So here's the thing about telling my story....

I have been trying to sort out ways in which I could recreate my experiences with mental illness in a constructive way that might be able to help others keep fighting the good fight.

But I don't have an ending yet, and that's the trouble I keep encountering.  Which is why I keep this ridiculously slow blog going so that a EUREKA moment might hit me one day.

I've been trying to get off Seroquel for over the past year with the assistance of my psychiatrist and I almost ended up BACK in the hospital the first go and had severe allergic reactions and panic attacks from hell during the second attempt.

Then I just went through breast cancer and didn't want to mess around with meds while I went through that.  But boy oh boy are there a lot of questions about long-term effects of psychiatric medications and overall health.

My psychiatrist has suggested I come off them and just go forward with PRNs for sleep and anxiety.  Which is completely different advice than former psychiatrists of mine would have given.  Quite frankly, I'm afraid to go off the medication because I hear voices sometimes that startle me while messing around with all these heavy-duty drugs.

So yeah, I'm taking my medication and commited to therapy and wellness and good diet and exercise and stress-relieving techniques and getting involved in support group and advocacy.  But it's all a balancing act and I haven't reach the top of the mountain yet where I would like to rest on the mountaintop and Tell My Story someday.

My Story intertwines a bit, and perhaps I need more to go on.  I need more to work with here.  Hmmmmm.

Uplift

Yesterday morning, a customer whom I learned is a writer stepped into my store and was overjoyed and anxious.  I had to help her find something to wear for a tv interview.  She was still working out the details but we found a few pieces she felt happy with and was overwhelmed saying, 'This kind of stuff doesn't happen to writers!'  I was so genuinely happy for her.  I don't think I could handle something on such a grand scale like that!  At least not at this point in my recovery and rehabilitation.

As I plan for my twenty year high school reunion next month, I find myself very reflective.  I'm always thinking, obviously, but many things have been weighing very, very heavy on my mind.  Some rumors have circulated regarding my high school boyfriend.  We had a very turbulent relationship, filled with physical and sexual violence, rage and mania and depression.  I was too young to process everything that went down, but it has remained with me for so many years later.  I'm using different therapies to resolve the inner turmoil, but if the rumor is indeed true, I want to build a bridge to connect and forgive.  It would heal me to face him and sit together and sing Redemption Song together.

On the notion of gossip, which I have brought up in the past, i understand that I have shared quite a bit in this blog and therefore it's subject to scrutiny.  Here's the thing:  I write because I need to.  When I write, I explore.  I discover.  I reflect.  I learn.  I am by far not a perfect person and I'm going to make mistakes.  But writing my way through the complications, traumas, misunderstandings and mysteries of my life has helped me.  I'm a communicator first and foremost.  Have I been too open?  Perhaps.  But it is one of the loveliest parts of being human, in my mind, to share our experiences with one another.

Endeavors

I beat myself up over not following through on all the endeavors I have going on.  Sorry if I've disappointed people with my lack of genius masterpiece submissions.  But not everyone's got it, n'est-ce pas?  Not everyone can create a masterpiece.  Some people just create as an outlet during mania and depression, but we aren't talking about mental illness in June, right?  Right.  Moving on.

As an admirer of arts of all kinds, I never feel alone when I can connect to something that finds its way into my life, either audibly or visually.  I love finding obscure foreign and old movies at the library.  I just watched a riveting, harrowing tale called The Patience Stone, where a young Afghani woman turns to her comatose husband with a bullet in his neck to reveal all of her secrets.  Wow, what an ending.  I'll have to find the book and see how it compares.

Still, I'm seeking that community again.  I'm slowly building.  I'm slowly reaching out again after years of solitude.  I've got some friends on the dance floor.  That's a start.  I've got some new neighbors to meet.  Is there that same sense of community online as well?  There can be, in the right place.  I still find the written word to be wonderfully old-fashioned.  If I set some sort of thematic goal in this blog perhaps I could participate in the blogosphere.  But it is exactly what it is.  J'y pense et puis j'oublie.  Literally, I think about it then I forget.  This strange little portal to my thoughts is something that helps me organize my thinking.  I have loads of journals written of this crap.    It's a bit more fun to put one out here instead.  Who would have thunk blogging would be a thing?

tumbleweed in the vast writing spaces of the interwebs

I like to write.  I write a lot.  I write on my iphone, in about five different notebooks at the moment, sometimes on the computer.  I fired up an old outdated laptop earlier to see what writings I could find.  I read through a few.  Some were written in manic fervor.  Some were written from a place of depression.  I've opened up old notebooks and have reread and reread.  I comb through the stuff with a fine tooth comb, hoping for an idea.

