the artist's way

Today I'm starting a series of blogs about my experiences going through the book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I'll be doing this in conjunction with my friend Karen's blog, so check her's out as well because we're doing it as a team.

The Artist's Way uses two basic tools, the morning pages and the artist's date. Morning pages are three pages of stream of consciousness writing every morning to sort of get the worries out of the way and clear the my head. I'm not supposed to read them again right away, but wait for a while and then read them, I guess for some insight into how my brain works. The artist's date is a weekly chunk of time (2 hours is what she said) where I go (or stay, I suppose, but that would be hard to do with le bebe) and do stuff. Anything, I guess. Walking, concerts, museum, bowling, movie, whatever. That's going to be hard for me. I always go out either with JP or Willow because my social anxiety goes crazy in the real world. If I do go out alone, I run in and out of the grocery store. . . And even then I hate it. Maybe these dates will help with that as well.

So, Karen and I will be chronicling our journey through this book. . I'm not sure what exactly it entails. I started flipping through it and got a little freaked out, which is probably a good thing, so I'll be taking this one chapter at a time. Karen has done this before, so if you follow her journey you'll be getting not only a whole different perspective, but someone who's a great writer and a pro at this whole finding your creativity thing!

I hope to get two things out of this exercise. Mainly, I hope to learn how to write even when I'm happy and everything's going well. I've never been good at writing happy poems. My writing started as a coping mechanism, and every time I tried writing not-sad poems they ended up sappy or stupid. Secondly, I'd like to shake the writer's block that plagues me every few months. Sometimes, I can write for months and months but then I stop. For like a year. Usually, it's when I'm depressed, and not being able to write makes it worse. . . So, Julia Cameron, I challenge you to fix my creative.

In the book she asks us to sign a contract, so I will put it on here so I can be responsible not only to myself and Karen but to you all,

I, Annie, understand that I am undertaking an intensive, guided encounter with my own creativity. I commit myself to the twelve-week duration of the course. I, Annie, commit to a weekly reading, daily morning pages, a weekly artist date, and the fulfillment of each week's tasks.

I, Annie, further understand that this course will raise issues and emotions for me to deal with. I, Annie, commit myself to excellent self care-- adequate sleep, diet, exercise, and pampering-- for the duration of the course.

So, there it is. I'm not sure if I'll be posting updates or other stuff along with the weekly artist's way blogs, but I guess we'll see.

I, Annie, am signing off.

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hello kitty and narnia

I am restless.

The music was too vulgar, it pierced the night and it's stillness too eagerly, so I turned the dial to off.

Upstairs, my mother is snoring, or else I hope she is, because she doesn't like it when I am up this late writing.

I can't help it though. Sometimes sleep eludes me and forces me to do something about the thoughts that are keeping me awake.

So here I am.

When I was still debating sleep or creaky stairs, I had great thoughts of what I could write. Timeless, they were; shocking, radical, new, hopeful, full of something; anything.

But now it is just a brightly lit rectangle and words and the noises of typists. Clicking. Clicking away.

I wonder what famous people are doing right now, whether they're drunk or asleep, or laying in bed looking at the ceiling, like I was. I wonder if they think the same things I do, about the normal things, the ugly things even. Do they have as many secrets as people make it out to seem, or do they have the same number of secrets I do?

I hope they have less, because I have many.

I found a friend from elementary school on Facebook today. I called her my best friend, because I has desperately wanted to have one, but in reality she was just someone who would tolerate me. She was way into Hello Kitty, which was freaky, but I acted semi-interested in it to prove that we had something in common.

She is different now. Her information claims she is still Christian, in college, and loving C.S.Lewis, but there are pictures of her smoking a joint. Am I like that. . ? Full of contradictions? There is alcohol too. Not that I'm not guilty of that one, and I would have been guilty of weed too, if I had ever gotten the chance, but I like to think that I try.

She has many friends, and they go places, sometimes at night. Why am I not more adventurous.

No. I am. Opportunity just doesn't knock very often. I have few friends, but I love them. Maybe she loves hers too, but we are different kinds of people. Some people carry demons around, and others carry rainbows, even if they're artificially made.
I will message her, and I will say "Geez. I haven't talked to you in years. How are you doing? You are gorgeous!" How do you do it? Does it hurt to be so beautiful? Are you loved? Do you still like Hello Kitty, or was that a phase that you went through back in 5th grade? Remember Dion, and how he cussed out Mrs. McCammon? Remember her hair? It was so white and fluffy? Remember Andrew and the whoopee cushions? I'd always ask him to wait until I got back from the bathroom to do it. Remember Tony and how she cut his whoopee cushion in half with scissors, and how he fumed? Remember? Remember how I had a crush on Willy? I heard your sister was pregnant. Is she? If I ask too many questions- I always ask too many questions, tell me to stop. I stop well.

There are coy fish and funny buildings from Arizona, and I wonder how people can forget so easily. Or maybe they grow up, and I am still stuck in rewind.
It's only 2:25, I can wait longer.

