I suffer therefore I write ... therefore, am I?

This cliche question brought to you by my realization (and I know all writers realize this at some point) that sometimes the only time I can create poignant/heartbreaking/affecting writing is when I am miserable. Actually, it's not really when I am miserable that I can create, rather when my heart, mind and soul (and bank account) are in limbo. This state of being is pretty much the definition of existential misery.

I hate waiting. And I have been doing it my whole life ... or at least for the past 11-12 years.

If I am basically satisfied with my life, will I stop noticing interesting things in the world and stop being capable of stringing words together that mean anything?

When I feel less of myself, I seek to find more of it in language. When I feel more myself, I feel no need to reaffirm my connection to the planet through words.

It's stupid, simple and complicated, all at the same time.

I am currently pushing to get my website up so I can feel that I have accomplished something rather than am just keeping myself alive. I also need to get back on the "approaching agents" horse. I went through a bit of a freshly-rejected period (after getting some rejections, none of which implicated I was anything but a fantastic writer) where I didn't want to do anything with that part of my life.

Then again, emptiness is hard to fill with more emptiness.

change, now ...

After many years with a janky, inhibiting computer, I am finally typing from a brand, new computer, thanks to the kind trust of a friend and the fire I have lit under myself to get going on the rest of my life. Now that I have some excitement around creating things again (since it is once again easy for me to do what I love), I plan to do much more active contributing of the things that matter most to me to the world. I am also legitimately VERY actively working on getting my book published and building a new website for myself. I am beyond excited about the possibilities and trying to keep realistic expectations of happiness (I think that's one thing I have learned -- both the hard way and the normal way). 

This feels more "Dear Diary" than I would like, but I'm trying to practice accountability in my life. Writing things down is always a major step in that process!

I'm hoping for funnier, better and in general more meaningful posting in the future. And for this blog soon to migrate over to my own newly-designed website at juliarogers.com.

It's been a difficult summer, but growth is magical. And there has been plenty of that.

I am trying actively not to make the same mistakes again, to avoid listening to the judgments of people that might not understand why I need to do the things I need to do or love the people I love and generally not let excuses get in the way of getting things done and thriving on the nourishing food of change.

Whoops, I Didn't Again

That would be, updating. I had a pretty rough week workwise last week (and "rough" is a good thing, because it means I am actually getting work again), and I am just now coming back into some sort of light of inspiration. After J. critiqued one of my humorous essays last night (which made its way onto this blog last year), I have been feeling like I need to return to writing some sassy movie reviews and warming up my chops again to write something big. I could just go in and hack away at novels, but I think I need to be realistic and at least warm up my muscle on some reading and lighter writing first.

We'll see.

In other news, things are sort of frustrating me right now. I'm trying to exercise some extreme-sport patience. 

regrettably ...

While I make zero place in my life for regret or dwelling on what I perceive as the "good old days" (meaning, all unique experiences past, which were probably not as unique and magnificent in reality as I remember), there are some moments when I stop to think about all the things I will never again experience, and it is fairly depressing.

There are better things ahead (or at least that's what we all have to hope to continue on any semblance of an enjoyable path), but waxing philosophical on the previous thought is at the very least humbling.

make up your mind

The Title of this entry is also the title of the new song I just wrote. And funnily enough, while the song was really about an old situation that came back into my life briefly recently, upon seeing another old "situation" that I used to song-write about all the time (and who was the inspiration for Mister Badger in the first place) posting on Facebook about yet another career change ("No, really -- this time I've discovered my true calling. I am not meant to do [insert whatever I am currently doing for work here]."), I realized people who can't make up their minds -- about ANYTHING -- are a recurring theme in my life.

That's about it. It wasn't an epiphany, but it brought back all the frustration. Honestly, at least the people I've known who are floundering non-grown-ups have committed to being floundering non-grown-ups. I can somehow respect that a lot more. And, I never question what I'm getting.

writing for fun

For the past few years, I've had near paralysis when it comes to just writing without concern for the finished product. I used to write just to see where characters or an idea might travel if I just started going and didn't stop until I had created something -- even if that something wasn't polished, great or didn't work out at all. That was really the original purpose behind this, because that's always how I wrote as a kid. And damn, I was prolific.

