In Defense of Blogging

There's something that's been eating at me all week. I'll just let it all out, dear reader.

Last week in my creative writing class, my teacher was discussing point of view. Since I write primarily in 1st person narrative and have a strong base for language, I felt pretty clear on this, but wondered if I wavered into 2nd at times.

"So what about that conversational type of writing where you are addressing the reader as 'you?' Like you often see in blogs as though telling a story to a best friend? Does that waver into 2nd person?"

Well, the gist of the answer was no, it is still 1st person unless the author is writing as if YOU baked a cake, YOU took a writing class, YOU are the character in the events.

But what got to me was that my beloved teacher wrinkled her nose and said, "Sloppy writing. That's the style of blogging."

I was disappointed, even a tiny bit crushed she felt that way. I'm sure many writers and academics feel the same.

Then I felt defensive. Blogging has not necessarily changed my life, but it has certainly given me more of a direction in my writing. It has increased my output, and encouraged me to write. Every day. (For a writer, this is huge.) It has pushed me to become more familiar with the computer and to share my work and bring it to light from mere musings hidden between the pages of countless notebooks. It has made me take a started thought and finish it, even if it is simply about a cracker tin or a rock that inspired me.

I want to think that readers feel the same- that they are reading everyday and joining in a community of followers with common interests. I love that the Pioneer Woman makes me smile and feel lighter just by posting a photo of her goofy Bassett Hound, Charlie, wearing nerd glasses. I love that I get to see what adventures my friends, Amanda Rae and Georgia Pellegrini are up to each day. Just by showing up and reading, makes me part of the connectedness, the adventure. And if that's simply from being addressed like I'm an old friend from far away, then I am totally more than okay with that.

I have to acknowledge that not all posts are created equal, that there will be days that you don't give a tinker's toot about what I had for breakfast or where I took a walk, and that other blogs may generate a similar response. But even if there is one day where you can relate to my experience, or be entertained, or inspired, or annoyed, or enchanted, or opposed, or amused, or interested from something you've read, then isn't that the point? Doesn't that make it worth it? I mean, sloppy? Really?

There is something beautiful about stream-of-consciousness, unedited thought. Why should James Joyce have all the fun? And glory?

So until my next great American novel is published, and as I try to hone my craft, come out of my shell, and try to take advantage of the delicate mysteries of life and the human experience, I want to keep sharing them with you, even if we've never met, as intimately as I know how.

Slops and all.

31st Year

A lovely birthday surprise to brighten my room, and test my plant-guardian challenges!

The message is clear. I need to wear more red this year.

How Punky Brewster Changed My Life

It is not uncommon for me to wake up with a random song in my head, and this morning was no exception. As I let the chickens out and sipped my brewed coffee, a flute tinkled in the background of my brain, an accent to the ongoing soundtrack of my life. What was that ditty from? Oh yes, the interlude music to Punky Brewster, my all-time favorite show as a child. Nothing like an odd start to the day.

A few years ago, I Netflixed a few seasons of the show on a whim. I often revert back to childhood themes and corny movies during times of strife. I also thought it would be wildly entertaining for me and my roommate, who happened to be an old friend from camp whom I knew would appreciate the sentiment.

The memories came flooding back- missing my cat having kittens because I couldn't bear to miss a single episode (those were the days before Tevo), standing in front of my closet each day thinking WWPW (what would Punky wear), and of course, the harsh life lessons ingrained in the show. Lessons such as, don't joke around in CPR class because you never know when your friend might get trapped in a refrigerator and need to be resussitated, and you don't want to be the guy who can't do it because you weren't paying attention. Or the importance of literacy in case your little brother drinks poison and you need to read the label. You don't have to do drugs to be popular. And of course, the subliminal messages of our need to buck the system and rage against the flaws of beaurocracy.

The themes were heavy. Maybe a little too heavy for innocent girls everywhere who had never had to dig through trash for dinner or break into a deserted apartment for shelter. When I watched with my roommate, she realized watching Punky Brewster was the reason she suffered so much separation anxiety when her parents went out. If Punky could be abandoned in a grocery store parking lot, how could any of us be safe? In a chaotic, right-wing time of Reaganomics and a national obsession with money and status, the message was clear: if an orphan and her puppy could make it in the school of hard knocks, then so could you.

But there were simpler lessons, as well. It's okay to be weird. Be yourself, and love who you are. Be a devoted friend.

Punky's indefatigable spirit and iron clad moral constitution set in motion for me a lifelong role model of the kind of person I wanted to be. She was a gal who could see the bright side of things and keep it all in perspective. The adoption agency won't approve of an old man becoming her foster parent? Just another administrative hoop to jump through. Bad things will always happen to good people, and all you can do is keep being good and hope for the best. Do things for others and be the best you can each day, and all will turn out right.

A nice reminder from the adorable 80s theme song on my internal loop this morning.

