It’s not personal . . .

img_0877Killing for them or tearing one of their worlds to pieces is the easy part. It’s not personal, for me at least. I’m not personally or emotionally invested in them. I know, what’s wrong with me, right? I’m not like a lot of other people, and I’m not just talking about the killing and dissembling of someone else’s world stuff.

Really, I think the killings are probably the most normal thing about me. People just have very different ideas of what constitutes normality. I’m only trying to help.

So, like I was saying, the killing part I do for them is easy for me. Okay, it’s sometimes a little tough. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to, but it’s kind of a job requirement.

The thing I have a harder time with is dealing with the ones who came to me and asked me to do the job to begin with. I mean, c’mon, they know what I’m going do, it’s on the business card for crying out loud. Well, if I had business cards it would be. The point is, they know.

Sometimes I just want to scream. I’m listening to these grieving creatures and thinking, umm . . . you came to me, remember? You read the terms and conditions, you signed here, initialed there, so really, dry it up and move on. That sounds cold hearted, I know. Especially since I am so much like them and would likely feel the same way.

Besides, it’s not like they can’t fricking bring them back to life. It voids my services of course, I stand behind my work and my refund policy clearly states in no uncertain terms that there aren’t any refunds. Heck, a majority of the time I do it for free anyway. I probably shouldn’t but, and reserve judgement here, I enjoy it. I often derive a great sense of satisfaction and sometimes even inspiration from it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of satisfied clients, most of them as a matter of fact, but some seem to have a harder time letting go once the deed is done. They wonder if they made the right decision, I suppose that’s normal. It’s a process. They know they did what had to be done, or they wouldn’t have sought out my help, but still, they grieve. They don’t always agree with my methods, even though they came to me based on my previous work.

That’s the thing, they trusted me to get the job done, then they second guess the way I did it. After some time has passed and they’ve worked through their emotions they almost always come to thank me, I get a lot of repeat customers actually.

It’s a rollercoaster, what I do, I like to think I’m pretty darn good at it too. Sure, I make judgment calls maybe someone else in my position may have made a little differently, aside from the basic mechanics, we all have our own little bit of flair we add to our work.

You know, I don’t always do the actual deed myself, I offer advice to folks who want to see it through themselves. Every now and then I just tweak their ideas a bit, give an overall opinion of the direction they want to go and they get it done.

I have a job right now actually, so I gotta get to it. This one is for img_0878me, it’s a little harder when you make the work personal. Words to cut, characters to kill, paragraphs to shorten, others to lengthen . . .

I’m not a monster. Editing and critiquing the words penned to a page can be brutal work, especially when you’re doing it for someone else, or yourself. Just brutal.

I didn’t bother to check for grammar, typos, or any other of pesky things that plagues writers in the above rambling, it’s just rambling. Something to keep my mind from going mad with the muddied mood I happen to be in. It was either plot murder or write about what to some constitutes a demise of sorts – editing.

I once tried to give them life

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Upon these wrinkled pages
there are traces of me
left scribbled in ink.
My soul marks the margins
and the middles,
from left to right and sideways.
Pieces of paper painted
with half formed thoughts
I’d hoped would breathe
once they were penned
lay lifeless,
scattered corpses
of inspirations abandoned.
Wasted words, lost,
tossed in a box,
never discarded,
left to the worse fate
of being ignored
by the one who promised
to make them dance
for the world to see.
If I smoothed these pages
enough to set them free,
would they turn their backs
on me or be thankful,
grateful for my company?
I’m afraid to look upon them,
I don’t know what I’ll see
looking back at me.

~ CRC ~

Crap that scares me, my greatest fear, & suiting up.

