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Tihmmnmmish's Cuddle-Friendly Fireside Threadcast

I never learnt wasn't taught properly how to intereact with other people what I do know is what I have picked up along the way sometimes I get it wrong. How can I expect other people to know that the clown who goes all out to make people laugh is really all a mask ... something to hide behind? But they don't you see they just think I am a blonde airhead with no proper feelings someone who just laughs her way through life. Yet if I let them into my secret then they get uncomfortable it's not what they want to know ..... they just want normal and I can't be normal I don't know how. *goes back under blankie*
 
Don't want to clutter up the Why Write thread, but my response there was half-assed and incomplete, several thoughts and observations occupy perpetual attentive interest. The thoughts and observations will likely remain incomplete but as Bijou has said they're taking up space, all clamoring at the same time.

See, wife went off to visit relatives a few days ago. I had three weeks to myself, to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and however loud I wanted. The days that shortly preceded her departure, I had these grand and fantastical visions of submerging myself into all kinds of wonderful activities: was gonna just pour out song and poem and instrumental pieces and prose and stories and go get some film for my old camera, and finally try the KLIT idea, etc, etc...

Well, after almost one week of living the fantasy of temporary bachelorhood, the reality has surprisingly (disturbingly?) turned out different.

Being able to do whatever I want... well it's of great value itself, but I think I spend more time trying to decide what to do than actually doing anything. Oh, scratched out a couple poems, or, more accurately, shortish scenic snapshots put in words; but instead of the getting Into Anything, it's been more of a buffet grazing. Sometimes I'll open up an older document I once had here or never appeared anywhere, and if the first impression is, "hm, that ain't bad" I'll leave it open and intend to come back to it, or if (the usual) reaction is, "ew, that's just horrible prose there" I'll return it to its rightful place in the file heap. Kinda like waiting for the feel to come. Maybe that's it. Maybe just relax and if it isn't there, just walk around and think about stuff, look out the window, basically fuck off. Actually it isn't fucking off. It would appear to be just fucking off. But it's really fermentation process, processing... maybe.

Of course we had some gasping lashes of wintery atmosphere which brought snow and overcast skies... and my acoustic is out of commission... so little things like that might contribute to tripping up the feel as it tries to come. But today it looks like we might actually get a dose of springlike skies. And I think the acoustic problem is fixable, I'm just kinda fearful of fucking it up.

What I fear is latching the feel about two days before this temporary bachelorhood ends.

But I just started to feel something... shhh...
 
Wow.
That's probably it.

Feel, mood, harmony, atmospheric...

If the Feel's there it's cool, it's great, it's Life, but if it ain't there... nothing's going to come out well. And even if it is there, and all goes well, most people won't care for it. And it doesn't matter if you call it prose or fiction or poetry or whatever... and actually that concern must be killed. But it's hard to kill it. Those roots run deep.

That's my goal.

yep. That's it.

Kill the concern.

Maybe that's what keeps the feel from flourishing.

Maybe?
 
see now it gets interesting
a mission
a purpose
a goal
knowing what must be done but not knowing how and a big part of the excitement is not knowing but trying to figure it out.
Story potential? though I do write terrible stories... ah! see? got hit. even thinking that... it's a big project. The influences are everywhere. Perfect.
 
funny you mention that

it's very easy to veer, not realizing you've veered, and veered so far, but it's always because of falling for the mistaken belief that because your way is or seems to be at odds with the ways of others, you think you should adopt their ways, because they seem to have so much fun and are successful, but the only outcome is loss of strength and integrity. Every time I do it and look back at the results it's so embarrassing. Because I was not doing it my way. And that's how you lose edge. It's a great day.
 
