Another 4 weeks lapsed and what have we achieved? I use the collective but I can’t count all of the things everyone else has been doing. It seems they all move and I stay still, yet we all have to get over this hill together.
Our unit has almost, almost sold after not selling at auction. We’re so happy someone will get enjoyment from that view. The money will pay off some loans and help with the renovations. However, we’ve been knocked back on 3 rental applications, so even though it looks like the builder can start building we have no where to live.
Then there is Thumper. The ever screaming, currently teething, never sleeping 10 month old. It’s great to think I can wean him and get back into the workforce but he is having none of that. All the games of peekaboo in the world aren’t easing his separation anxiety and he says no to formula, and no to letting me relax long enough to express. I guess one of us has to fight for things.
So I’m packing as if we’re moving.
I’m getting on childcare waitlists as if I have a job to go to.
And I’m wearing a smile like I still have hope.
It is a pretty giant hill in front of me. In front of us, actually. It’s bigger than the last one we climbed and I’m already looking for shortcuts.
Sometimes I want to lock it all up. Other times I want to let it all out. Sometimes I can’t keep it in and then as much as I try, I can’t keep it all out.
I’m overwhelmed and then underwater. I want to run away and I want to hide away. I want to forget and I want to remember. I’m tired and I’m tried and I’m torn and I’m tested. But I’m just another whinger. A laughable #firstworldproblem, because the lucky ones have no right to ever feel sad.
It started with pie.
I’m not really sure what kind of pie it was but that doesn’t matter because everyone likes some kind of pie at some point in time. The time, this time was in my dream and people were carving up the pie like they will carve up their telecommunications data once David’s dream comes true. I was writing words about pies in my sleep.
But that isn’t the dream that I’ve been thinking about. My dream has to do with writing. Writing is what writers do and that’s all I want to do. I can’t look at any more jobs that need digital marketers – it makes me crazy. I can’t believe how many job ads are screaming for social media managers as if social media is something that can be managed. I just want to write and perhaps that was the true attraction to social media in the first place. A status update here, a bit of news shared there, all covered in my sticky fingerprints.
That’s not real writing though is it? Real writing is published properly. It is edited and submitted and reviewed and edited and branded and stamped and numbered and promoted. So much painful process beyond the initial act of writing means that as a job it is probably no different to any other job I’ve held…
except for once I might actually be happy doing it.
I sometimes come and devour the stale thoughts I’ve stored here. I stray back into the Park sometimes late at night when Chucky is all squirm and interruption. Then I lie down and consume the long-waiting words, once baked so easily and marvel at how the years have changed their flavour.
Some sentences I leap on and gobble up like chocolate.
“Never underestimate the power of the ocean to clean your bones”
And I want to cling to it and caress it and thank it for being true and wiser than I would’ve given myself credit for five years ago. Then I look at it again, with all this additional learning and experience and the poison that is critical thinking and I realise, it isn’t that clever. It isn’t soul saving. It isn’t powerful. In fact it is so far from gold that I couldn’t even claim that it is unworked straw.
Yet that’s why I need to come back here, among the stale things. I need to see them for what they are; Miss Havisham’s wedding table, memories best left to burn and be forgotten.
Sitting here trying very hard to concentrate on reviewing some documents for a client and my belly is dancing. I’d forgotten and I will forget, how crazy weird that feeling of a creature stretching inside of you can be. I’m totally distracted. How on earth did I manage to stay focused with my other two?
Christmas 2012 gift of a writing course from John & Ingrid was pretty special but amongst work obligations and family life I didn’t know if I’d ever get to use it.
Well now I have the time.. so next Monday I’m starting my introduction to creative writing. It seems bizarre in one sense because I’ve always loved to write so to be “introduced” to it, well, what do you mean exactly? I’ve know writing all of my life. I guess a paid course should introduce me to how to write properly.. you know.. without all of .. these.. things.. everywhere. Oh and gramma and punctuation and grandma and perfunctuation. I expect to learn all of those things and become better at writing. The real problem is not learning the techniques but having the idea and at the moment I’m a few vowels short of an idea. I think I’d like to revisit my robot granny and the gay ninjas from NaNoWrimo 2009. I had such a wonderful time writing that. I didn’t like Adjacent Jacie as much because on re-reading I discovered too much inspiration taken from startrek and too many — far far far too many characters for my silly head to keep track of. I can’t help slipping into flippant half-baked humour when I write. I want to learn how to build more beautiful worlds with my words however. I want to learn how to describe the atmosphere of a place – rather than relying so much on dialogue.
So anyway I am a bti nervous having not started/studied anything in years and years – but also a bit excited that I can put my energy into something that might evenutally help me produce the best #nanowrimo attempt to date. Wish me luck :)