12.04.15 :: 18.04.15

1.
This is something I've never shared with anyone. I'm not even really sure how to explain it. It's a little like an imaginary friend (or several), and a little like an alter ego (but not), or a soap opera running for 25 years in my head (it could be longer but that's where my first placeable memory starts). It's a story that runs in the back of my mind from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. As far as I know that's where it stops; I've never dreamed about it. The core group of characters has more or less stayed the same the entire time, but some of their names change. Other things get adjusted and adapted but the essential core of the people is the same as it's always been. Nothing really exceptional happens. They work, they socialise. People move away or join in. They develop relationships and all the things real people do, except they only exist in my head. Sometimes it moves in real time, sometimes I time travel and relive certain events. But there are no hypotheticals. This isn't a creative exercise. Whatever changes I make are permanent. No erasing and starting over. No changing my mind. I'm not even entirely sure I am the one deciding things happen.

A lot of times, it's my filter for the world. They process things, they feel things, and if I tap into them, I can feel it, too.

A few days ago, one of the core people died. (He's not the first death in 25 years, but it is rare for one of the core ones to go.) Usually there's a reason when something big changes like that. It matches up with something going on in my life and works as almost a cathartic thing, but I don't know about this one. My internal soap opera is hellbent on my grieving for this guy - and I am. He was important. His death throws the whole set up into limbo. Part of me thinks I should embrace it. Jump in and ride the emotional current to wherever it takes me. But I can't. It's like I'm in one of those glass boxes filled with water, and I can't see the edges so I just go along until my little boat bumps into a wall and knocks me back, and I'm just stuck in here, where, you know, it is calm and okay. There aren't any big waves, just some light splashes when I reach the perimeter. But that's all there is. Just this boat, and this whatever and blank whiteness all around, and I want out.

2.
A smart person would've expected some effect from upping my meds. Me, I was totally shocked to wake up with my head feeling like a weighted balloon.

3.
The bee symbolises productivity (go figure), attention to detail, savoring the honey of life.

Spiders are a connection between past and future, creativity.

Bit on the nose, I have to say, and while I usually appreciate your lack of subtlety, I could do without your messages dive-bombing me at my desk or hanging out by my bed.

4.
I keep thinking about the 10K I need for the beginning of May but between not smoking, yoga and adjusting my meds, my body is giving me a big fuck you.

5.
Today was a day of escapism and avoidance. But I wrote 1000 words I don't hate.

You know that's only going to justify my bad habits.

6.
I wonder if I'd have this weird relation to sleep if it absolutely didn't matter when I was asleep and when I was awake. Every time I go to sleep there's this fear that I'll sleep way beyond acceptable times (and a chance of some sunlight during certain parts of the year).

It's almost 5 am and I'm watching a movie, knowing I should be in bed 'cause normal people. But also not giving a shit because I like the way this time of day feels, except for the fact that the perfect part of the day lasts only moments. Once the sun comes up, it'll just be daytime. 

05.04.15 :: 11.04.15

1.
Today started out so promising. Motivated. Ambitious. I even made a to-do list. Then the realization that my CV is only saved on the hard drive that went missing in the US, and how much other super important stuff is on there that I'll never see again and I've somehow lost my e-cig (there aren't that many places it could go) and I took a break from not smoking (it's a holiday, sort of...) and. Just and.

2.
Alright. We're just going to restart the day.

3.
On the plus side, the meds are making a small improvement. After my crashnburn the other day I did pull myself out of it pretty quick. It just throws me off when I'm walking on what I think is steady ground and land in a sinkhole that deep. It's like there's no middle ground, just pingponging from one extreme to the other. But that's what my emotions are like - no shades, just primary colours.

4.
For the record, at this particular moment, I'm in a pretty damn good mood. Just to break up the whining and complaining a little.

5.
Last time I was home (parents, UK side), my mom asked a question I hadn't really thought about *: what do I do about my spirituality?

*I've thought about it, but didn't tie it to my anxiety, et al issues. I've thought a lot about not having channels to express it. 

Oh, man. There are going to be so many tangents here, but we'll get through it.

Okay. My mom was(is) a pretty unconventional mom, which led me to develop skills I am so, so grateful I have now, even if it is frustrating that no one else seems to grasp them. She didn't tell me who I was; she let me decide that from as long as I remember.