I think I need to step away from my structured projects and just write a story, without concern about whether or not it is expressing the many things I know I need to express about life, love and the things that are important to me before I die. We'll see if I can stick to that without putting restrictions on the process in the middle of it.

I am crap at updating

I realize the subject line is a frequent revelation that is also frequently followed by the revelation that I must write creatively more, or I'm going to lose all muscle tone. My exposure to bad internet writing and other nonsense is too great, and I fear that my own skills are in danger of declining.

Plus, I'm feeling rather competitive lately ... in a good way.

My next point of focus is going to be updating my own website, which means I have to actually sit down and revise my resume, figure out a bio for myself, etc. Stay tuned ...

I feel like writing a bad movie review today. But I'm not sure I can endure the bad movie. I watched Fast Five the other day, and, while the end sequence depicting two small sportscars pulling a giant bank vault through the streets that ended up ruining half of Rio was quite impressive on the terrible scale, I'm aware that a lot has already been said on the subject by others who are possibly funnier.

Also, Dear Diary, Today I feel nervous and slightly sad. And I hope it amounts to nothing but my own imagination.

Less than Banner Days ...

That would be the description of the past few days, and possibly into the future. I went for cheesy but kind of delicious Mexican last night with an old college friend I haven't seen in 12 years, so that was kind of fun. It's always weird to see people from your history enter into your present and future element and realize how much different (yet how much the same) you are from the last time they were a part of your universe.

I have some other thoughts that are less pleasant, but I'm not going to "Hang in There, Kitty"/"Dear Diary" journal.

Now that I've finished my work work for the day, I'm going to get cracking on the real, near-and-dear writing.

In pop culture news, I think I've become hooked on The Voice. I can't get Xenia's rendition of "Price Tag" out of my head, and I felt myself being intensely emotionally affected by a Fergie song ("Big Girls Don't Cry"). In my defense with the second point, I blame it on some other heartbreaking events that happened this weekend that had nothing to do with it.

And I'm sure you thought you had problems ...

I Wish I Had an Evil Twin

Tuesday was a day of very weird events that led me to believe maybe I have an evil twin who is causing a fair amount of mischief. The following things happened:

1. I got a strange call at 8:30 a.m. from Diana at the CT Department of Environmental Protection Boating Division, and she left a message insisting I had called her to ask about boating licenses (this is particularly funny, because my friend Emily and I joke regularly about going on a yachting double date, complete with couples boating outfits, should I ever meet someone that sticks around for more than 5 minutes).

2. I got a bunch of catalogues for wedding registries in the mail (does someone know something I don't?).

3. I had an "epiphany moment" that produced a good idea for a section in one of my novels, and when I went to work on it, I discovered I'd written the very section I had been imagining (but no more than a month ago, since it was based on something that happened to me no longer ago than that).

Oddly enough, last weekend (before any of this happened) I had a dream I was living in Paris in a tiny apartment and was renting out part of it to a pair of middle-aged male twins (one was evil/terrorist/serial killer/etc., who wore a lot of denim shirts with jeans, incidentally ... what's more evil than that?) . There were more details to that. However, I definitely wish I had an evil twin, and that that evil twin did more interesting things to spice up my life than just signing up for wedding registries, planning boating trips in CT and writing decent sections of my books.

Romance, Jesse Ventura Style

So, as slightly alluded to I think in recent writings, I'm going through a little waiting game right now in the romance/love interest area. And thankfully, I can discuss it a little bit because I've kind of discovered I can't mess this one up by voicing anything about it out loud (not that my superstitions previously about love life disclosure have been right either). Because I'm involved in a momentarily star-crossed (but I trust not forever hopelessly star-crossed, because it just doesn't feel like it) situation, I today expressed to the co-entangled, writerly that I am, that at the very least all this waiting and subsequent love lettering could produce a nice both-ways romantic letter-based opus a la Sartre/de Beauvoir. However, it would decidedly be modernized with plenty of Jesse Ventura and Steve Guttenberg references and a fair number of bad specially-effected explosions.

That's about it for now. It wouldn't be my life story if there weren't a fair amount of existential suffering, so this is just how I roll.