I tried writing poetry and it's really, really bad.

I've written many outlines for book ideas. They never go anywhere.

I bought a book on how to write a screenplay.  That's much too daunting for me.

No words seem to appropriate themselves correctly.  Timing and rhythm and flow always seems to elude me.  I take breaks for awhile.  I always come back to it, hoping something new will hit. I really don't know what else I'm supposed to do.

I do feel there are big questions and complexities stifling my ability to succeed in creating something substantial.  I feel blocked by the Whys, the Hows, the Whats and especially the Whos of it all.  If I could somehow discover the truth of it, I might be onto a brighter and more optimistic path.

Until then, I'm stifled.  Sleepless.  Even on the pills.  

Yes, there's imagination, but even imagination seems to elude me these days.  

Six more hours til I have to get ready for work.  I'm in for another brutal day tomorrow. Mr. Sandman bring me a dream.  Preferably not a creepy one.

Writing journeys

I took a few little trips recently and tried to write a bit along the way.  I've tried my hand at poetry, and it just doesn't come naturally to me.  Still I do it, as it's a nice exercise to put complex thoughts and beliefs into a small series of word patterns.  I won't know if they make any sense until I share them with someone other than my husband.  He gets some of them, but our perspectives of the universe differ somewhat.  He tends to feel really isolated from the world of famous art-makers and/or Celebrity, as do I.  I tend to feel the effects of Social Class Difference, whereas he doesn't see The Human Side of those big ol' stars.  In this day and age, it's all a big warped sense of heavily marketed illusion though, right?  Maybe.  

Anyway, sometimes my thoughts on fame and recognition go something more like this Thai commercial:

http://youtu.be/cZGghmwUcbQ

Anyway...

I don't know how many people are reading my words.  There sure are a lot of page views showing up.     I hope someday I can write again and be creative and somehow participate in your world instead of being the butt of everyone's joke or recipient of harsh criticism.  I hope that I find real people who can help me, mentor me or simply just be my friend, even in dark times.

You can laugh at me for not always siding with your science, but I believe.  I don't need to preach or judge others or go tell it on a mountain, because it's sacred to me and my family and those closest to me.  I believe we are connected in more ways that science can comprehend.  How do I know?  Because I have seen some things.

The internet sure is a messed up place.  Technology has become an extension of everyone's self.  And unfortunately, many have chosen to use this tool for bad things and seething negativity.  Why not create a world of positivity and support for those who are going through troubled times?  What are you all chasing after?  And what for?

On writing...

I was talking to my therapist the other day about art-making.  I told her that I feel like I can't write right now.  Writing and my 'mania' intertwines frequently.  My brain starts thinking and thinking and churning and it escalates into more than I can manage.  I have to walk away.

And she said, That's Okay.

Painting is better for me.  And I don't have to worry about what people think.  Because I'm doing it to help me express what I want to say.  It's not healthy for me to paint for someone else, to paint to try and be part of something bigger.  I'm just going to paint for me.  That's where I am at in my treatment.

I do still love writing.  But I think I'm going to take a more 'journalistic' approach to my writing.  Not so much creative story-telling.  Essays and such.

Here is what I will slowly work on next:

blogcabinofmidwesternsensibility.blogspot.com

when the winds change directions

Hello.

I have decided to change writing gears and direction and continue my ponderings on a new blog with a new theme.  I have written here as a place of refuge through hardships and I want to make some changes now.  This has been a vague, stumbling effort.  I've worked out some kinks and am looking forward to something new.

The new blog is doing some warm-up exercises and stretching before its new marathon run.

Run, Forrest!  Run!

Who's A Pill?

I was wildly entertained by assorted books and music today on yet another Polar-Vortex-Shining-Typewriter-Trapped-In-The-House kind of a day.

I drank coffee all morning and afternoon and read the second half of Morrissey's autobiography.  I skimmed a majority of the courtroom dramarama pages, as money-ownership-art topics are far from what I want to read about.  But I absolutely loved his clever word choices and rambling insecurities and OVERSHARING of all the delightfully overbearing personalities who have colored the pages of his life thus far.  Except that ending.  MAN!  Did that FREAK me OUT!

And then I watched some television:

http://youtu.be/kzj_NG90V40

community.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

Community.  And not the TV show.