Right now I wonder if God speaks to me through my writing. Maybe through writing down whatever may come into my head, maybe by that He is trying to communicate thoughts. Or something. That would be cool, and I know He's not to be underestimated. He may, though usually my writing is, as Simon would say "indulgent nonsense". He would be right.

There are moods and styles to my writing. Right now, it is more formal, more Jane Austin, and British accent than me. This is the mood where I would strut around and talk in an accent, any accent but probably British, for an hour or so. Maybe I would wear a hat, too, and tip it so it brims my eyes. Maybe. Maybe I would imagine I had a cane, and I would act like I was twirling it, and then act like it had hit me in the face, because that would be what it would do, if I were twirling it in real life. I am clumsy. It makes for a good conversation starter though, so I do not mind most of the time. Usually the only time I mind is when I am with someone I like undeniably, with my whole heart, and I am scared he will think me stupid or shake his head and frown. But if I don't have my weird little idiosyncrasies; my funny, stupid, random things I am boring. Actually, I am boring anyway, but it makes it a little more bearable. More entertaining. And I truly feel that it is me.

For years, especially my early teens, I had trouble being myself. I desperately wanted to go do something stupid and laugh at myself, but I was scared. My parents didn't like that sort of thing, so I just sat in a corner and stared at my shoes, or the floor and smiled when people asked me questions. Sometimes I still do that, when I am feeling insecure, which is often, but it's no fun.

No, I like being myself. I love asking random people how their day's went, and just doing things that aren't usually done. If everyone followed the folkways of our society, this place would be a dull place to live in. That's my opinion anyway.
It's also my sociology professor's opinion. I asked her if it was against a more of life to hug a professor, I told her I didn't know, because I hadn't been doing this long, and it's not like I obeyed mores and folkways in high school. She said it's no fun to be normal, and she gave me a hug. I would have given her one, but she hadn't given me a yes or no answer, and I was seized by this weird feeling. Hugging a professor? I want to, because she's pretty much the coolest thing since grilled cheese, but. . .

I also think I had forgotten deodorant that day. I hate when I do that. It makes me feel so dumb. It never stinks, but tell my mind that while it's in the state of paranoia. Yeah. No go. This is why I should get back on Lorazepam. Even the stupidest "little" things bother me so much that I can't face other humans. It's not like there hasn't been a time when someone else in my class, my professor even, has forgotten deodorant! Of course they have! My professor probably never wears deodorant because she's a hippie (she never smells bad though, I don't think).

Sometimes I spin, in my living room. Usually I do it until I can't stand up or until I feel like throwing up my lunch. It makes me feel like I am in preschool again, even though I don't remember preschool. I'm sure I spun though. All kids spin when they're that age, don't they?

The world goes so fast, and it all becomes one streaky blur, moving, moving, moving, moving. It doesn't stop until I do, and even for a while after that it keeps spinning, on it's own now, with a life of its own, breathing and living and laughing and most of all dancing.

There is magic in doing this. Somehow a spell is weaved and faeries somewhere are drawn to me; to me in my living room, but I collapse before they reach me.

I'm a dreamer. In my bucket list (things to do during my life before I kick the bucket) I've put "touch a faerie" and "ride a unicorn" and "ride a centaur" amongst other things like that. I do. I believe in those mystical creatures. No, really, I do. I'm not just saying it for shock factor or whatever. . . Sometimes when we're driving through the narrow roads down in Payson, I imagine, and almost see, centaurs stepping out of the bushes and heralding me. They usually bow. One winked once, funny man.

I'm not crazy, I just have an over-active imagination.

When I was younger I would stand in the shower and through the glass door and through all the little dropplets and riverlets of water and pray to Aslan to let me into Narnia. I figured if I tried enough ways, one would be the right one; the right words, or chant, or prayer and clouds would part, flutes would play, and suddenly I'd be standing infront of this huge and majestic lion. He would be soft, but I wouldn't touch him until later, when he bid me to touch his mane. . I would be too scared at first. He'd breathe on me. You know, the nice way, and I'd stand up. Soon I'd look into his eyes, and they'd be amber and kind. Oh, so kind.

I'm not sure what I'd do in Narnia. I'd definitely not be a Queen or any sort of thing like that. . . I think I was hoping for Aslan to heal me in some way. Maybe his breath would cleanse my heart and my mind and help me forget (I'm not sure what I'd forget, either, because I didn't have any terribly traumatic experiences as a child, but there was always a sense of something wrong). He would hug me and let me ride on his back to some place wonderful.

Aslan never let me into Narnia though. Maybe he will someday. Never loose hope, fellow travelers. Don't be like Susan, who chose to forget.

Maybe someday. .

Eh. But at the same time, I'm such a damned realist. I believe most of all in pain, because it's what got me here.

This blog really is way too long, no one will read it! (Do any of you read them anyways, even if they're short?)

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