A Hike Off Bohemian Highway

This weekend, I took my first hike in over a month, and quite possibly my first real exercise since the fall. And all out of the sling! (It's the little things.)

I packed some sandwiches and trail mix and hit the highway. Bohemian Highway. There's a large plot of land being donated to the Sonoma Land Trust and a little bird told me there was a waterfall.

There was.

Here are some things I love: water, rocks, ferns, moss, the smell of churned earth and clean mud ...

... and gnarly, twisted fairytale roots clinging for survival.

Here is me trying to get a shot from the top of the waterfall, but not daring to go any further.

My friend helped me out.

Then we raced sticks in the creek. Mine won half the time and the score will eventually need to be settled.

My dream house:

Yup, it's kind of ugly here.

Kidding.

I changed my mind and decided I want to live here instead:

Just for Me

I finally went to the doctor yesterday. I probably should have gone sooner, I know, but honestly I felt like I was doing so great for having an arm in a sling. The pain was tolerable, and I've figured out a way to do just about everything I need to one-handed, if a bit slow and sluggish. It's an elbow, for crying out loud. Doesn't it only have one way to heal? 

I went to the clinic at my parents' insistence and figured I could get a time frame on when I can get back on the wall, if nothing else. I assumed the doctor would be dazzled by the progress I've made in a couple weeks, and encourage me to give it time and rest more but not have much more insight. 

I passed every test, until she asked me to straighten my arm. It wasn't happening. "You need to get x-rays," she said.

So today I got my first x-rays ever, for my worst injury to date (which is saying a lot since there isn't even a fracture that I'm aware of). It was a quick visit, but not as fun as going out for ice cream. While I wait for the results, I'm trying not to envision a permanently damaged elbow or rare bone disease that could lead to surgery or amputation. Or worry that I really blew it by not going to the doctor in the first place.

I took advantage of the drive into town to check out the junior college and figure out where I'm supposed to go for a class I signed up for. It starts next week and I don't know anything about the campus or where to find the class, where to even park for that matter. I ended up driving around aimlessly for a while, feeling overwhelmed and old and wondering why the whole thing is intimidating the heck out of me when I've already been to school.

Then I thought about having a break down last night and feeling self conscious walking around with a bum arm, and throwing another pity party for myself because I've had half a dozen conversations about my "limited range of motion" in the last 24 hours and really miss climbing.

And then I got this.

I almost never buy random things for myself except candy and beer. Today, a week and a half into physical recovery, I knew I needed a little boost. An orchid was a weird choice, since I manage to kill nearly every plant I come in contact with. I don't know, it's exotic and beautiful and decadent, and I've always wanted one, just because. It will be a good challenge for me to try to keep it alive for a few months. Or weeks.

But if I don't, I'm not going to beat myself up over it.

New Glasses!

How do they look?

The Sharp Talker

I’ve been called a lot of things due to my talking, but never, not ever have I been called a sharp talker.  More often I'm told I have a big mouth, I talk fast, I talk too much, too loud, I talk about boring things, I laugh at my own jokes, I get sarcastic, I gossip, I make awkward small talk, I swear like a truck driver, I make too much idle chatter, I lack eloquence, I’m blunt, I blurt things out, I reveal too much, I don’t say what I mean, I can’t spit it out. 

This guy, he said I'm a sharp talker. 

What he meant was the timbre of my Midwestern accent was sharp, a bit clippier than the drawly southerner or laid back valley girl. It wasn’t an insult, but maybe not quite a compliment, either. 

Yeah, sharp. That got me thinking about how we communicate, how our message is sent and received. It says a lot about us, about who we are based on not only the accent you have, but the way you carry your speech and the emotions you choose to propel your words.

My uncle once told me he thought if your mouth is foul, your mind must be as well. People who use ugly language just show they are consumed by ugly thoughts. That was enough to keep me from using c’s and t’s the rest of the night.

For tonight, a guy my roommate’s boyfriend dragged in, of an undeterminate age, told me San Francisco had an accent, I didn’t believe him and demanded he say the pledge of allegience to me in that language so I could hear it. Somehow that led to him telling me about being in the witness protection program as a result of being caught in the fire of a high profile murder case in the city, as a result of being shot. All I could think was, “how can I be a sharp talker?  I’ve never been shot!”

Then again, when he told me about his son committing suicide and I asked about his relationship with his other son (part of a twin), and asked about how he felt when his friend got shot in front of him. I asked what made him quit smoking, if he had to keep looking over his shoulder since the trial, if he trusted his intuition, who he did business with. I asked all kinds of things like I had known him forever, like I had the right to. I asked as if he had no choice but to answer me the honest truth. And for some reason, he did.

Maybe some of that fluffy chattering I do really does have an edge to it.

The Horse King

When I set out to Washington a few days ago, it was to take advantage of down time from work and reconnect with family.  It's really become a vision quest.

This is me with one of my new goddesses on the third day of my quest.  

