Okay, seriously?
Yes, seriously.
Your review is a window to your soul.
So, okay, here we go again. You write your review to try to impress me? SERIOUSLY? Like you need me, or anybody else who reads your review, to be impressed by what you wrote?
Okay, seriously?
Yes, seriously.
What I write, my stories, are windows to my soul. I have more than thirty of them, by they way, so there's more than a few windows here on ffn and on literotica that you can get nice little peeks into House `phfina.
Question for ya. You think I'm writing my stories to impress you?
No, I didn't ask 'do my stories impress you?' I already know they've impressed the fuck out of some people, thousands of people, so do you think impressing little you matters to me?
In a sense, it does. Yes, my stories are grammatically-correct, and thank you the several dumb-fuck reviewers who mention grammar in my stories as their compelling reasons to read what I've written.
"Dear `phfina, I like reading your stories because your grammar is mostly correct."
Oh, really? Then go read a fucking math book: it has grammar that's mostly correct, too.
Dumb. fucking. fucks.
And thank you, dear reader, for trying to impress me, and all your friends, by daring to write a review to the dread `phfina saying that my story is 'different' and 'interesting.'
I'm glad you like reading different and interesting stories.
So read the 9-11 report. It's long, too.
No, seriously, read the 9-11 report.
But you're not gonna. You're reading my stories.
Why? Why the fuck are you reading my stories? It's not because they're grammatically-correct (they are) nor that they are 'different' (they are) (but how?) nor that they are 'interesting' (they are) (but why?)
You read these stories because they are one hell of a fucked-up ride, and you know why? Because these stories aren't 'windows to my soul' (nice platitude there, buster), but they are walls over which I rip my heart right out, and throw it into your hands.
'OMFG!' you scream. 'Nobody writes like this! Nobody!'
Yet, you have the evidence right in front of you. You're reading it.
So.
Your review. Your little window into your soul.
How do you respond to what you just read?
In kind?
Yeah.
If you have the guts to.
You pick one fucking thing that floored you, you mention it, and you say how it floored you, and fucking why it floored you.
"Your story is interesting, because it's different and it has good grammar."
FAIL.
Try again.
"`phfina, (note the spelling) (and the capitalization), this chapter rocked. (why?) I really, really liked when Rosalie opened up to Bella's mom. (why?) Because I never, ever opened up to my mom, and I see this strong, strong mean girl being weak, and I said, "FINALLY!" Finally, when Rosalie was weak, she was strong. You don't have to be strong to be strong, you have to be strong to be weak, and open up, and really risk showing somebody else you care, and risk getting stomped on, but Rosalie DID open up and DIDN'T get stomped on! She got what she wanted, and that payoff was so sweet, because I have never opened up to my mom, never saw it as a possibility until I read this strong girl here, being weak, and that gave me hope that maybe I can do that, too."
Maybe even say HOW (specifically) your relationship with your mom is now better, and WHY (specifically) that's important to you.
But that requires OMG! sharing specific details of your personal life.
You mean, like I do, with every chapter? Yeah.
But that also means, you actually have to live your life, and not just watch it pass on by. Like most people do. Like you're doing, right now.
You see, one way of looking at life, a way that works for me, is that life is a game, and you're either a spectator in the stands (or worse: a referee) or a player in the game on the field. You can 'enjoy' the game as a spectator: "That was a nice game." "Yes, yes, it was, shall we have tea now?" but do you affect the score? Does anybody else care?
Be a player and go for the goal. Put your heart on the line, and play to win. You may not. Case in point: I may not. But I'm playing with all my heart, and as I play, people read my stories, and come away saying: "nice story, made me cry a little bit." And I get to walk away knowing I've affected 10,000 people this month.
When Saga wrote a review to one of my stories in Swedish, she put her heart on the line, and although she's never written word one of a ffn story, she got 5k hits that month from her review. From her review. Your review opens up a window to your soul, and people read it ... will they care that you wrote "Nice story. It's different. Update soon." Will they be impressed? Perhaps. But in all likelihood, probably not.
Are you living your life so that other people are impressed by you ... or 'eh'd by you? From your review I can tell, either way, dear reviewer.
So, are you impressing people? Maybe. But ... I'm not impressed. What impresses me is when a reviewer tells me what (specifically) they liked in my story, and why they liked it. "`phfina, a Lauren fic (for Bitter). Never gonna read it, then I did. I care about her, you showed me she has heart, and for you to write a Lauren fic that I WANT to read? You are the best writer on ffn."
You don't have to go to hyperbole; this reviewer didn't, either. But you don't have to write platitudes to impress. Write. From the heart. What touched you and why?
What touched you in this chapter of Ridden, and why? And why is that important? To you, not to all the sucky stories out there on ffn that nobody gives an s.h.i.t. about: to you.
I cried writing this chapter. Your "update soone" review didn't make me cry, but it left me hurting. I put in all this effort to get a "My compliments to the writer. Good show!" review? Gee, thanks, glad to receive your condescension!
You're better than this. WAY better. You know it.
So, now you know you just wrote a shit review. Now what?
Can you try again? Can you dig 1/4 as deep as I did? Can you try? Can you pick one thing in this story that floored you and say why it did, and why that is important to you and your life?
And if nothing floored you ... are you playing at the game with all your heart? Or are you in the stands, commenting on the plays: "He shudda thrown the curve. If I were in there, I wudda thrown the curve! Jeez, these players suck!" "Yes, dear."
If nothing floored you in this story, please, go find something that does, and be floored, for goodness sake! Please don't be bored with life, huh?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
One is the loneliest number
Okay. This.
HitRecord, episode 1
Holy. Fuck.
Okay, so I know how it is to be alone, be all alone at home, be at my job and be the only one in my little, tiny cube doing my little, tiny thing that only I can do, so I'm left alone to work on my spreadsheet, or I know how it is to go alone to a café and open up my laptop and call up word pad and just look at it awhile ...