On the other hand, this made things slightly confusing when I had to integrate with the general populace. Being an only child as well, I didn't learn all the social lies people tell verbally (and more importantly, nonverbally). I'm not saying this right.

It's weird believing in things that are totally different. There's no church, no religion, no wise-and-benevolent mentor (humour me) to go to when you need spiritual guidance. There's only absolute, totally blind faith that you are going the right way and you aren't just totally nuts.

So. Being the only kid of a weird mom, this free form interpretation of belief was the norm. Even though the extended family is all Catholic (both sides, but we'll stick with the maternal since they were the ones who were around as a kid), I just that's what Catholic was. There were always imps and spirits and magic and not a whole lot of Jesus, and no one thought it was weird or unusual. Even when my mom bartered me off to God and Sunday Catechism, it didn't really click. There weren't a lot of Catholics in our town to begin with (seriously, at one point the church almost became a parking lot to another denomination before some artists got involved), so I only saw the ones my age on Sundays, and ideas about religion and faith really don't come up much with eight year olds.

The first person I lived with after my parents, Nothing had a weirdly similar belief structure and we easily integrated our different slants of magic. I've never been able to do that with anyone else. Point is, I was in my mid-twenties before I really ran into the whole religion vs. spirituality complication.

I dealt with that by closing it off and sliding by as a lapsed Catholic. Every once in awhile, I'd dip into it again, but always secretly and guiltily, and it never really worked. I just felt lonely and emptier. Occasionally, I'd try to fit in with religions that had a few things that fit around my beliefs, but that never lasted either. The zealousness on both ends of the spectrum are pretty insufferable, and I'm not so good with institutions.

Since I'm my own therapist now (thank you, NHS; this is exactly the sort of care foreigners are flocking to England to take advantage of. Go vote, UK!), I've been thinking a lot about when I've felt best in myself (most stable, happy, etc.) and I keep coming back to that time with Nothing. Now, I'm not painting it out as all sunshine and rose. It was fucking hard. We were poor as shit (at one point our furniture consisted of two lawn chairs and an air mattress we kept conning Wal-Mart into replacing). We were young and stupid about everything. But that's kind of the point. That was way harder than anything I have to deal with now. Things that debilitate me now couldn't affect me then.

And since then, since I started shutting myself off spiritually, I've gotten more rigid, more twitchy. The hardest thing for me to do is watching something with subtitles because I can't do anything else, which sucks because I really like foreign films. (I'm watching Brooklyn Nine Nine while writing this, and if I had more hands, I'd be doing something on the iPad, too.)

So. Mom's question. I told you there'd be a lot of tangents. I didn't think about it much then (things take awhile to process in my head). But then it occurred to me there might be something to it. Mindfulness is supposed to help anxiety and all that.

It might not amount to anything. And it is fucking hard to sit still for any amount of time. I started doing yoga to help with the chill out part. I've been being more adventurous with food, and actually cooking interesting things that take time to make (which, oddly, increases the enjoyment of it).

I still wish there were other people. I'm a community-driven misanthrope.

6.
I am stuck. Every day I try to get somewhere with this behemoth, to write anything, and it just doesn't work. I can't even write crap. There's just nothing there.

7.
I feel like a fraud.

8.
I keep trying to figure out what it is, why I'm stuck. Why I can't bring myself to put anything down even though my notebook is sitting there, ready and waiting.

I read over what I've written already. I do outlines and sketches. I look at maps. I watch documentaries and news reports on YouTube.

I google writing prompts and tips on what to do when you're stuck with your novel.

They don't help.

I meditate. I listen to music. I get bored with that station and change it. This happens five more times. I try to read but I can't sit still and only get through a paragraph or two before I call it quits. I watch funny things, serious things, sad things, weird things.

I google writing prompts again. I look at pictures.

I think about what I need to do and what I haven't done yet (I need to book train tickets, it's time to clean again, call the dentist, etc.).

I lie on my bed and think about my world but I don't know what to do with it. I feel like a failure, like I can't do this, Like I've used up whatever it is that lets me make things up. I feel flat. I'm a cardboard cutout of myself, flimsy and dry and only realistic from a distance.