It seems like it was always easy to find a community to be a part of in college.  I lived in the International House, one level of a dormitory which housed people from all over the world, where we were to be immersed in all the world's cultures.  It was great fun on many occasions, but other times?  Not so much.  There were quite a few quarrels and heated debates, and we soon discovered differences in public bathroom etiquette.  I remember waking up to signs in the bathroom one morning that the shower stalls are not where we pee in the US.  We use toilets here. 

And then I participated in a French meetup group after my last return from France.  I wanted to keep my French current and continue to practice the language outside of France.  It was fun for a while, but there were several times a friend and I had to leave when 15 minutes into the meeting we realized it was a Pick Up Chicks spot.

There was another time after first being diagnosed with a mental illness that I joined a support group and went to weekly (or more) meetings.  I did it for a while and felt like I was involved in something very important, but after some time had passed, I realized it was bringing me down.  The people I met with each week were very nice folks, but I realized that I didn't want to live my illness, nor be my illness.  I was much more than that.

I tried my hand at a staff art show, still one of the most nerve-wracking things I have ever done in my life.  It was great excitement as the hype began to build and we started the installation of everyone's pieces.  I volunteered as the 'beer girl' on opening night and was amazed to see all the crowds.  We all walked around and got to discover an element of each coworker's personality that we may have not noticed before.  The show ran for a few weeks and was quite a success.  It was a great experience, but when I look at my artwork I've completed to date, I don't think I would be so comfortable showing it at this time.  My artwork makes me feel like an outsider.

I have friends who make their living writing.  Some went into journalism, some PR, others freelance.  While I have always enjoyed writing, I have not made it my community.  Take this blog, for example.  I write this more as a message in a bottle sort of way, floating while I try to organize my thoughts after a messy number of years struggling with mind stuff.  I don't workshop my stories nor do I enjoy the promotion side of things.  I write and make my art as my therapy.  If there are sinister, vulture-type people out there who prey upon my frankness on this, well, j'éspere que cette vérité makes them open their eyes a little bit about the intent of their curiosity.

So back to that word again...community.  I am trying very hard to not be that loner outsider all the time.  As time goes on and wounds heal, I feel more and more confident to dive back into the important interests and passions that fuel me.  Whether that be volunteering somewhere again or getting more involved in my new neighborhood, or taking a class, or locating new 'artistic' peers, or, or, or...well, the ideas just start to soar when I think about it.

Divisionism

I haven't seen all of Woody Allen's films, but I am slowly catching up thanks to my local library.  I have absolutely fallen in love with Purple Rose of Cairo and it's crazy descent in breaking the fourth wall.  We live in such a silly time of celebrity and illusion and this film from the eighties makes us think about it all over again decades later.  So much fun and whimsy in this one:




(RIP)

I am someone who definitely gets lost in movies, books, plays, even a song from time to time.    My life is so ordinary and mundane and anything that allows my imagination to soar brings me such extreme joy.  There have been times where imagination has gotten the best of me and I can't even begin to describe those times in simple unsung English.  But when healthy doses of imagination curtail sadness...well, those are some pretty powerful sentiments.  Harnessing imagination is an art in and of itself, and as I continue to write and create stuff of my own I seek this type of knowledge and ability.  I want to be that adventurous writer.  It's in me....buried somewhere beneath the medication I take...

Have you ever been thrown into a moment of surreality that somehow similarly breaks the fourth wall? I can think of a few instances in my life where imagination and reality have been blurred.  One happened at a concert many, many years ago, when its star approached me in a crowded audience.  (I'd drop his name if this weren't the big bad internet and I knew fanatical fans of his keep his name locked down on widespread google alerts.  They can be pretty scary...)  As the spotlight followed him and he moved closer and closer to me over in the corner, I remember looking down at my feet, as if I needed to firmly plant my feet on the ground.  I guess he wanted me to jump up onstage and dance around and put on a show for him and everybody else in that crowded theatre.  I guess that's what he expected.  But that wasn't (and still isn't!) my personality and so I think I might have embarrassed him or something by rejecting such an advance.  The whole incident only lasted half the length of a song, yet here I sit all these years later reminiscing about it and the impact it had on how I view and accept my confidence, or lack thereof I guess I should say.  I once told a therapist about the incident and she turned it into something sexual about it being my first big sexual encounter and yada yada yada.  But it was more than just that.  It was a reality-infused swan dive (or cannonball depending on how you view it) into the imagination.  And how we perceive stage folk and their glittery shining hologram-like suits.  And how so very different 'celebrity' and 'real folk' can be.  A curator once suggested the term 'divisionism.'  Like there is a great big wall dividing our worlds...