... and cry.
And write a chapter title, and look at that for a while.
... and cry.
Yeah, I'm really popular in cafés.
Then, a week later, go back to that one word in that one document, and start writing and writing and writing, and wanting to puke so bad at what I'm writing, at the same time I'm crying so hard as I'm writing what's going on between my characters, as I feel along with them.
And...
And it's a terribly lonely experience, my life, and a scary one. I create, then I decide to publish, and my glory is that somebody liked what I wrote, and my agony is that somebody didn't, but I don't know that until it's too late, and my words are out there, and they hurt or they heal, but I'll never meet the persons I help or hurt.
Or when I do, I really puke. Then I run.
It happens.
But that's my life, which is none: I have no life. I'm alone, and I'm 'fine' with that. Being alone is so much better than being with somebody, and then, inevitably, hurting her.
Then I saw this video, and ... it was about the number one, the loneliest number.
And it was all made up by ones. Ones and ones and ones, all alone, all creating with hope and fear and a trembling expectation that somebody might actually see what they did, and what would happen if they did?
Well, nothing would, but somebody, somewhere would see them and see their art, just like with me, and ... it would be alive. It would be more than just them now, it would be two, or three ... or ten-thousand, or millions.
Just like Friday's girl, Rebecca Black, a thirteen-year-old girl of a single mom. She made a music video for $10k and went back to school the next day, and that was it for her, so she thought.
I'm not Rebecca Black, nor Stephenie Meyer, nor Medea nor Sophocles, and even if I were, I wouldn't even know it until I was dead, right "Frances"? ... I'm not eve anybody else, I'm just me.
But, I'm alone, and being alone, I'm lonely, and I forget, or I do not know anything other than the happiness of being sad and alone.
And then this video shows me thousands, thousands of others, alone, and creating, and hopeful, and ... joyful in their vocation.
Watch the video.
HitRecord, episode 1
Holy. Fuck.
Okay, so I know how it is to be alone, be all alone at home, be at my job and be the only one in my little, tiny cube doing my little, tiny thing that only I can do, so I'm left alone to work on my spreadsheet, or I know how it is to go alone to a café and open up my laptop and call up word pad and just look at it awhile ...
... and cry.
And write a chapter title, and look at that for a while.
... and cry.
Yeah, I'm really popular in cafés.
Then, a week later, go back to that one word in that one document, and start writing and writing and writing, and wanting to puke so bad at what I'm writing, at the same time I'm crying so hard as I'm writing what's going on between my characters, as I feel along with them.
And...
And it's a terribly lonely experience, my life, and a scary one. I create, then I decide to publish, and my glory is that somebody liked what I wrote, and my agony is that somebody didn't, but I don't know that until it's too late, and my words are out there, and they hurt or they heal, but I'll never meet the persons I help or hurt.
Or when I do, I really puke. Then I run.
It happens.
But that's my life, which is none: I have no life. I'm alone, and I'm 'fine' with that. Being alone is so much better than being with somebody, and then, inevitably, hurting her.
Then I saw this video, and ... it was about the number one, the loneliest number.
And it was all made up by ones. Ones and ones and ones, all alone, all creating with hope and fear and a trembling expectation that somebody might actually see what they did, and what would happen if they did?
Well, nothing would, but somebody, somewhere would see them and see their art, just like with me, and ... it would be alive. It would be more than just them now, it would be two, or three ... or ten-thousand, or millions.
Just like Friday's girl, Rebecca Black, a thirteen-year-old girl of a single mom. She made a music video for $10k and went back to school the next day, and that was it for her, so she thought.
I'm not Rebecca Black, nor Stephenie Meyer, nor Medea nor Sophocles, and even if I were, I wouldn't even know it until I was dead, right "Frances"? ... I'm not eve anybody else, I'm just me.
But, I'm alone, and being alone, I'm lonely, and I forget, or I do not know anything other than the happiness of being sad and alone.
And then this video shows me thousands, thousands of others, alone, and creating, and hopeful, and ... joyful in their vocation.
Watch the video.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
What are people's problems? REALLY!
So, I know somebody who has dyslexia. That's a Greek word.
Check this sentence: "Regardless of if you decide to beta my work or not if you couuld let me know id apreciate it"
She didn't write it. In fact, her writing is probably better than 80% of the people who do not have mental or physical impediments to writing, and writing well.
But, there it is.
There what is, `phfina?
There it is: 80% of the world that can write English, and write it well, ... do not.
And they do not, simply because they choose not.
Do you understand: they choose 'not.' They don't choose to write, nor to write well, nor honestly, nor with their hearts on the line.
No, they choose, when they write, to write like they live their lives.
Like shit.
Count for me, if you please, the number of grammar and spelling error in that one sentence.
Now, count the number of missing commas and missing apostrophes from contractions.
Now, harder, count the wuss-outs.
Add those number up. If you count less than seven, that means you can't count or you are one of the 80%ers who live their lives in shit, because they just don't care.
And that's the fucking problem. People just don't care.
"`phfina, be my beta. Your profile says I have to leave five substantive reviews first, but I'm going to skip that part, like everybody else does, because I'm special, even though my stories are crap. But that's why I want you to be my beta, to make them less crap."
Now wait.
You want your stories to be 'less crap'? Really? That's your ambition: to be 'less crap'?
Then I don't want to be your beta.
It says so right on my profile, that you read: if you're not writing a story to rock my world, (COMMA!) (DID YOU SEE THE COMMA?) then get the fuck out of my face!
ffn has enough crap. I don't read it, and I sure as hell am not going to beta it.
So, that's one thing. The other? If you're not going to listen to me, and do what I ask, then the point of me being your beta is what? So your stories can be 'less crap'? Why? If you don't listen to me now, then I may as well be talking to a wall (walls have ears) when I do beta your work, because your track record says you're not going to listen to me then, either.