 

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Back to the blasted blogging challenge. I’m now on day six (and I started like, 300 days ago). From this point on, I’m replacing ‘day’ with ‘number’ because I am quite obviously incapable of maintaining a daily challenge. Well, that’s not true, I’m capable of it, I’m just too lazy to commit myself to the task. That’s not entirely true either, I’m not lazy, per se, just otherwise occupied. Sometimes it’s housework, different writing projects, or other similarly adult type responsibilities, and sometimes it’s reading or word search puzzles, Netflix or nothing in particular.

My prerogative and all that.

So, number 6 on this challenge asks, what are you afraid of? Whew, loaded question. I compiled a list of random fears, in random order –

Clowns
People dressed as clowns
Clowns dressed as people
People (not every people, but people)
Most spiders
Hippopotami
Getting lost
Car accidents
Driving on the highway
Drowning
Heights
Fire (unless I’m playing with it)
Losing the ones I love too soon
Quiet clowns
Electric shock (been there, done that – terrified of it)
Forgetting
Bad hair cuts
Killers
Mean dogs
Bears
Moose (I grew up in Alaska, trust me, they are scary)
Going blind
Killer clowns
Major health issues
Falling
Random acts of violence
Kangaroos (especially those big muscled ones)
Most bugs
Laughing clowns
Spontaneous Human Combustion (when I was ten, I seriously thought this was how I’d go)
Flesh eating bacteria
Large, loud crowds
Being hit by a car
Elevators
Large bodies of water
Running out of coffee (legit fear)
Porcelain dolls
Crying clowns
Children in scary movies
Crap like that bitch that climbs out of the well in The Ring. (I didn’t watch it, but the commercials gave me nightmares)
Uncanny Valley (look it up if you don’t know what I’m talking about)
Intruders (especially if they’re dressed like clowns)

Alright, enough of that. Being afraid sucks and I try not to let myself become lost in it. Fear can control us if we let it. For the most part, I don’t allow it to, but sometimes I guess I do.

The big one I can’t seem to overcome is my fear of driving. Highway driving specifically. I don’t do it. The last time was probably fifteen years ago. Takes away a lot of freedom. I just can’t do it, maybe I don’t really want to because it’s scary and requires pharmaceutical intervention if I attempt it.

Then there is the issue with clowns. It’s funny, but it’s not. A lot of folks are scared of those bastards so I’m not alone in this mostly irrational (is it really irrational though?) fear. Ridiculousness.

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Fear is often a liar. It’s a bully and a brute. It makes itself bigger than it deserves to be, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and it’s a convincing disguise. It too often keeps us prisoners within ourselves. We wear it like armor to protect us, when all the while, fear is the actual enemy at our door.

In the late 1500’s Michel de Montaigne basically invented the personal essay. In book one of his works, he writes, “C’est de quoi j’ai le plus de peur que la peur.” The thing I fear most is fear.

I suppose I’m with him, perhaps my greatest fear is fear. I’m not sure if it should come before or after clowns on the list, but I do indeed fear it. I fear the powerlessness I feel in it’s shadow. I fear what it can take from me as well as what it leaves behind. I fear the hold it has on others. Decisions based on fear, rational or otherwise, are often made in haste and leave lasting reprocussions in their wake.

I fear the world is cloaked beneath a blanket of fear and because of it, our collective fears are being realized. It makes my list trivial in comparison. Yep, Montaigne got it right, the thing I fear most is fear. Knowing this gives me an advantage though, I can’t fight what I don’t acknowledge. Fear is an idea. A concept. A feeling, right? It’s not like a charging bear or some roided out looking kanga-frickin-roo.

Fear is meant to be fought. We are told and we tell others to face their fears, overcome them, rise above them . . . No one says hide from them, give in to them, or cower before them. But my, what a battle it can be. Suit up, warrior. Toss that white flag aside and practice your battle cry.

I’m going to start small. Maybe I’ll wade out a few steps into the ocean or watch a scary movie. I know not every fear can be conquered and I know fear can actually be a good thing, but not when it doesn’t serve to protect us. Not when it controls us.

But still . . . effing clowns.