Limbo

That title pretty much describes the very unrequited "on-the-brink" feeling I've been experiencing the past month or so. I'm trying to see this test of patience as just something I needed to help me appreciate everything when it hits (patience is not my strong suit, I will admit), but it's hard not to be disappointed that things seem to be at a standstill. I think I understand the true meaning of the term "dying in the friendship of God but not being allowed to enter heaven," even though I in no way believe in that crap (not being Catholic or particularly religious). On a philosophical level, I think the past decade of my life has probably been a little bit limbo-riffic though -- lots of not-quite failures in love, life and career and seemingly no real significant forward movement in any one area (though I know if I look at it much more objectively, this description of my life is hardly true).

This "Dear Diary" moment was brought to you by the grave displeasure of waiting.

Busy and Important

I'm noticing again that I'm encountering people again who are very "busy and important" about the way they organize their time with me. I start to feel like I'm being selfish when I demand a certain level of attention and care be paid to me by friends and others that engage in relationships with me ... but then I realize that's not at all too much to expect, and I start to try to find ways to make sure others know my demands. Unfortunately, there's really no easy way; grabbing the attention of the "busy and important" can be an uphill, losing battle.

I'm fortunate enough to have more than one person I can count on in my life to NEVER be too busy for me (and I realize that I reciprocate this action when people who deserve it are involved). I can count on one hand the people that will make time for me if I need them (and that do make time for me WHENEVER I need them). And these 3 or 4 are quite enough, thank you very much. Some people like to collect friends like they are trading cards or vinyl (and brag about how many friends they have). Honestly, if you are one of these people, I know, being a person who very much emotionally engages in my own life and truly cares about the people I most trust and love that you can't possibly have deep relationships with all these "friends." And I also know there's a distinct difference between "friends" and "acquaintances." I'm not willing to trade close friends for non-close ones (also frequently known, especially in this city, as "drinking buddies").

A lovely phone call from one of my very best friends of my life whom I have known for over 15 years now and who has been there in a heartbeat for me during some horrible times (and when I didn't even ask her to be there) reminded me what real friends are and really helped me categorize some of my more recent "acquisitions" (and also realize what's wrong with some of the ones that are making me unhappy at the moment).

The end message is pretty simple: Make some time for me, and you'll be worthy of me making some time for you ... and probably then some.

apocalyptic events

There are definitely things brewing right now in my life, and I'm not even close to disappointed by them. However, it's not time yet to write about most of the positive revolution that is percolating. Maybe it's a fear of jinxing, maybe it's just that I'm growing up and learning the art of enjoying the happiness that can come from just having a lot of good things on the brink of happening. There's a certain degree of faith in that process, and I think my semi-abandonment of more organized spirituality (though I've certainly retained a deep connection to the "supernatural") has made me forget what that's all about. Some events can't be rushed. Oh, how we keep growing, sometimes in spite of our best intentions.

I came across a very fitting quote last week. I was actually just looking for something about patience, because mine was wearing thin. I'm not really one to be reverently inspired by random quotes outside the context of a larger literary work, song or treatise (or force other people to gain inspiration from them), but this one from American theologian, editor extraordinaire Lyman Abbot struck me:

"Patience is passion tamed."

It seems simple enough. And, it made me realize that I've been looking for more passion when my problem was too much passion and not enough respect for the time needed to enjoy the results of having so much of it. And, I've recently come into contact with some things and people (or perhaps one remarkably special person) who is going to teach me a lot about this part of me and a lot about how to stop rushing the life excitement I always think I'm waiting for, but that is actually in the process of happening as I type and breathe. And here I've been waiting for the world to explode, when everything I want is in the process of happening right now.

Here are some things I'm excited about:

1. I have three music reviews coming out in Bitch magazine very shortly. It will be my first time seeing myself in physical print with a byline, and I'm probably a little bit too excited about that. I hope I can get used to a lot of it in the future, or perhaps I should say, "I have faith I will get used to a lot of it in the future."

2. Job things are happening. I'm just waiting for a few things to finalize, and I think this dry spell will finally pass. I'm trying to retain enthusiasm without getting too enthusiastic in a way that will ruin what I need to do to keep working hard.