The first day was realized with profound insight from my aunt on who I am and where I fit in with my life and family.  While we met only a year ago at my brother's wedding, it was kismet and we've continued the conversation ever since.

Part 2 was a reiki reading by another goddess.  I'm not going to try to sway the skeptics, I'm just here to heal.  I can just say there is magic in someone being able to read you by concentration before even talking to you.  We give off a light that we each have the power to see, but few can understand.

I've always been a seeker of destiny so today in a cozy yurt, I had my chart read to find some connections in some of the inexplicables of my life.  Divine.  Truth will find its way out and though I've been hearing it a million times, I needed to hear a soothsayer remind me that being my full self and feeling safe is the only way for me to grow and learn.  I got some answers, and now I'm ready to blaze a new trail.

With two of my three goddesses we each drew a card from Wisdom of the Hidden Realms, just for fun as we were saying goodbye.  I drew The Horse King.  I had to share, since The Horse King card is about Assistance and Control, and lines up almost eerily with my road trip.  It reads:

"The Horse King always comes to lend you the power to go the distance, forging ahead whatever the weather.  You will most certainly reach your perfect destination with this noble ally.  He lets you know that some person or circumstance brought through synchronicity will certainly appear to help you with your endeavors.  You aren't meant to go this part of the journey alone.  This is also an important time to delegate authority to others so that they may assist you.  Currently you're magnetic to powerful people who are in a position to help make your dreams come true.  The Horse Kings asks that you remain open to those who are sent to aid you.  You can be assured that you will be lifted up and will ride high in victory."

35 by 35, part 1

I have this friend.  She's a go-getter working on her phD in ecology, driven by personal challenges and accomplishments.  She's a fan of the popular 30 by 30 lists common for motivated people in their 20s to try to fulfill 30 goals by the time they turn 30.  I have a few friends with these lists and I always scoffed at them. 

Why set a timeline for pursuing dreams?  Why is there so much pressure to get things done by the time we're 30?  Why do we feel the need to put the pressure on ourselves?

She said that as you get older and get through landmarks like getting a degree, traveling independently and settling into stability (all important), it can be easy to become apathetic and lazy.  This, for her, is a good way to stay engaged and keep focused. 

I've always believed in setting goals for myself.  I had to agree, there is something to giving yourself a deadline, or those very things can fall by the wayside.

So with much hesitation, I am trying to open myself to crossing some of those things-I-want-to-do-one-day off my list.  Thus begins my 35 by 35.

I'm going to start with some easy ones, just to make sure I get them done.  The first thing is learning to change the strings on my guitar.  That one broken E string has left my poor neglected guitar crammed in the corner of my room.

My fave site for guitar basics has been guitar.about.com.  This is a straightforward tutorial on changing strings- and they also have the most approachable guides to learning chords and basic tuning.

In a perfect world, the strings are coiled neatly around the peg.  Mine came out pretty sloppy, but hey, it's my first time.  (This is also why I would strongly recommend buying a very cheap guitar for your first one, so it can take some abuse until you get your bearings.)

Not the prettiest, but once I sat down, I did it!  It took about an hour, including a very tedious tuning session (as the strings stretched and settled into their new positions).  Now she's ready to jam again!

 

I'm glad my friend sold me on the idea, and what better opportunity to get some things done that I've been procrastinating on?  I don't have a full list compiled yet, but here is the start of my list:

-change guitar strings

-quit smoking

-camp by myself

-learn to sail

-finish my book (and self publish)

-kill a chicken (there will be lots of weird back-to-the-land goals)

-skin a rabbit

-see Pacific Northwest (I've never gone farther north than Arcada)

-learn to lead climb

-use a chainsaw

-learn to sew

-explore manual photography and take better photos

-travel to Africa

 -read Ulysses (and study it so I understand it)

-learn to butcher (break down a side, and become familiar with all the cuts)

-go salmon fishing

That's it for now, but that's enough to keep me busy for a while.  What's on your list?

Cleaving

What amazes me about reading is when you find that perfect book for that perfect time in your life.  Since I've been slowly trudging through books ever since I moved here from New York (where commuting gave me over 2 hours a day for reading), it is always incredible to find a book I don't want to put down and can get through in less than a few weeks.

For me, that book was Cleaving, by Julie Powell.  You may remember Powell from the heartwarming Julie and Julia.  Well, forget her.  Cleaving is the evil twin, the story of a dark time when Powell worked in a butcher shop while she was in a wrenching affair.  The parallels she draws between breaking down meat and tumultuous relationships are poetic and relevant.  Though dark and ugly, the writing is brutally honest and vulnerable, which takes a lot of guts (did I mention the parallels?).  At a time when I couldn't be more disenchanted by food and love, this was the absolute perfect read.  This takes something as rudimentary as butchery or love, and shows the multi-layered complexity through beauty and ugliness.

At last, the part of me that always found butchery to be intriguing is finally understood by another.  I am this close to walking into Willowside Meats and asking for a job.