Interesting stuff to ponder.

kapow

It was anything but an extraordinary day.  The snow outside is melting, the winter shuffles are being replaced by warmer weather and a spring in everyone's step.  It's such an odd sensation....when things start shifting...when winter lifts again and rejuvenation begins again.  I often wonder how I'd fare living in a climate that does not have such drastic changes in the seasons.

I helped about ten customers over an eight hour period....so painstakingly slow.  I alphabetized the hell outta things today.  I got on my train home, delayed by approximately seven minutes, read a little of Sarah Silverman's book on my e-reader, and shoved approximately twelve Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Nibs in my mouth (at one calorie each) and chased them down with some raw almonds.  I descended the train thirty six minutes later and walked to the bus stop.  After a few pit stops I finally made it home and chowed on pizza and watched Some Like It Hot.  Like I said, anything but an extraordinary day.

The Mister and I had a brief discussion about writing.  He told me I need to write with direction.  That I can't just sit here and type some words.  I brought up the conversation by reminiscing about those first few spring days where I pack a lunch and my notebook and find a quiet spot in a park downtown and write and write and write.  I have journals upon journals shoved with words and brief ideas but they don't seem to catapult themselves into constructed works of written art for submission.  And I know there are a million blogs floating around with the same aimless feel, but for right now, as I get back into the swing of things after a few years of a lowered mental state....this is all I gots.

Voici une chanson pour cette journee:

Join us for a very special finale....

So I tuned in this morning to the final Oprah. I was never a regular devotee but I do admit her impact and influence on soooooo many is definitely remarkable.

There's that one thing that always bugs me though....that we all have a 'calling.'. Is that true? I mean how does that relate to all the millions of crappy jobs that simply must be done in this world? Working as a polite salesgirl does not feel like my 'calling' in life, but rather a necessity to make ends meet and hold health insurance. Though I try to make each day the best it can be, it certainly is not the life fulfillment that I seek. And I don't have the financial means to start myself on some sort of new career path. I am stuck in my full-time situation for the time being.

The world has needs for all kinds of people. So how many are really living a life they love? I know there's more than just 'jobs' to define a person, but let's face it....jobs make up a huuuuge part of how we are defined. We often spend more time with our co-workers than we do with our own family and loved ones.

I used to wonder if writing was my calling. I remember that feeling from as early as the tenth grade when my high school English teacher pulled me aside to ask if I would consider joining the school newspaper staff. "You really do have strong writing skills," is what Ms. Thandholt had said to me. I signed up for a year of Journalism class and spent my senior year writing silly feature articles for the Inklings newspaper. I didn't much care for the roving reporter aspect and writing strict news articles, however, so I didn't continue the journalistic adventure into college.

Writing is a hobby. A way to organize my thoughts, feelings and ideas. But I'm still not convinced that it's a calling.

Perhaps if a calling hits me I can use my hobby of writing to EXPLORE the said calling. But no, I don't have one just yet.

And I guess in Oprah's eyes, or whomever else's, that signals some kind of weakness or emptiness or something.

We must be careful who we listen to. C'est nous qui sommes les proprieteres de notre vie.

Eat, Pray, Love

I am past the halfway point of this book, sneaking short reads at work on an e-reader device.  I actually love Elizabeth Gilbert's writing style.  Perhaps because I hear a lot of my own thoughts in her writing voice.  She is very skilled at taking a thought that is normally written in two sentences and spreading it out over two pages.  This is something I am striving for, but blogging formats aren't the best place for such a practice.

Peut-etre when I write my spoof of Eat Pray Love (which shall be called Sleep, Pray, Take Some Pills) I can streeeetttttch out my split second thoughts into two dozen paragraphs.

Je cherche un editor.

And an actress to portray me in the film adaptation.

Seriously, when Liz heads to the ashram in India and achieves an essence of divinity, I was thinking, "Holy Guacamole, that's what schizophrenia is like too!"

I was always told Mary Stuart Masterson should portray me in a film.  She plays, you know, quirky characters.

awakenings

in my overwhelmingly creative thought processes lately when i write in my journal or paint canvas after canvas turquoise and splashes of word-related things, i pray for a day when it will flow from me the way it is supposed to.

the way God intended it.  the quintessential story that i want to write.  i want to write a Jane Eyre, or a To Kill a Mockingbird, or perhaps a small poignant fable.  i would even write a children's book if i felt so inspired....  i know i have it in me, but....