3. Previously mentioned special person expedite shipped what I'm expecting will be a funny bad movie, and is oddly apocalyptically related. I'm pretty sure it (and perhaps we) are going to blow up the world (or at least my world). I'm irrationally excited to see it and spend time with someone that seems to legitimately appreciate and even adore my flaws and stupidity as much as some of my good traits:



Stay tuned. Change is happening ... right now ...

Don't bother me ... I'm spinstering!

For the first time in my long history of watching Antiques Road Show in the privacy of my own home, I experienced a moment of acute awareness about my own penchant for behaving like an elderly person, and it's given me a pretty good chapter topic for my essay book. The gist of it I confessed to a certain special someone that I happened to be talking to while it was happening (and the approximate time of the admission was around the early hour of 8:15 p.m.):

"I just want you to take in this moment, because it will never be more spinstery than this (God, I hope not): I am on the couch eating a cookie in my pajamas while watching some woman get her doilies appraised."

I decided I'm going to call this practice (and I might also remind you, I have a cat) "spinstering." So, you heard it here, and it's the new "it" word. I'm pretty sure if it were 1984, it would be deemed a "Sniglet."

Incidentally, that woman's doilies appraised for $70,000. So, if you were having sex or even just making out with someone at that very same moment, you can just eat your cash-poor heart out!

sleep walking

I don't think I could string together a coherent sentence if I tried. I was watching TV tonight at a friend's house and found the only comments I could muster were mono-syllabic observations (sometimes just calling out names of objects) of things I was seeing on the screen. I am currently the poster girl for what lack of sleep can do to a person on all levels. I'm glad to report that most of the "difficulties/struggles" I have to report these days (at least those that are not going to be short lived) are what I'm going to call "happy people problems." The happy people problems are also the cause of my insomnia (which is less insomnia and voluntary staying awakeness). Sometimes it's pretty nice to be blindsided. Stay tuned ... Also, work is picking up at an alarming pace. However, I'm realizing there's always time for the important things.

schmupdate

It's been a roller coaster of a week, and I've been a bit too overwhelmed by it to update (plus, I felt an "obligation to classiness" that prevented me from fully disclosing what was happening with job-type things this week). I had a whole plan for an epic saga describing an event in my work life that imploded onto itself, but that whole thing managed to right itself in about 12 hours flat.

I'm feeling rather inspired to write something thematic soon (as well as a song, but that's not really relevant/translatable in this forum), so I suppose stay tuned ... ?

brain trust

I'm currently trying to work on my ability to trust people, but at the moment I'm struggling with it. I realize that I automatically don't trust those that claim they are incapable of telling a lie. A case of protesting too much? That's my feeling. It could also be that my brain relives past experiences and feels uncomfortable waiting out situations that need a little more marinating. I just recently proved that patience and letting someone else evaluate a situation in peace brings that person back (when it's the right thing ... at least, I hope and feel like it's the right thing). So, why am I complaining? I can't tell if it's actually my head/reality or something less rational that's making me uneasy.

Un-deep thoughts are crap today. There may be better things to talk about later (let's hope) ...

dreams of impoverished bliss

Last night I dreamed I met a new man friend who took me home to meet his wife and nine kids. I'm pretty sure he looked like Aaron Eckhardt, but he was vaguely someone else from my life that I can't quite put my finger on. They lived in a tiny house where the master bedroom was sunk deep in the ground (presumably it had at one point been a family room) and was the center of the home, along with the kitchen/dining room. The family insisted I eat dinner with them, which was tacos made of different types of lunch meat and very bland bean salad. I knew they had almost no money, but they talked about it like it was funny, and they didn't seem to care. The generosity was palpable. They ate on two tables, with the oldest kids eating at the table with the parents' in the dining room, and the younger ones (and me) eating at a small folding table, and they were all watching some American Idol-like game show and singing along.