 

 

 

So, New year.

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Alright, 2017. One more year has passed, it’s never been a big deal to me, but for some it is. Nothing around here has really changed except the calendar and now I have to get used to writing 2017 when I just got used to writing 2016. Mostly.

All day long I’ve been telling myself I should write something about the new year, or the old one . . . I did word searches all day instead though.

I don’t know what to say about last year, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, I stole that from Dickens of course. It works. Just like last year and the year before that, there were ups and downs and in-betweens and I survived them all. I expect this new year will be the same because that’s life. We have to take the good with the bad and do what we can with it.

I’ve heard so many people saying this was the worst year ever, politically, socially, etc.. I don’t know about that. Historically there have been some pretty bad years. If we really want to compare, I think we came out fairly well. But that’s just me. I’ve been upset about elections before, saddened by world events, celebrity passings, and gotten my panties in a bunch over something or another my fellow humans have said or done. In the end, it is what it is and I either said or did something about it or I didn’t. None of it ruined my year.

If I were to sit down and make two lists, one for the good stuff that happened this year, and one for the bad, I think the good would likely outweigh the bad, unless I wanted to nit-pick, like, I stubbed my toes approximately 12 gazillion times, I spilled my coffee (one spill is too many when it comes to coffee), I had to interact with people more than I anticipated, and so on. But if I did that, I would have to include things on my good stuff list like the too many to count smiles I received from strangers, the serendipitous moments in life that always catch me by surprise, and all the coffee I didn’t spill.

I know it’s easier to focus on the negative sometimes, not sure why, human nature crap, the bad stuff just seems bigger if we don’t remember to hold on to the good stuff just as tightly. I almost hate to say it, actually, I don’t, I embrace my Disney Nerd, we need to learn to let it go, at least loosen our grip a little.

Too many people hold on to annoyances and anger and sorrow like treasures, while the real treasures, the ones that matter are scattered and forgotten. So maybe this year, let some of it go. Don’t even pick that shit up and add it to your collection. Look at things, examine them, maybe borrow them for a short while to see if they’re really worth keeping and if whatever it is, good or bad, doesn’t bring something positive into your life in some way, let it the frack go.

I’ve said something like this before and got blasted for it, some people don’t like being told to look at the good and walk away from the bad, those people get pissy and say mean things, those people are not adding enough things to their happy list.

I know there are some things we have to hold on to that aren’t wonderful. I know it. I fricking know it. I also know, we don’t have to carry those things with us everywhere we go, we don’t have to keep them on permanent display. That good stuff needs some room, it needs to shine.

So anyway, Happy New Year. God bless. Good luck. May the force be with you. Nanoo nanoo. Live long and prosper.

My proudest moment? I got a good one . . .

img_0796Day five, (or 296), of this blog challenge thing has me asking myself about my proudest moment. Still too lazy and moody to tackle day three.

How does one choose their proudest moment? I’m not typically one to toot my own horn, but I guess if I think about it, I’ve had my share of moments in life I’ve felt quite proud of myself. Some of those moments were big, monumental even, others were itty-bitty, perhaps even inconsequential in the grand scheme of all things pride worthy, but damn if I wasn’t proud of myself for accomplishing them, but choosing one to highlight

Gimme a sec.

I’m too often too hard on myself. I downplay my successes, finding some reason or external force to give credit for them. I don’t know why I do this, I really should celebrate in them, give myself some kudos and well deserved pats on the back, but it feels weird.

Still thinking . . .

There is this one thing, I’ve managed to rock this particular thing a few times and damn if even I don’t mind saying I did it well. I’m not the only one who’s ever done it of course, doesn’t make it any less awesome and magical and fricking awe inspiring, so I’m going to call this thing the thing I’m most proud of. Best thing I’ve ever done, like not just gold star worthy, but world fair blue ribbon, best in show, top of the class (every class) kind of worthy.