I think a few people love me now the person I became so I will try not to cry about the ones that didn't for whatever reason they had
 
i don't know if this will help, but it helped me immensely so i thought i'd share it again. a few years ago i came across a book called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. i was recently reminded of it by an email i received from Amazon about a book called The Artist's Way Workbook - perhaps it's synchronicity at work *smile*

i find it most useful during my 'limbo' time. when i'm neither here, nor there, knowing i have so much to write about, and just waiting for it to pour forth from the pen. there is a set exercise called The Morning Pages... when you get up in the morning, you write stream of consciousness for a set length of time (or to cover a certain amount of paper - i must re-read it and start doing it again).

you'll have to read up about it to understand the benefits, but for me there are many. during my limbo time, it gives me that final nudge to write and to write something that might come out higglety pigglety but which i know will have gems of information for me. it might be that some cool phrases emerge that i can turn into a poem at some point, it might be that i simply work through a problem that has popped into my head. whatever it is, i get the feeling of having achieved something in my day and during limbo time, the achievement in itself is a godsend - for me at least.

anyhow, if you like the sound of what i've briefly said (there is SO much more!), check out your local library and see if you can scrounge a copy before you buy the book or any from that series. i found it online just now The Artist's Way - there is a better explanation of the morning pages than what i've said here.

hope it's helpful. :rose:
 
Answers came last night and more spilled over these fingers just a few minutes ago. Sky cleared, pulled out my favorite old sweater, dancing around like the floor's a carpet of cotton clouds, letting the jewels swing free and loose. Blockades turned out to be just phantom paritions. All pertinent faculties are fully possessed. It's a fucking most excellent vista. Yeah baby. Oh yeah.
 
bunch of ingredients in the kettle, smellin good, but they must cook, ain't quite ladle-ready, but hey boy when they is... this is the week. The previous week was realignment, the necessary chaos when the components, suddenly set in new environs, surrounded by new neighbors, coming under sudden influence of alien voices and pressures, finally get their bearings and establish their compatible rhythm, not just one rhythm, and not just one tempo, but it's the shifting between them, that horrid sound of gears grinding, something's off, but finally the shift is smooth and effortless and you settle behind the wheel, make those grades like nothing, gain the crest, throw 'er in neutral and coast, and woe to the poor motherfuckers guarding the roadblocks. Heh.
 
Perfect examples are all over the place. Incredible. The timing couldn't be more perfect. The confirmation of suspicions couldn't be more assuring.

It isn't all pretty. Some of it is practically devastating. Souls I had respect for shake that respect. Which was completely unexpected. But it was necessary. Might as well happen now as later. Get it over with. Shed those shackles. I relied on their supposed approval of me or my work to give me a sense of worth. Big fucking mistake. Big. And the bigger mistake than that, was offering those first prose works on Lit and asking what others thought. And then believing they had more to say about my soul than I did. Because I wasn't sure. Can't blame them. Because if I'm asking what others think, that suggests to me that there's uncertainty about approval on this end. And, if, you know, it's unconsciously apparent that if someone else struggles with approval of themselves, then I'm going to question what reason I have to approve. Which is really unfair. Doesn't foster freedom. Talk about free speech. So that's the first step. In oneself become secure. That determines and shapes everything that follows. If it isn't there you're dancing or not dancing to the rhythms of others and not your own. If it is there... That's the key.

Now we're talking.

And the sky is clear.
 
sits in corner giggling and blushing after posting very naughty poem with subject matter I havem't seen in poems here before although there probably is ....... and wonders how many people will cotton on *giggle*
 
honestly? not exactly sure. You said you didn't think it was an oft delved matter. It reads like not an uncommon matter so explored. But you know really, it's more interesting to not know exactly. So please don't tell me.
 
See, I fell for that. That philosophy. I believed. I trusted. But I had the right idea all along. Because it was right for me. But I didn't know. Didn't know the nature. But I today completely reject most all the advice the supposed Wise attempted to throw around my neck. It's about power. It's addicting. People who've developed a taste for power get used to people doing things the way they say you should. Even tell you how you should compose something so soulfully unique as prose expression. And when you don't... they try to punish you. They try. Sometimes they momentarily succeed. But when you see they are really just spreading false philosophies, it's easy to go back and do it your own way and ignore them.

Now we're talkin...

whew!
 
Well honey, I'm kinda jealous. Because these recent developments require testing, and a good test would be an anon crit like you got.

Man oh man, we got a beaut out here.

Don't let 'em get to you. Fuck em.

Ah, now the cat's going crazy.

What a wonderful day.

What fun shall be in store? Tons.

Like tons of cotton.
 
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