I realized I had my own room, which was essentially the size of the twin bed that was in it. And a few of my friends from college and my female next-door neighbor were also staying there. It was also on a larger property that was an Irish wedding bar (no, there is probably no such thing in real life, but it made sense to me in the dream). Right after dinner as the sun was setting, we were all invited outside to join briefly in the reception of a wedding that was going on there in the courtyard, and we did some line dance to which we magically all knew the steps and that made you feel like you were levitating. Despite the fact that everyone had a place to sleep, we all curled up in the master bedroom together to watch a movie (I had introduced them to my iPhone's ability to play Netflix, and we figured out how to connect it to their tiny television). I couldn't keep my eyes open and was so comfortable with these strange people that I fell fast asleep next to my new male friend (as we were lying there, we were also talking about writing, etc., and he was mentioning being displeased that his liberal arts degree brought him nothing but a minimum wage job on a local construction site). When I woke up, everyone was in a rush to get out of the house (and use the one bathroom). In my search for the bathroom, I realized family members seemed to be just disappearing one at a time, which I chalked up to them leaving for school and work. But then, as I was getting into an argument with the pre-teen daughter over the bathroom, she suddenly just squealed and disappeared into thin air, but her clothes stayed in the place she'd been sitting. I started to walk frantically through the suddenly VERY quiet, deserted house, and realized there had been a baby (that I'd been holding as I fell asleep the night before). I went to check the crib, and the baby appeared to be there, but when I started to move the blankets away, it was just the clothes, etc., still holding the shape and size of the baby.

I walked back into the dining room, and the calm, love-filled house had transformed into a very well-to-do mansion. A very uppity, cold woman I somehow knew was my mother and a teenage girl I knew was my sister grabbed me and asked me where I'd been, then said how happy they were to see me, since I'd apparently been gone for months. I started to tell them where I'd been, and they looked at me oddly, then told me it didn't matter; they were just happy to have me home ... and that they didn't even care they now knew I'd been in an insane asylum for the past few months. I woke up feeling unsettled and missing that crazy, extremely poor but generous family that never existed in the first place.

I think this might be a story ... or a screenplay. Maybe not.

Now if only I can dream in songs again, I can fix some of my problems.

Foodie Lapses

A belated Happy Valentine's Day to all.

I don't have much interesting or literary or anything else to say. The past week has been filled with businessy writing, food and social engagements (and that's not so bad!).

Last weekend E. and I went to a delicious Thai place in Park Slope, Song (which I discovered I'd been to eight years ago with a bunch of high school friends when I walked in): A bottle of wine and a heaping plate of chicken spicy noodle later and only slightly over $15 per person spent, and great happiness ensued. Then it was off to a fun and slightly raucous night with new friends and a slightly hungover brunch on Sunday at the Sidecar (fried chicken salad sandwich!). Brunch was a little pricier than the previous night's dinner (and I'm not so sure the $10 bloodies had any alcohol in them), but it was pretty worth it.

For Valentine's Day, I prepared a plate of appetizers: shrimp kebabs with tarragon; veal/duck pate with peppercorns (purchased from Eli's Vinegar Factory) and rosemary crackers; bruschetta with goat cheese, nectarines and jalapenos (a recipe courtesy of my friend "Famous Original Emily"). We also burned through 2 bottles of wine. By far, it was the best V-Day I've had in a long time, and it was mostly spent in pajamas. This isn't really surprising.

Oh, and I have a new house plant. I didn't realize how much happier it makes my apartment, and now I want more. Let's see if I can keep it alive.

Mustache Competition Contestants vs. Has Been Female Figure Skaters

The old man bar in my neighborhood is kind of amazing. But I love it when I introduce someone new to it, because they find new characters to add to the cast. It's mostly always the same group: a mumbling man drinking red wine with an ear-flap winter hat and reading the newspaper from four days ago (probably unaware it's out of date), who signs over his social security checks directly to the bar; an old woman that has likely been coming there since the 70s that gets her hair helmet done once a week and never washes it and sips white wine spritzers while bitterly remembering her failed marriage; three perpetually-drunk, white-haired men that look like they could've participated in either a strong man or mustache competition in Coney Island in 1954. Last night, I took E. there for the first time, and she noted a new contender: a 50-something-year old woman in a canary yellow very trendy cable knit sweater with her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, kind of looking like Peggy Fleming. Her comment: "That woman looks like a former figure skating champion." Except she didn't mean she looked like a specific one; she just had the aura of someone that probably took the ice for the last time at some point in the early 80s.

New York is known to be full of celebrities, but I'm not quite sure this is what they mean by that.