I made a human. Not just one, mind you, humans. I made humans. Remember that movie Castaway? When I watched that movie and the fire scene came on, I remember thinking, yeah, that’s kind of how I felt when I looked at my first little human creation.

It wasn’t easy, blood, sweat, and tears went into it. Poured my heart into it. To this day, people compliment me on my work, “Your kids are amazing!” and I pretend to be all humble about it, “Aww, thank you. I made them myself.”

My pride in this accomplishment extends beyond the act of making them, that was just the beginning really. Phase one in the creative process. It takes a long time to complete a human, a lifetime actually. Once that little rough draft breathes the breath of life you have to start molding it, and keep on molding it until it reaches a point in the life you gave it to take over and continue molding itself into what it will eventually become.

Yes. I called my greatest achievements it. I’m tired, you know, from the 27 years of molding and shaping I’ve done so far. Besides, it’s a thing I do, sometimes I call babies it. Sometimes I call them little bugs, smooshies, or squidgies too.

So yeah, my proudest moment has lasted far longer than a moment, I feel it every day. I made humans. Good ones.

Kudos to me.

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30 Days was just a suggestion . . . Ciceros, Sherlock, & Me

img_0792So I’ve finally made it to day four of the thirty-day writing challenge I began on March 16, which was just over 39 weeks ago, and technically, I’m really on day three for which the prompt asks what my favorite quote is. I’ll come back to that one. It’ll take me a moment to narrow it down to a list of even 50. Besides, most of them are inspirational and I’m in small mood and do not wish to be encouraged and uplifted at the moment. Maybe later.

Day 1 – Story behind The Qwiet Muse name. 

Day 2 – 20 facts about you, really – they are about you, not me.

Anyway, since I’m not completely a quitter, even though I failed the challenge I challenged myself with, now, 275 days later, I’m going to write about my dream job, the prompt for day four.

I’m pretty sure, if you know me or have read more than a post or two here at The Qwiet Muse, my dream job will have something to do with books and words and silence.

Basically, I want to be a writer who runs a library.

Not just any library though. Mine is epic, and a little odd, and entirely awesome. My library is a mind palace, think of the Greek poet Simonides of Ceos or Ciceros, if you’re not familiar with the method of loci, it’s quite interesting, something to look up sometime. If Greek myth and history isn’t your thing, think Sherlock Holmes, I think he called his a mind attic, where he stored information and memories. Doyle used this idea a little differently. Again, something interesting to look up.

This library in my mind is where I remember everything, or where I try to. I remember who I am and seek out what I’ve forgotten, which is unfortunately something I too often do these days, but that’s a tale for another time. In my library the thoughts and names and words I cannot access in my reality await me.

Now, I realize this doesn’t sound like a job so much, but if I could create my library with mortar and brick and wood, I might consider opening the doors to the public. It’s a magical place. Beautiful. I think you’d like it there. Of course, it wouldn’t be open to just anyone, there would have to be some sort of application process to gain entry and perhaps a trial membership type of thing. I guess my job would just be to be there and read and write and remember.

I suppose it would have to be housed in something similar to a Tardis, you know, bigger on the inside since things on the outside are often so very wibbly wobbly, I think it’s safe to say our minds are certainly bigger in the inside, just think of all they hold! It would have to be somewhat of a well kept secret, exclusivity and all, so Tardis technology would come in handy. Perhaps an unassuming garden shed or an old school bus, I’ve not yet given it much thought.

I can try to tell you a small bit about what would be inside though, the way I see it when I lose myself in there.

Close your eyes and imagine . . . Yeah, don’t do that. Duh.

As you read, imagine yourself within a circular room, the ceiling so tall it seems to reach straight into the heavens. Rich mahogany shelves line the entirety of the protective circle of wall surrounding you, each delicately carved with images and scenes from literature and history, stories etched upon every surface.