You know what the world's problem is?
The world's problem is that most people have two ears and one mouth, and they act like all they have is mouth: all they do is consume, then whine: "UPDATE SOON!" and when their not consuming, they're excreting. Out their big, fat mouth: the North or South one.
LISTEN and APPRECIATE, people.
You know what happens when you do that?
Besides people walking all over you.
What happens is that people will fall in love with you, because how many times do lovers whine, 'but he doesn't listen to me!'
(Blithely ignoring the fact that she's whining, and not listening to him, either)
You listen, you appreciate, you own it, you own it all: you are the one with the power.
"That's a nice dress you have on, dear. You look really, really nice."
Oh, my God, what do you want? She'll give it to you! I would!
You know the hard part about listening?
Nothing.
That's the hard part.
The hard part about listening is that you have to subtract EVERYTHING you want to say or are expecting or ... FOR GOD's SAKE PUT AWAY THE PHONE! ... you have to take yourself out of the equation and be there, 100%, for the person who needs you.
That's the hard part about listening.
"Well, `phfina, what about me? What about my turn?"
What about you? What about your turn?
Last I checked, you've spent the last ten-plus years exercising your jaw. How about you shut the fuck up for a year and listen and care, and not wait for your turn, because you've been trespassing on that for far too long.
Listen, appreciate.
I wrote more than 1,000 words on my beta profile, and this winner read each one of them; he mentioned a few of them and why he wasn't going to do a single thing I wrote.
And then, after that little bit, he gives me his pick-up line, 'so will you be my beta'?
Um. No. I asked for five dates before you go for home plate, and you went right for the goods.
I'm not that kind of girl. That kind of girl, you pay by the hour, and I didn't see any money on the table, there, cowboy.
Check this sentence: "Regardless of if you decide to beta my work or not if you couuld let me know id apreciate it"
She didn't write it. In fact, her writing is probably better than 80% of the people who do not have mental or physical impediments to writing, and writing well.
But, there it is.
There what is, `phfina?
There it is: 80% of the world that can write English, and write it well, ... do not.
And they do not, simply because they choose not.
Do you understand: they choose 'not.' They don't choose to write, nor to write well, nor honestly, nor with their hearts on the line.
No, they choose, when they write, to write like they live their lives.
Like shit.
Count for me, if you please, the number of grammar and spelling error in that one sentence.
Now, count the number of missing commas and missing apostrophes from contractions.
Now, harder, count the wuss-outs.
Add those number up. If you count less than seven, that means you can't count or you are one of the 80%ers who live their lives in shit, because they just don't care.
And that's the fucking problem. People just don't care.
"`phfina, be my beta. Your profile says I have to leave five substantive reviews first, but I'm going to skip that part, like everybody else does, because I'm special, even though my stories are crap. But that's why I want you to be my beta, to make them less crap."
Now wait.
You want your stories to be 'less crap'? Really? That's your ambition: to be 'less crap'?
Then I don't want to be your beta.
It says so right on my profile, that you read: if you're not writing a story to rock my world, (COMMA!) (DID YOU SEE THE COMMA?) then get the fuck out of my face!
ffn has enough crap. I don't read it, and I sure as hell am not going to beta it.
So, that's one thing. The other? If you're not going to listen to me, and do what I ask, then the point of me being your beta is what? So your stories can be 'less crap'? Why? If you don't listen to me now, then I may as well be talking to a wall (walls have ears) when I do beta your work, because your track record says you're not going to listen to me then, either.
You know what the world's problem is?
The world's problem is that most people have two ears and one mouth, and they act like all they have is mouth: all they do is consume, then whine: "UPDATE SOON!" and when their not consuming, they're excreting. Out their big, fat mouth: the North or South one.
LISTEN and APPRECIATE, people.
You know what happens when you do that?
Besides people walking all over you.
What happens is that people will fall in love with you, because how many times do lovers whine, 'but he doesn't listen to me!'
(Blithely ignoring the fact that she's whining, and not listening to him, either)
You listen, you appreciate, you own it, you own it all: you are the one with the power.
"That's a nice dress you have on, dear. You look really, really nice."
Oh, my God, what do you want? She'll give it to you! I would!
You know the hard part about listening?
Nothing.
That's the hard part.
The hard part about listening is that you have to subtract EVERYTHING you want to say or are expecting or ... FOR GOD's SAKE PUT AWAY THE PHONE! ... you have to take yourself out of the equation and be there, 100%, for the person who needs you.
That's the hard part about listening.
"Well, `phfina, what about me? What about my turn?"
What about you? What about your turn?
Last I checked, you've spent the last ten-plus years exercising your jaw. How about you shut the fuck up for a year and listen and care, and not wait for your turn, because you've been trespassing on that for far too long.
Listen, appreciate.
I wrote more than 1,000 words on my beta profile, and this winner read each one of them; he mentioned a few of them and why he wasn't going to do a single thing I wrote.
And then, after that little bit, he gives me his pick-up line, 'so will you be my beta'?
Um. No. I asked for five dates before you go for home plate, and you went right for the goods.
I'm not that kind of girl. That kind of girl, you pay by the hour, and I didn't see any money on the table, there, cowboy.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Legal Drinking Age
Okay, exactly how old is Lauren? Have any of you thought about that as much as Sophie has?
Count the days. Lauren signed up, basic training (how many weeks), then Afghanistan for 18 months.
Right after high school.
How old is Lauren?
Old enough to die, but is she old enough to drink?
And Lauren's ever been stopped when? Or Rosalie? Or Bella, when she was thir-fucking-teen?
They card at the campus pizza place, do they? Or at a bar the military boys and girls frequent off-base?
They do, right? They have to.
Right?
My, my, my. And NONE of my classmates, IN HIGH SCHOOL, never got drunk, nor high, nor had smex. Never.