I think about not taking my meds anymore. Is that really what it comes down to?

I stand on my balcony in the sun and watch the people in the parking lot and think about how amazing the sun is.

I go for walks.

I think, I can't write this story. I think, It's all in my head. I just need to do it. Just write any scene at any point. It doesn't matter. I just need to write something.

I hide from the bee that keeps coming into my room.

I think about doctors and health problems and how all of that just wears me out. I miss people. I scroll through Twitter and Facebook. I think about getting a job. I google jobs in Canterbury and think about how shit they all are and how I don't want to do any of them.

I dodge questions on how the novel's going.

I google writing tips and inspiration and first lines.

I think, I'm just trying too hard. The watched pot and all that so I play games and pretend I'm not looking to see if my subconscious is doing something.

I sit in silence. I sit in sound. I stare at walls.

I wish someone had some truly helpful advice. I wonder how people who sit and write every day pull it off. Where they get their words. I remember I used to be one of them. I wonder what happened. I wonder why it's so hard when I know the story, I know what happens, to just get it out of my head. I think if I could just get it out, it would finally be quiet in there.

Repeat on a daily basis. 

29.03.15 :: 04.04.15

1.
I think I'm developing an addiction to spearmint.
Cheaper than cigarettes, at least.

2.
I had to banish my computer to an entirely different room to actually get any work done.
So sad.

3.
I have the whole story in my head, but I keep putting off writing anything down because I'm afraid of making the wrong decisions. I don't feel like I know enough to pull it off. I wish I could write like I did in my early twenties. I wish I could a lot of things like I could then. I think I was a better person than I am now. I think I've made all the wrong choices.

4.
I don't think the meds are working anymore, but no one's keeping track, so...

5.
Week 2 of this not smoking thing. Ish. Not smoking-ish. I've realized something interesting about myself. If I get a craving for a cigarette, the stubbornness kicks in and it's no big deal. I'm easily distracted.

If Brain decides I should have a cigarette (it does, whether I actually want one or not) because... Well, who knows what little formulas it uses to decide what has to happen and when. But if that happens, I can't shake it. It's the completion loop thing. I just go around with it nagging at me; you haven't done this yet.

I spent all day yesterday trying to go against it only to give in just so I could go to sleep. So when Brain started up today, my first reaction is to give it whatever it wants so I can get on with things.

It makes me wonder how many other things I just do because Brain has conditioned me to appease it.

Also: I severely underestimated how hard coercing an obsessive mind to give up something would be.

I know, right? How dumb was that?

I live with this thing all the time, and still think it's just going to let go of something because I want it to? I mean. If I could accomplish that... Well, that's kind of the central problem, isn't it?

6.
And yeah. I'm going to give it what it wants because I can't be bothered trying to keep it occupied all day.

7.
I can't even describe the amount of joy I get from being wrapped up in a duvet with all my pillows. If I could just stay there forever I'd be happy all the time. It's like being in a marshmallow. Except not sticky.

8.
I have a genuine fear that I'll get stuck in England after an apocalyptic event. I also worry about getting to my parents. And Bast. Pets usually don't survive apocalypses. Especially stubborn, toothless, brain-damaged elderly cats who don't realise their measly 7 lb selves can't take down any foe.

9.
Back to square one. No reason. Just here. Fed up with how many times I get lost in the NHS (like it's practically standard protocol) and not having the energy to badger them into caring for me. I really don't think Therapy Lady put my referral in (she is a liar, after all, and a little incompetent). I'm probably never going to get my stupid tooth taken care of. I need to follow up about the plastics referral, meds, toe... I need to write my fucking novel. Clean my room. Post last week's blog. Probably other things I'm forgetting about.

I just want to sleep.
I want to hit the reset button.
I want to not exist (not die, there's a difference). I'm just so fucking tired. Physically, mentally.

I feel bad about talking to my friends because how honesty do they want me to be? I'm not okay, but no, I don't want to talk about it with you because 1. there's nothing to fix and 2. I can tell you what you're going to say 3. I know you mean well but your attempts to cheer me up are a little pathetic. Sorry.

I don't even need cheered up. I'm not sad. Just so very unbelievably tired of doing.

