: (Default)
Despite everything, despite my personal setbacks, I'm where I want to be.

Time to start writing.
rainspirit: (Default)
I need to do something. I need to get out of here.

Twenty-three and what the fuck is there to show for it?

There are people my age or less that are already making beautiful things, or participating in something amazing.

I need to do something. I need to change.

I'm going to go back to a university I somewhat despise, with courses I might not even be getting into this term.

It has to start soon. It has to start now.

Getting out of Victoria is the first step. The second step is going somewhere that INSPIRES me. When the hell have I ever been inspired lately?

The thirt thing is finding people with goals similar to mine. I can't motivate myself by myself. I need people around me, doing the things that I want to do, things that will keep me going. I need to be around people who want to transform into their idealized selves, and are pulling out all the stops to get there.

I love Galiano, so much. It's given me a home and a purpose. But the longer I do this job, the more I realize that SOMETHING needs to happen. I can't just be a cleaner forever. Doing this saved me from my own self-destructive tendencies, and now I need to keep moving, show to the world that I am fucking here and now you get to listen to me.

Also: I think I need to wean myself off roleplaying.

Games are fine. Amateur writing's fine. But I need to start getting serious. All it's doing is making me look for a social group, when there's things I need to do. I was born with a purpose, I know this, I KNOW THIS. And it doesn't matter that I have all the time in my finite life to make it, I burn with desire to do it now, and get all my mistakes out of the way.

I want to make something ambitious. I want to BE ambitious so I can start making things.

Archibald and the Bard are changing in my mind. They're becoming different people as I change, keep changing. They're always there, in the back of my mind: The fantasy book I may never write, in its entirety. But I want to get out and lay the groundwork, do some research.

It's all well and good to talk about my autistic tendencies by way of making a book. But that's not really me, is it? The more I look around, the more I'm convinced that I don't have Asperger's so much as I have symptoms that could characterize me as someone with Asperger's. I am not the aspie you are looking for.

Thinking of getting a tumblr. Want a channel to start expressing my voice. Beautiful things are being created on that thing; I think I want to start participating, small as it is.


Ever mortal, ever conscious of mortality.

I've been disturbing myself with how much I've begun mentally debating advice I'd pass on to other progeny. I'm grateful to my bigger (smaller) sister for birthing a son, as I get to deflect it all to his young shoulders, to some extent; either that, or I imagine partaking in some Big Brother program, being the cool guy who's there for some kid that needs it.

When I was still in Southfield, I dreamed of someone older that would save me from growing up alone: Not a seasoned adult past their thirties, but a big brother figure, who knew about life and who could teach me about it. I implanted this fantasy into an alternate universe taking place in my head, where Calvin and Hobbes (my favourite comic book duo at the time) found a kid who was, well, I guess my age at the time (10, 11?) who understood him and could be a liaison for the outside world he'd sequestered himself from. I dreamed about this and smiled, feeling a taste of redemption.

There was a time I was on uneasy terms with my inner child - my sometime craniosacral therapist could probably agree with that. To this day, I'm still not sure where we stand. I feel scarred all around me, unsure of how to embrace my own childhood. But I'm remembering the days when I played with action heroes and lego; in all my time growing up, this is what I'm beginning to feel nostalgic for. My imagination was always there for me when I needed it.

I want to be there for myself, now. I may not have the advice I wanted, or the saviour I dreamed of, but I at least have the self-awareness to know that I have everything I need, right now. All that's holding me back is fear, and complacency.
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