"I'm not old enough to drink."
Uh, huh. Okay.
Hm, hm, hm.
"This message does not condone the underage use of alcohol nor drugs, and all models portrayed in Ridden, etc, are of legal ages in the countries represented."
Um. Yeah. Like Rosalie was SO 18 before her 18th birthday, right, when she took Bella on her first and second 'ride,' ... a month before her 18th birthday.
And Lauren, throughout high school, and kindergarden, when her father raped her, was of legal consenting adult age, too. Just like all the fanfics that say 'NC-17' but don't get banned on ffn ...
... except mine.
I'm not bitter. *Sigh*
Your age, my dear reader, is your age, and your choices are your choices. You choose not to drink now because of your age? Okay. You can also choose not to drink, or engage in hot, wild smex (ooh! hot, wild lesbiotic school smex!), after you are 'of age,' too. Your choices are yours to make.
Just like I chose differently, and that makes me wrong and bad? Well, yes, actually, it does. If you are good for abstaining, that makes me bad for my licentiousness, or there is no moral compass.
Let me be clear, here: my bad choices DO NOT give you permission to feel guilty NOR do they give you permission to make bad choices, but they DO give you permission to see your choices as choices regardless of age or of any other constraints you impose. Your choices are your choices, and your constraints are your constraints, and you choose your constraints and you choose your choices, with AND despite your constraints.
See?
The world is a simple, simple place.
And then there comes along you, and the choices you make, and the only complications come when you meta-justify your choices. Then life gets complicated.
Because any justification can be counter-justified, but "I choose not to drink now." "Why?" "Because that's my choice." "Oh."
That cannot be countered. They either respect you, and your choices, or they don't, and then it's very, very clear.
But "I'm not of age to drink." "Well, I wasn't, either, love; here, have this mickey finn, you'll like this! Just try it, I did, and you wanna be cool like me, right?"
Ew, now you can't say 'no,' because your choice isn't a choice, it's a dependency on a constraint that doesn't hold when somebody else takes it away, AND makes you uncool now that you have no constraint to defend your 'choice.'
When, in reality, you don't have to defend your choices, ever, to anyone, when they are freely chosen, and that is a true position of power, because nobody can take away your choices.
But they can attack (successfully) your justifications.
It's the whole thing about superstition and the greatest superstition is 'I'm not like that.'
'I'm not gay.' 'I'm not outspoken,' 'I'm not confident,' 'I'm not beautiful.' 'I'm not brave,' 'I'm not a good writer,' 'I'm not ever going to be happy,' 'I'll always be alone' (another 'I'm not' in actuality)
All these lies I so successfully tell myself, and they are just stories I made up to justify how I am right now, because 'I'm not ...' how I want to be, but can't see myself as being.
Another lie: 'can't' Can't really is 'refuse to see'
"I can't see myself as being."
is a very different assertion than
"I refuse to see myself as being."
The former is a show-stopper. The latter is an obstinacy. And once I realize my stubbornness, I can just give up:
"But how can I be like that?"
And once you ask 'how' (whereas before you said 'I can't'), then it's game over for that lie, because then, when you ask how, then three million ways, some fantastic, some simple, present themselves to you of just how you can be how you couldn't possibly be before.
Because, sitting in class right now is a boy or a girl who IS being what you AREN'T being, but you CAN'T be that way, you've told yourself that over and over again. But that boy or girl was born, too, just like you, and they made choices that led them exactly to where they are.
And it's 'right' or 'wrong' where they are: drinking, smoking, smexing, or ... honor roll, multimillionaire at fourteen, married with kids, with her lover ... hiking to Alaska or Canada. Whatever, but there it is.
Drinking isn't an age, it's a choice. Everything isn't an 'isn't' or a 'can't.' It's a choice, and you choose that, if you want that, and you don't choose that, if you don't want that.
So, yeah. Just like happiness, like everything else: it doesn't depend on circumstances, like age, it depends on ... nothing. You choose it. Mother Teresa was happy, and I'm not, and I have a washer/drier, and she didn't, and I've had tons of smex, and she didn't. Why was she happy, and I'm not?
Because she chose happiness: she chose to be exactly who she was.
Because I choose to be exactly who I'm not, and I choose to be sad about it.
Um, I think I'll have that drink now.
Count the days. Lauren signed up, basic training (how many weeks), then Afghanistan for 18 months.
Right after high school.
How old is Lauren?
Old enough to die, but is she old enough to drink?
And Lauren's ever been stopped when? Or Rosalie? Or Bella, when she was thir-fucking-teen?
They card at the campus pizza place, do they? Or at a bar the military boys and girls frequent off-base?
They do, right? They have to.
Right?
My, my, my. And NONE of my classmates, IN HIGH SCHOOL, never got drunk, nor high, nor had smex. Never.
"I'm not old enough to drink."
Uh, huh. Okay.
Hm, hm, hm.
"This message does not condone the underage use of alcohol nor drugs, and all models portrayed in Ridden, etc, are of legal ages in the countries represented."
Um. Yeah. Like Rosalie was SO 18 before her 18th birthday, right, when she took Bella on her first and second 'ride,' ... a month before her 18th birthday.
And Lauren, throughout high school, and kindergarden, when her father raped her, was of legal consenting adult age, too. Just like all the fanfics that say 'NC-17' but don't get banned on ffn ...
... except mine.
I'm not bitter. *Sigh*
Your age, my dear reader, is your age, and your choices are your choices. You choose not to drink now because of your age? Okay. You can also choose not to drink, or engage in hot, wild smex (ooh! hot, wild lesbiotic school smex!), after you are 'of age,' too. Your choices are yours to make.
Just like I chose differently, and that makes me wrong and bad? Well, yes, actually, it does. If you are good for abstaining, that makes me bad for my licentiousness, or there is no moral compass.