10.
I suck at follow-through. I start things, get all excited about them. Run around getting everything I need for it. I get almost obsessive about it. And for a little while, I stick to it. Then it's like a switch goes. I suddenly just don't have any interest in it anymore. Sometimes even overnight. Yesterday I'm all excited about X and today it's just... meh. I can't even force myself to do it. There are about 4 things I can think just off the top of my head I started this week and lost interest in by the end.

I don't have anything that I've consistently been passionate about. There's the frequent commonality of all my passions being creative in some way, or involve making something. I really like making things.

Sometimes I feel like an Etch-A-Sketch that's been shaken. There's nothing there but the faint lines of what's been erased and the potential of new lines to be drawn.

11.
Caleb needs to go to Atlanta. Towards Atlanta, anyway; whether he'll actually get there is still up for debate.

Ben and Carys go with him because they need more airtime and you need to care when Ben dies (spoiler. not really. he has the look of someone created to have a significant death) and Carys needs to teach Caleb about being... whatever they are that doesn't have a name yet (seriously, suggestions for what to name a telesthetic race needed) -- they have to run out of time because the encounter with Roland freaks him out - maybe he knows they can't be killed? Anyway, later. That's way in the future.

Atlanta. Carys drives because she's magic and mysterious so we don't ask many questions, like how she has money or a car.

#1: Their mission is successful. I don't want them to find Derek, though. I don't know where he is yet, but he'll complicate things if he comes in now. For some reason, they also don't/can't go home. Which leaves Justin and Ren at loose ends. Unfortunate for Justin, but Ren is a main guy. Or. Maybe he's better in cameos... So. Option 1 they make it to Derek's dorm. He's not there and something (what?) stops them from going home.

+ what problems would 3 people who can control other people run into? They need a flaw. Besides that two of them don't really know what they're doing.

#2: They don't even make it to Atlanta. Someone wrecks their car or it breaks or they just can't get through with a vehicle. So they're wandering and... Who knows.

They can either join the army willingly or they get coerced. Baz dies around this time. Ben would be motivated to fight, or at least follow a sense of duty and responsibility. Caleb will do whatever Ben wants.

Carys leaves them at this point. Maybe after not finding Derek and not being about to get back to SAV (something with the military?), she convinces the twins to go back to her home (need another name, or find where I wrote down the name) but Baz dies, Ben decides to join the army and Carys goes her own way.

I really like the hurricane scene but I don't think there's a home for it anymore. Oh well.

So then it's whether Carys comes back when Ben dies, or after Caleb kills Roland. I can't see her being okay with a killing spree so that leaves after Roland. (Having her in earlier would mess with whatever I'm doing with Joshua which I haven't decided yet.)

Alternatively, the three of them try to survive on their own, and Ben gets killed while they're doing something. Caleb runs off and Carys has to find him, which leaves a gap for Joshua to make an appearance.

For any of these to work, things have to go from not-so-great to really shitty very quickly. Like overnight. Which is much harder to do in fictional reality than real reality.

I don't know. This boy needs to hurry up and tell his story. I'm tired of moving around puzzle pieces.

12.
I've been carrying around three pens for days because I keep not throwing it away when I find the one that doesn't work, so I foret which one it is so instead of finding out, I take 2 backup. It's safer having three pens anyway. You never know what might happen. Those could be the last three pens you have in an apocalypse. And one of them doesn't even work. Good planning.

13.
If I have the car just break down (flat tire, overheating, etc.), is that too deus ex machina?

14.
I moved my bed 2' closer to the window and before I always felt I had total privacy. I know for a fact how much can be seen of my room from various angles (yes, I did that) but since I moved the furniture I've felt really, really exposed, even in the far part of the room (which definitely cannot be seen from outside unless someone is standing on the train tracks with binoculars (there might be). It still feels like someone's watching. I'm hoping I just get used to it because I really like this arrangement.

(This is me not working.)

22.03.15 :: 28.03.15

1.
My dreams are my own again, only to have you strolling through them now. I don't know who you are, or where you'll come from, but I'm looking forward to meeting you. Though if history is anything to go by, it'll be weeks or months before we cross paths.