.....WHY WON'T IT COME TO ME!?!?!

perhaps it's the pressure of having to move and create at a rapid pace so it can go through the big machine gun hands of 'getting it out there' and perhaps it just completely overwhelms and stresses me out.   i have tried many different approaches and discussed many things with people in my research i.e. living-my-life.  when i explained to an old coworker friend (whom i no longer talk to) about my plans to take my time and gain enough life knowledge to WRITE THAT BOOK THAT I HAVE IN ME, she said something that doesn't leave my mind and plagues me.  It was a big mumbo jumbo escapading conversation about living for the NOW and answering that call NOW.  Life is too short to wait for a perfect moment.

And now I suffer from intense creative anxiety.

I am working on some short stories in the meantime to at least just practice the craft.  But I am not pleased at all with them.

Awaking from a big long dream can be quite torturous.

And the face of Mr. Rochester to my Jane Eyre is so clouded over with all the other bullshit that clanks from behind his high-speed out-of-control rabid horse-drawn carriage.  Seriously, my muse or destiny or love or WHATEVER THE HELL IT IS is just like Pigpen from Peanuts.

Maybe one day he'll clean up to be Charlie Brown.

My god, life is so strange.

hibrrrrrrnating some more

Oh the cold weather.

It gets the best of me. I never have two consecutive days off so I try to make the best time of my free days. But that dang Chicago cold!

Attempted to write some more. Fueled by coffee and warm fuzzy slippers and itchy brain cells, I 'vomited' on paper some more. Kind of like I'm doing now. Fruitless. Perhaps I need to re-read Stephen King's On Writing. Whatever happened to my copy?

There is a tale in me that I want to tell. Or as some say, perhaps everyone's got a book in 'em. What carries the stories that we hear in our lifetimes? The relatedness of our journeys? The fantasy? The hook? The character development? The dilemma? The unique voice?

I draw from a unique set of experiences. I have this itch to explain them and paint them and share them, but they will not hold any meaning to me unless they are understood. Well, not even understood, but I do ask that they have the ability to connect to the reader. I try out some of these stories/experiences in spoken stories with my husband and a few select friends, and the reaction I get is not one of connection. "Do you understand? Does this make sense?" And the answer is always various stages of 'No.' If I can't allow them to make sense for those close to me, how do I know what connection lies beyond?

I once tried my hand participating in an art show. I don't think it's fair to label myself an artist because I do not possess the God-given gift that others do. But as a creative person, I wanted to challenge myself in a new way. It was a staff show that took place at a gallery in Pilsen, joined together by my coworkers at the time of Museum of Contemporary Art. The pieces included installations, paintings, drawings, videos, you name it - coming from all levels of talent. It was a nerve-wracking experience for me. But I did it.

My piece was something I came up with as a means of connecting a conversation with other artistic mediums. Being a fan of music and such a lover of words, I often wonder what stories lie behind the reality of a song. I scoured thrift shops for the perfect worn-out stereo speaker surrounded with the perfect type of wood to which I could burn the words. I skipped an Easter Sunday with the family and sat in my old apartment by the lake listening to music on the radio as my woodburning wand spent 15 plus hours engraving a message across the broken-down sound system. The message was as ephemeral as a three-minute song and doesn't even bear repeating at this point, but it was clear to at least one person.

Someone sitting at the gallery relayed the message to me that a man came over to her to comment specifically on how much he enjoyed my piece. All of those works in that space and he chose to comment on mine and mine alone.

That's all that mattered to me, especially in remembrance of everything that had happened a few weeks later in my life.

Maybe one day I'll muster up the courage to try it all again.

coming into focus

I envy those friends of mine who knew early in life what their calling might be. Particularly those of the creative persuasion, and how productive their hobbies and passions actually turn out.

While dawdling in a little bit of everything, or as I like to say 'Jill of all trades, master of nothing,' I want to fine tune all of my interests into one sweeping finale. I am not a photographer, I am not a sports fanatic. I can knit the most minimum of all basics, paint when I feel inspired, play a few songs on the piano and strum some sounds on the guitar. I truly enjoy writing, but have been having major struggles finding things to write ABOUT.

On a day like today, where the snow and antibiotics have kept me indoors baking banana bread and zoning out on television, all I can do is sit and watch the thermometer fall and rise to zero.