Let me be clear, here: my bad choices DO NOT give you permission to feel guilty NOR do they give you permission to make bad choices, but they DO give you permission to see your choices as choices regardless of age or of any other constraints you impose. Your choices are your choices, and your constraints are your constraints, and you choose your constraints and you choose your choices, with AND despite your constraints.
See?
The world is a simple, simple place.
And then there comes along you, and the choices you make, and the only complications come when you meta-justify your choices. Then life gets complicated.
Because any justification can be counter-justified, but "I choose not to drink now." "Why?" "Because that's my choice." "Oh."
That cannot be countered. They either respect you, and your choices, or they don't, and then it's very, very clear.
But "I'm not of age to drink." "Well, I wasn't, either, love; here, have this mickey finn, you'll like this! Just try it, I did, and you wanna be cool like me, right?"
Ew, now you can't say 'no,' because your choice isn't a choice, it's a dependency on a constraint that doesn't hold when somebody else takes it away, AND makes you uncool now that you have no constraint to defend your 'choice.'
When, in reality, you don't have to defend your choices, ever, to anyone, when they are freely chosen, and that is a true position of power, because nobody can take away your choices.
But they can attack (successfully) your justifications.
It's the whole thing about superstition and the greatest superstition is 'I'm not like that.'
'I'm not gay.' 'I'm not outspoken,' 'I'm not confident,' 'I'm not beautiful.' 'I'm not brave,' 'I'm not a good writer,' 'I'm not ever going to be happy,' 'I'll always be alone' (another 'I'm not' in actuality)
All these lies I so successfully tell myself, and they are just stories I made up to justify how I am right now, because 'I'm not ...' how I want to be, but can't see myself as being.
Another lie: 'can't' Can't really is 'refuse to see'
"I can't see myself as being."
is a very different assertion than
"I refuse to see myself as being."
The former is a show-stopper. The latter is an obstinacy. And once I realize my stubbornness, I can just give up:
"But how can I be like that?"
And once you ask 'how' (whereas before you said 'I can't'), then it's game over for that lie, because then, when you ask how, then three million ways, some fantastic, some simple, present themselves to you of just how you can be how you couldn't possibly be before.
Because, sitting in class right now is a boy or a girl who IS being what you AREN'T being, but you CAN'T be that way, you've told yourself that over and over again. But that boy or girl was born, too, just like you, and they made choices that led them exactly to where they are.
And it's 'right' or 'wrong' where they are: drinking, smoking, smexing, or ... honor roll, multimillionaire at fourteen, married with kids, with her lover ... hiking to Alaska or Canada. Whatever, but there it is.
Drinking isn't an age, it's a choice. Everything isn't an 'isn't' or a 'can't.' It's a choice, and you choose that, if you want that, and you don't choose that, if you don't want that.
So, yeah. Just like happiness, like everything else: it doesn't depend on circumstances, like age, it depends on ... nothing. You choose it. Mother Teresa was happy, and I'm not, and I have a washer/drier, and she didn't, and I've had tons of smex, and she didn't. Why was she happy, and I'm not?
Because she chose happiness: she chose to be exactly who she was.
Because I choose to be exactly who I'm not, and I choose to be sad about it.
Um, I think I'll have that drink now.
Skyping
You remember the day when they didn't have Skype to Afghanistan? Or email, even? Or running water, so laundry service, for our troops over there?
Forget it.
And Sophie is fretting over how she can skype Lauren and why is it taking so long? SO LONG? LIKE DAYS? HA! TRY THREE MONTHS BY INTERNATIONAL SNAIL MAIL!
Sophie DOES have it so much better. The problem with having it better, WAY BETTER, is that you don't appreciate it unless you had it worse before.
Sophie, having it better now, is having the worst time in her life, the poor girl, because she doesn't know fuck-all about skype to skype Lauren, so screaming: "Just skype Lauren, Sophie; Jeez!" would only make her feel worse, because she would say, in a very small voice: "but how?" and probably just crawl away and hide under her covers, feeling like a shit.
Not that she doesn't deserve that, for not acting when she should have, so some us are granted the ability to see and to know what to say and when so we don't have these problems down the road. "Oh, Lauren, how do I skype you when you get over there?"
Simple as that.
But then, if she DID say that, she knows, and you do, too, exactly what Lauren would say: "So, okay, and you want to skype me ... why?"
And then Soph is caught, isn't she, because then she has to lie her ass off, or, worse, she has to tell the truth, and she just doesn't ... want to face certain truths right now. Some truths are way too much to face when we believe we're in a certain place in our lives, aren't they?
Or maybe you don't feel these truths hitting you, as they are knocking at Sophie's door. I know I never like facing the truth. Ever. Truth is a hard, hard mistress, telling you, "You know, `phfina, you're out of a job now, and who's fault is it that you don't have one, right now, today?"
Or: "You know, `phfina, you're going to sleep alone tonight, and you're waking up alone tomorrow, and why? Every single one of the relationships you've been in, you've royally screwed up, haven't you, `phfina, and you've left how many girls' hearts broken up and down the East Coast? How much longer are you going to run from what you've done and who you are? Running is such good exercise, you cross-country runner, isn't it? You like to run, don't you? You gonna ever run back to Brenda, your mom's friend? or Wild-Cate with her hennaed hair or ... not Julia anymore, she's happily married with kid now, too late for you to unfuck up that failed relationship, your first, nor with Saga, now, still, unhappily married with three kids and one prevented suicide attempt and because of whom, `phfina?"
Yeah, I just so love facing these truths, and the mirror, every single day, knowing I'm exactly where I am in my life right now because I know who put me there.
Um. Wow. TMI, right? But that's truth: Soph wants to skype; Soph 'can't' skype, but why? Because she set herself up not to, because setting herself up to skype with Lauren entails facing the mirror.
And the truth is ...