2.
The universe is not big on pats on the head, but every so often it does toss me a bone and say, Look. See? You were entirely right.

The destructive impulse in me wants to cause trouble out of spite, but I won't.

3.
I've always been fixated with duality. It's the single constant in my writing from the stories I concocted at 6 to the novel I'm working on now. Always two. Mirrors. Opposing. Complimentary.

It makes me wonder.

4.
Today is a restless day. I'm seeking something, but I don't know what it is. None of my usual distractions are working. I want gummy bears, but if I go to Morrison's I'll get cigarettes.

Still. One cigarette in three days. That's not bad. And getting them doesn't mean smoking them. Sometimes I just need to have things. Like diazepam. I haven't taken it in months, but I like having it. I know I can take it, if I want to, and that's the essential part right there. As long as I'm able to do something, I may or may not. More than likely I'll probably get around to it eventually. Maybe. But tell me it can't happen and all of my energy will be put into making sure it does.

See what I said about giving myself an inch?

But I really want gummy bears...

5.
I never remember that things close early on Sunday.

I never remember that it's Sunday.

6.
People want so badly to belong somewhere. A majority of the people who follow my interests are like that. That specific type of person who wants in so bad they go way overboard. Everything becomes about that one thing - a belief, a lifestyle, whatever. There's a fakeness to it that immediately turns me off, and I end up avoiding resources for things I'm otherwise inclined to just because I can't handle being around that type of person. Well. Being civil around that type of person.

Logically I can say they have some deficit in their life/identity that pushes them to over-identify with any group or organisation that offers them a sense of fulfillment and purpose, and that this is a normal human drive, and really I should take pity on them and just let them get on with whatever makes them happy because, ultimately, they aren't hurting anyone.

But they get in my way I have no patience for that.

7.

8.
I read it as fake because they whitewash the shadows. Not a hint of darkness. Everyone is good. Everyone is benevolent. Everyone is positive.

It's all bullshit. At the very least, there is an equal balance. More realistically, there's a constant state of flux because the universe isn't stagnant.

Everyone has darkness. Everyone has negativity. Everyone can and has/will be selfish. If you ignore your monsters, they will eat you.

9.
"Speaking to Ren is decoding a language no one else speaks."

10.
There is a brief moment when I first wake up when I can think clearly - one thought without the cacophony of all the other processes in full gear. If I lie quietly enough, I can drag this out for minutes, and this is when I do most of my writing. It's amazing how much you can do in five minutes when nothing else is jostling for attention.

I use sleep and sound to escape the noise in my head. Sleep is best - quietest - my dream self only ever thinks clearly, but I can't spend my life asleep so instead I surround myself with films, TV, music, anything so I don't have to focus on how much is happening inside my head.

11.
Dream: It's raining and I'm in Pittsburgh, but the bus station looks like Montparnasse. It's late so I can't call anyone, and I don't have anywhere to go. I think of S., but I can't remember the address.

(I think: it's on my driver's license. look at my driver's license but it doesn't change the plot.)

Riding in a cab after too long trying to remember which bus to take to vaguely where I think the house is, I realise I could text N, and wouldn't that be a surprise? But I know I'm not really in Pittsburgh, and I can't just go see him. I keep having the thought, though, because I see the city, I feel it. I try to get the address for S. again but to no effect and that's how I know dream me isn't me. I'm just a bystander here, watching the scene unfold.

I wake up still wanting to text N. and say: I'm here! Let's go play! and I have to remind myself I'm not home.

12.
What compels someone to open a curtain shop? Obviously, people buy curtains, but the individual who decides that is what their life's work will be. How does that thought process go?

From an early age, Garrett always had a passion for curtains...

13.
Some days I have to remind myself I don't have to answer to anyone. I can lay on my bed all day if I want. I can read a book. I can go out or stay in. It's all up to me. No one's going to come along and tell me to stop or that I should be doing something else, or whatever. I don't know who I actually think would do that, but very often I have the sense that any minute someone is going to come in and yell at me for being lazy or self-indulgent or too slow or just something.

I feel guilty for using my time the way I want.

I don't know where that comes from.

14.
I've been asked to write an afterword for "Between Universes".

What do I say about a story I wrote for(about) someone I no longer speak to?