Staircases spiral between level after level, each one leading to row atop row of books, manuscripts, journals, and notes. Histories written and bound, musical scores dancing along pages, all protected and preserved and waiting to be held in someone’s hands, to be remembered and cherished.

Wrought iron railings swirl upward, suspending works of art above velveteen settees perfectly placed and lit. Below sit writing desks, reference materials fill cabinets, and showcases featuring artifacts and treasured items from literary history glimmer in the glow of the grand fireplace ringing perfect warmth to the entire structure.

It’s not entirely possible for me to accurately describe the atmosphere within this library of mine, you’ll have to imagine that for yourself. Sometimes, I enter into a brightly lit and invigorating space, other times, I find myself in a darkened den of solace and silence. Sometimes there are giant windows overlooking a glorious garden, other times, the walls keep hidden what lay beyond them.

Since it’s mainly my mind palace, I suppose I will tell you . . . sometimes there are fainting goats outside in the garden, and sometimes I ring a bell and giggle as I watch their little legs stiffen. I know. Don’t judge me. Have you seen fainting goats? Oh, and sloths. There will be sloths somewhere as well.

I wish I really could put to page how my mind sees my library, I suppose if you were to join me there, it might look different to you, when you came to visit it would transform to a space that suited you, your personality, your needs. Your memories.

Yeah. It would definitely have to be like a Tardis. I think I’ll hire Tennant to look after the place.

Basically, my dream job is just that, a dream. Real enough to me, but for everything else, words upon a page. Real enough I suppose, I’ve always thought once words were written they were given life in some way.

I really have always wanted to be a librarian though, so . . .

Full disclosure, my mind palace library does not include memories of math I may have learned, I googled my way to mathisfun.com to determine how many days have passed since I copied that darn 30 Day Blog Challenge graphic and decided it was something I could follow through with. Ha! I do not happen to think math is fun. It hurts my brain, but I must say I totally love a site that does number-y stuffs for me!

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Finish The Sentence Friday – It’s almost 2017, and . . . I thought I’d have something to say

It’s almost 2017, and . . . I dated something 1997 last week. Seriously? That is the year my youngest child was born. Oh well, it’s not the first time I’ve traveled back in time when writing, it won’t be the last.

I’d like to say it’s been a great year and I am looking forward to what this next year in life will hold, but right now, tonight, I don’t care. This past year kind of sucked, with a couple small exceptions, we welcomed new little lives into our family, miracles. I have a beautiful new niece, she was an unexpected and truly miraculous blessing. My sweet cousin welcomed a new daughter into the world as well.

You know what? This isn’t working.

I truly thought if I sat here and began to write, inspiration would strike and something worthy of being read would magically appear upon the screen. That is not happening.

img_0788My heart and my mind are far from me, many, many miles away in Alaska with my sisters and my father. I will never see him again. Even if he somehow woke up, it would only be for a short while, his journey is coming to an end. To be honest, I’m glad of it, for his sake.

I can handle death. I can accept it and even rejoice in it as a new beginning, the final chapter of a story that’s reached its end. It’s suffering I cannot bear. It’s waiting for the inevitable. He’s been sick and fighting for so long, for too long and while my heart will hurt when he spreads his wings, it won’t be hurting for him, just for those of us who will miss him when he’s no longer here.

There is a story to be told, the story of him, and of me, his ‘little shot’. One I will one day tell and when a I do, when I am ready, I hope it will be healing, in many ways. There are parts of that story I don’t remember, the beginning of it, and I pray those memories come back to me one day. There are missing pieces in the middle, but those aren’t as important as how the story ends.

2017, 1997 . . . at least I got two numbers right.

Maybe tomorrow I will write something inspired, something you might even want to read and be glad you did. Tonight though, this is it.

And, if you would, please whisper a prayer for my father’s peaceful passing and comfort for those preparing their hearts to say goodbye.

Finish the Sentence Friday is hosted by Finding Ninee