The truth is ... I could be better than I am right now. I could be happier. I could be a blessing to myself and my family and my friends, not be the broken little burden that I am to them. Sure, I'm doing a good thing with my writing, but that doesn't mean I could be a million times better than I am.
Soph is (moderately) rich (not 'Rosalie rich') and content, but is happiness contentment? If it is, shouldn't she be happy? Why is she sad?
Because her contentment is a lie: it's just going along with how she thinks she's supposed to be, and she's content in that little box she's constructed for herself.
But it's a little box, and she constructed it, and now, she's beginning to see the outlines of the box.
But to face the 'Truth' the whole big world outside of the box ... well, that involves thinking outside the box, and maybe, or maybe not, Sophie's ready to start thinking about thinking about thinking outside the box.
But thinking doesn't make one happy. Nor does doing (like actually skyping Lauren, like a conversation with Lauren ever made ANYONE happy?) (or baking cookies) (the second time) (when she didn't). No: being is happiness, that is the universal truth. Being is happiness, happiness is being, but really being, not faking it (a fake-o is a happy-o for whom?), and not being is sadness and loss. But how can Sophie be when all she can do is think about thinking about how to skype because why, to tell Lauren off? And then she'll be happy?
I envy Sophie. She's daring. She's on a journey, and she has not fucking clue one where this is going, and it's weird and it's wild, but when she actually starts going down the path, she's smiling so hard it hurts her cheeks, even as it scares the shit out of her.
"How about you, `phfina?" I need to get a job. I need to get a job because I need to get a job. So I can pay the bills and eat so I can go to work on my job.
Do you see how limited my world-view is?
And as tiny-small as my view is, I see it, and I see so many people not seeing it. The vast majority of people in the world are living lives as small as mine, even HAPPY to work for the Man, because that's what they're supposed to do ...
Oh, really? And people Live, Learn, Love, and Leave a Legacy by working at a job 9-to-5?
Maybe some do, maybe there're some saints in the workplace, but it's not because they have a job and do their job well, it's because they ARE saints. They BE sanctified, and they bless us with their holiness, their coworkers, at the job, and, when they return home, they bless their families.
I 'need' a job, not to be sanctified, but because I'm a tiny little box that defines my universe around 8 hours a day that I will freely give to somebody else so they can tell me what to do.
Sophie is not constrained that way, but she's just as constrained in other ways, her 'world-view,' but she's starting the journey of 1,000 miles. Me? I don't even dare to look at the 8-fold paths in front of me. I'm too scared to, because starting a journey like that involves risk, and hope, and growth.
And that's too scary for this little girl.
Besides. I don't have anybody to skype with. I made sure of that.
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
Beaten by the Queen of Hearts every time?
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
She's a loser, and she just gave up trying.
Sometimes, skype is more than skype, isn't it?
... and, sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, after all ... for those people blessed with seeing the world simply as it is, and not complicating it more than it needs to be.
Forget it.
And Sophie is fretting over how she can skype Lauren and why is it taking so long? SO LONG? LIKE DAYS? HA! TRY THREE MONTHS BY INTERNATIONAL SNAIL MAIL!
Sophie DOES have it so much better. The problem with having it better, WAY BETTER, is that you don't appreciate it unless you had it worse before.
Sophie, having it better now, is having the worst time in her life, the poor girl, because she doesn't know fuck-all about skype to skype Lauren, so screaming: "Just skype Lauren, Sophie; Jeez!" would only make her feel worse, because she would say, in a very small voice: "but how?" and probably just crawl away and hide under her covers, feeling like a shit.
Not that she doesn't deserve that, for not acting when she should have, so some us are granted the ability to see and to know what to say and when so we don't have these problems down the road. "Oh, Lauren, how do I skype you when you get over there?"
Simple as that.
But then, if she DID say that, she knows, and you do, too, exactly what Lauren would say: "So, okay, and you want to skype me ... why?"
And then Soph is caught, isn't she, because then she has to lie her ass off, or, worse, she has to tell the truth, and she just doesn't ... want to face certain truths right now. Some truths are way too much to face when we believe we're in a certain place in our lives, aren't they?
Or maybe you don't feel these truths hitting you, as they are knocking at Sophie's door. I know I never like facing the truth. Ever. Truth is a hard, hard mistress, telling you, "You know, `phfina, you're out of a job now, and who's fault is it that you don't have one, right now, today?"
Or: "You know, `phfina, you're going to sleep alone tonight, and you're waking up alone tomorrow, and why? Every single one of the relationships you've been in, you've royally screwed up, haven't you, `phfina, and you've left how many girls' hearts broken up and down the East Coast? How much longer are you going to run from what you've done and who you are? Running is such good exercise, you cross-country runner, isn't it? You like to run, don't you? You gonna ever run back to Brenda, your mom's friend? or Wild-Cate with her hennaed hair or ... not Julia anymore, she's happily married with kid now, too late for you to unfuck up that failed relationship, your first, nor with Saga, now, still, unhappily married with three kids and one prevented suicide attempt and because of whom, `phfina?"
Yeah, I just so love facing these truths, and the mirror, every single day, knowing I'm exactly where I am in my life right now because I know who put me there.
Um. Wow. TMI, right? But that's truth: Soph wants to skype; Soph 'can't' skype, but why? Because she set herself up not to, because setting herself up to skype with Lauren entails facing the mirror.
And the truth is ...
The truth is ... I could be better than I am right now. I could be happier. I could be a blessing to myself and my family and my friends, not be the broken little burden that I am to them. Sure, I'm doing a good thing with my writing, but that doesn't mean I could be a million times better than I am.
Soph is (moderately) rich (not 'Rosalie rich') and content, but is happiness contentment? If it is, shouldn't she be happy? Why is she sad?
Because her contentment is a lie: it's just going along with how she thinks she's supposed to be, and she's content in that little box she's constructed for herself.