So my grand focus is a rather broad one. I just want to tell stories.

Stories.

Discipline.

I have been trying to devote a little time each day to a concrete writing submission project, but I fall down on the job each time. I'm not going to beat myself up over this. I work a ridiculous work schedule, never have two consecutive days off, and if I do have free time I like to spend it with my husband. It would be fantastic to find myself an agent and receive some spectacular publishing house funding to concentrate solely on W-R-I-T-I-N-G, but I am well aware of the reality of 'luck' and find refuge in the mere fun of it all.

As I sift through candid writings from days of yore, old travelogues and travelblogs that were originally written as a correspondence to all the family and friends I've met along the way, I cringe at times when I remember the thoughts I had at the moment of the original writing. Again, I pull from the months in France in 2005. This was written at the moment of the so-called Parisian suburb riots, incidentally only 3 towns away from the one I was in, and at a time when I had absolutely no idea where my life would be taking me even one week from that point.

You re-read your own thoughts and relive those particular experiences and laugh at how silly everything seemed. But you also slowly smile and thank God for allowing you to choose your own adventure....

Monday, November 7th, 2005

1:05 pm - Creators, Creation, Media and Everything Else Out-of-Proportion

It's been a bizarre few days. I just heard from the folks back home and everyone was scared that I would somehow get lost in the Paris riots. I've watched it slowly grow, from the first few burnings being covered on the french news, to the eventual coverage by the BBC satellite tv at my cousin's house, to the concerned American family members and their kooky coverage back home. Kinda ironic how a little news story a week or two ago spread like a wildfire around the globe and is now out of control. I have walked and climbed and scaled these city walls and I haven't even smelled one whiff of fire. You know what? There are a million other things going on in this city too. I went to the Louvre yesterday because it was free and they moved the Mona Lisa to a nicer room and got rid of that scratched acrylic panel and replaced it with a very tall piece of glass. Also, the Information Desk at the Louvre is on strike. Everyone here in France goes on strike! Immigrants flock to this country because the social benefits are incredulous. I watched a tiny little nation's people protest around the Bastille to bring attention to their atrocious government and the loss of their culture. They had music, a bunch of loud percusions and you could hear it almost all the way over to the Seine. Today I was roaming and sat down on a bench near the Arc de Triomphe and some Arab women asked me if I could give them some money. The first one cursed me when i shook my head no. I explained to the second one that I also did not have any income and she blessed me as a sister in her language and the others smiled around me and did a two-second prayer vigil around me or something. They flirted with French security standing nearby and everyone laughed and they went on their way with their daily beggings. Globalism is here. Il faut melanger. C'est la vie. I wandered around the Pompidou Centre and looked at an incredible modern art collection, not organised chronologically or by school, but by socialist themes. The last rooms were war, death, voyeurism and prostitution. I left feeling rather melancholic, as if that's ALL we have to come together and create right now but mass chaos everywhere, but there was one last room right by the Big Bang entrance, which was nearly pitch black, you had to walk around a dark room with strangers and search for the guiding lights, featuring five film installations of particular cosmic happenings in the astral skies above. Five Angels for the Universe. Great, a little optimism never hurt anyone, perhaps misdiagnosed as naivete often, but pray tell, where exactly ARE these five angels and when are people going to start listening to them?

Short Story

Anna caught her breath at the curbside just as the bus sped off down the street, prompting her to cough in the cloud of exhaust. She would be late to work again, and this time, there was no guarantee any ounce of redemption could be salvaged.

She looked at her watch and then up at the sky. The clouds were rolling southeast and so she decided it was a good time to follow them.

As she walked through the neighborhood, calamity rose at the playground lot of the elementary school on Sunrise Avenue. Though it was not apparent to anyone but her, it seemed, she noticed a small boy sitting on the asphalt ground underneath a slide. The school bell was ringing and kids scurried to the entrances while the young boy remained.

"Aren't you going to get to your classroom? You don't wanna be late!" Anna shouted over to him through the fence.

"Aren't you going to be late for your job?" the young boy responded.

To be continued....

marriage

i would really like to write again. it's been ages since my mind was high with feverish creativity and reflection, and i must say it was a purposeful step back so that i could concentrate on 'more important things.'

i stepped away from the blogosphere in an attempt to concentrate on more private writing sessions, but have i made this happen? um, no.

hopefully, with a marriage this weekend, and more newness of life, and walking down the aisle of a las vegas chapel, i will feel amused and inspired by life and all of its unpredictability.