But it's a little box, and she constructed it, and now, she's beginning to see the outlines of the box.
But to face the 'Truth' the whole big world outside of the box ... well, that involves thinking outside the box, and maybe, or maybe not, Sophie's ready to start thinking about thinking about thinking outside the box.
But thinking doesn't make one happy. Nor does doing (like actually skyping Lauren, like a conversation with Lauren ever made ANYONE happy?) (or baking cookies) (the second time) (when she didn't). No: being is happiness, that is the universal truth. Being is happiness, happiness is being, but really being, not faking it (a fake-o is a happy-o for whom?), and not being is sadness and loss. But how can Sophie be when all she can do is think about thinking about how to skype because why, to tell Lauren off? And then she'll be happy?
I envy Sophie. She's daring. She's on a journey, and she has not fucking clue one where this is going, and it's weird and it's wild, but when she actually starts going down the path, she's smiling so hard it hurts her cheeks, even as it scares the shit out of her.
"How about you, `phfina?" I need to get a job. I need to get a job because I need to get a job. So I can pay the bills and eat so I can go to work on my job.
Do you see how limited my world-view is?
And as tiny-small as my view is, I see it, and I see so many people not seeing it. The vast majority of people in the world are living lives as small as mine, even HAPPY to work for the Man, because that's what they're supposed to do ...
Oh, really? And people Live, Learn, Love, and Leave a Legacy by working at a job 9-to-5?
Maybe some do, maybe there're some saints in the workplace, but it's not because they have a job and do their job well, it's because they ARE saints. They BE sanctified, and they bless us with their holiness, their coworkers, at the job, and, when they return home, they bless their families.
I 'need' a job, not to be sanctified, but because I'm a tiny little box that defines my universe around 8 hours a day that I will freely give to somebody else so they can tell me what to do.
Sophie is not constrained that way, but she's just as constrained in other ways, her 'world-view,' but she's starting the journey of 1,000 miles. Me? I don't even dare to look at the 8-fold paths in front of me. I'm too scared to, because starting a journey like that involves risk, and hope, and growth.
And that's too scary for this little girl.
Besides. I don't have anybody to skype with. I made sure of that.
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
Beaten by the Queen of Hearts every time?
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
She's a loser, and she just gave up trying.
Sometimes, skype is more than skype, isn't it?
... and, sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, after all ... for those people blessed with seeing the world simply as it is, and not complicating it more than it needs to be.
Monday, January 13, 2014
"Understanding" the Poetic Saga
I can't believe I'm writing this, but now I have explain poems to idiots who don't understand, and want their bananas peeled for them, cut into bite-sized pieces and then fed to them on a silver spoon. What, do you want me to move your jaw up and down for you, too, so you masticate the banana-mush, too?
So, here we go.
"What's there to understand? They were a set of poems Saga sent me over time. I wrote that in the A/N. Who wrote them? Who cares? You? Why?
Instead of reading it from a sense of understanding, read it with a sense of feeling. How did you feel, reading these poems? 'Well, I didn't like them, because I didn't understand them.'
Good job. You can't feel unless you understand your world and circumstance?
Or, just read the poems and get what you get from them. 'That one was silly.' 'That one was funny.' 'That one was keen what it said about quiet girls.'
Each poem Saga sent me conveyed a feeling, and it was free of any context. If your feeling is dependent on circumstance, then you are a leaf in that wind you chase. Feel. Be."
Got it now? Life is a whole lot less complicated when you drop your superior posing and just live it, isn't it?
Jesus-God Almighty, save me from Try-Hard Posers posing as fonts of wisdom.
So, here we go.
"What's there to understand? They were a set of poems Saga sent me over time. I wrote that in the A/N. Who wrote them? Who cares? You? Why?
Instead of reading it from a sense of understanding, read it with a sense of feeling. How did you feel, reading these poems? 'Well, I didn't like them, because I didn't understand them.'
Good job. You can't feel unless you understand your world and circumstance?
Or, just read the poems and get what you get from them. 'That one was silly.' 'That one was funny.' 'That one was keen what it said about quiet girls.'
Each poem Saga sent me conveyed a feeling, and it was free of any context. If your feeling is dependent on circumstance, then you are a leaf in that wind you chase. Feel. Be."
Got it now? Life is a whole lot less complicated when you drop your superior posing and just live it, isn't it?
Jesus-God Almighty, save me from Try-Hard Posers posing as fonts of wisdom.
Where I belong
I effed up a job interview so badly I was ready to run from the "star chamber" (their term) crying, but it just kept going on and on, and then finally the manager, a little old buddha, said, "Miss, I'm just not sure you'd be happy here, you're just way too overqualified for the position, maybe I can talk to another manager and see if they have something more challenging for you."
And I was like, "okay," but inside I was almost screaming. Excuse me? You don't know if I'd be 'happy' working for you? I'll be happy to pay the rent. I'll be happy to eat. I'll be happy to have insurance! I don't have any money and I don't ...
I don't know what I'm going to do this month. So I have to start making calls, asking people to give me a month so I can pay the bills, but what does that say about me? Nothing, right? I just can't pay right now.
But inside I feel so ... ashamed that I'm not together, that I don't have a job, and what does that make me?
A failure, that's what it makes me. I'm a girl that can't get a stupid job because I'm overqualified as an administrative assistant, but when I go for something in payroll, I don't have the education and I don't have the experience, so they're like: what are you doing here? Maybe you need an entry-level position as an intern or you could go to our administrative staffing, and it's just a big, vicious circle, and I'm the loser in the middle.
This too shall pass, and I'll be happily employed somewhere as an, idk, art curator, or a librarian ("please tell us about the duwey decimal system." "The what?" "Uh, yeah, thank you for your time.") or as a bar maid/wench ("You touch my ass again, I fucking break your fucking arm!" "Ooh, feisty bitch!" *SMACK!*) ... or something.
I think my problem is I don't fit anywhere. I'm scared of people, and that comes out as shyness or in-your-face-ness. I don't belong in the past, because they way the Greeks treated women? WAY better than their contemporaries, but they were still property: chattel. I don't belong inside a Twilight book, because I'd try to punch Edward in the face, if I ever got enough guts, and I'd end up as supper for James and Victoria. Not so bad with Victoria, I suppose, but being sucked dry while the neurotoxin in the venom makes your last seconds ones of pure agony?
I don't belong here... because of everything. I was called "Unearthy," but that's not even right: the space aliens would get tired of my restlessness and constant bitching.
I ... truly am a siren, a mermaid, a selkie. And I keep looking and looking and looking for my otter-skin, and keep not finding it, so I can't swim away and be with my mer-people and comb my long, full-bodied mer-hair (mermaids' only clothing, don't you know, so their hair is loooong!) and sing songs and hymns as we blow through our conch shells in our mer-kingdom of Atlantis ... until I got bored there, or a mer-guy'd try to cop a feel, and I'd even be kicked out of there, for disorderly conduct.
Hail, Eris!
I am discord. I am pure chaos, but aren't ... but wasn't Eris happy? Why am I not happy? My life (heh, right, like I have a life) is a mess, and I wreck everything in my wake.
I wish I could write me as a story, so I could look at the story and say ... 'eh, this character isn't really working.'
And just write me out of it, just be a figment of my imagination, and nobody but me would know that I ever existed. Just like my character Nichole in Ridden, something I tried, but I don't know if she works, she brings too much to the story that's isn't about her, so ...
So with an 'eh,' she's gone, and none of you knew, nor cared.
I wish I could do that to me. I just bring too much to this story of life that isn't about me, not really, it's about you and everything else, and we don't need the complications of me being around. I wish I could just write me out of this story of life, and nobody would know, nor care.
Then ... then I would be truly happy. Oblivion would be my fate, and I would taste gall on my tongue and my eyes would see nothing but pitch and tar, and ... I would be ... happy.
Because then it wouldn't be about me any more. Truly. And I wouldn't have to pretend any more. I would have to pretend that I was happy or I was fine or that I was okay and getting by.
Because then I would be nothing. And I'd finally be free of this world and it's false hopes and promises.
And I'd, truly, be happy then.
And I was like, "okay," but inside I was almost screaming. Excuse me? You don't know if I'd be 'happy' working for you? I'll be happy to pay the rent. I'll be happy to eat. I'll be happy to have insurance! I don't have any money and I don't ...
I don't know what I'm going to do this month. So I have to start making calls, asking people to give me a month so I can pay the bills, but what does that say about me? Nothing, right? I just can't pay right now.
But inside I feel so ... ashamed that I'm not together, that I don't have a job, and what does that make me?
A failure, that's what it makes me. I'm a girl that can't get a stupid job because I'm overqualified as an administrative assistant, but when I go for something in payroll, I don't have the education and I don't have the experience, so they're like: what are you doing here? Maybe you need an entry-level position as an intern or you could go to our administrative staffing, and it's just a big, vicious circle, and I'm the loser in the middle.
This too shall pass, and I'll be happily employed somewhere as an, idk, art curator, or a librarian ("please tell us about the duwey decimal system." "The what?" "Uh, yeah, thank you for your time.") or as a bar maid/wench ("You touch my ass again, I fucking break your fucking arm!" "Ooh, feisty bitch!" *SMACK!*) ... or something.
I think my problem is I don't fit anywhere. I'm scared of people, and that comes out as shyness or in-your-face-ness. I don't belong in the past, because they way the Greeks treated women? WAY better than their contemporaries, but they were still property: chattel. I don't belong inside a Twilight book, because I'd try to punch Edward in the face, if I ever got enough guts, and I'd end up as supper for James and Victoria. Not so bad with Victoria, I suppose, but being sucked dry while the neurotoxin in the venom makes your last seconds ones of pure agony?
I don't belong here... because of everything. I was called "Unearthy," but that's not even right: the space aliens would get tired of my restlessness and constant bitching.
I ... truly am a siren, a mermaid, a selkie. And I keep looking and looking and looking for my otter-skin, and keep not finding it, so I can't swim away and be with my mer-people and comb my long, full-bodied mer-hair (mermaids' only clothing, don't you know, so their hair is loooong!) and sing songs and hymns as we blow through our conch shells in our mer-kingdom of Atlantis ... until I got bored there, or a mer-guy'd try to cop a feel, and I'd even be kicked out of there, for disorderly conduct.
Hail, Eris!
I am discord. I am pure chaos, but aren't ... but wasn't Eris happy? Why am I not happy? My life (heh, right, like I have a life) is a mess, and I wreck everything in my wake.
I wish I could write me as a story, so I could look at the story and say ... 'eh, this character isn't really working.'
And just write me out of it, just be a figment of my imagination, and nobody but me would know that I ever existed. Just like my character Nichole in Ridden, something I tried, but I don't know if she works, she brings too much to the story that's isn't about her, so ...
So with an 'eh,' she's gone, and none of you knew, nor cared.
I wish I could do that to me. I just bring too much to this story of life that isn't about me, not really, it's about you and everything else, and we don't need the complications of me being around. I wish I could just write me out of this story of life, and nobody would know, nor care.
Then ... then I would be truly happy. Oblivion would be my fate, and I would taste gall on my tongue and my eyes would see nothing but pitch and tar, and ... I would be ... happy.
Because then it wouldn't be about me any more. Truly. And I wouldn't have to pretend any more. I would have to pretend that I was happy or I was fine or that I was okay and getting by.
Because then I would be nothing. And I'd finally be free of this world and it's false hopes and promises.
And I'd, truly, be happy then.
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