This place matters

This place matters

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Said Sugar, take it slow, and things will be just fine

I've got really no idea what to write tonight. This is partly because I waited until after Kung Fu, thinking that somehow I'd be more loquacious after all the punching and kicking and... being slimy. I don't even have the energy to do a post about the etymologies of martial arts words, which is usually what I do when I can't think of anything to write - look up the etymologies of words related to whatever I'm doing. But I'm tired.
I've been thinking a lot about Doing Something Meaningful with my life. Having a minor existential freak-out, if you will. It's funny about my job. I think I've mentioned before that you'd think this kind of writing would suck out my soul. And while I can't say for sure that the fluorescent lights and lack of windows aren't doing a little bit of sucking here and there, the job part, the writing part, seems to do the opposite. I remember when I was working in the group home, having my writing dates with Megi every time we worked together. I remember sitting at the table with one of the people I love most, with nothing to do but write and... nothing came out of my pen. I mean, words came out, and I wrote them down, dutifully, for three hours, and nothing. I go back and look at those notebooks and all I could really write was how terrified I was that tonight was finally going to be the night that one of the clients beat me to death. How worried I was about Megi. How much pain I was in and how ruthless the bill collectors were and how I never should have majored in English and how I wasn't going to be able to afford my meds this month.
I stole this photo from Megi's Facebook album, 
since I was talking about Megi anyway. Hope she 
doesn't mind.
They say that this kind of drama is supposed to inspire great writing. There was nothing great about it. They were the terrified ramblings of someone too mired in the negative to write anything meaningful or insightful about it. It was just words. Grousing, self-pitying words at that. Looking back over my life, the times when my writing has been the weakest have been the times I was struggling the most - with depression or brokeness or job stress or whatever. Now that I'm all medicated and not getting paid $9 an hour to have people threaten to rape and murder me all day, I'm freaking Hemingway. Which is to say that I'm a drunk who hates women and has a fondness for six-toed cats.
Anyway, point is, I'm finally in a place where I actually have the capacity to sit down in my spare time and write decent stuff. And damn, I want to turn that decent stuff into something that's really going to shake things up and help the world and stuff. But I feel like you need a platform bigger than a blog. But what do I know. This post was largely useless, but, you know, tired. 

1 comment:

Things to Do said...

If I knew how to whistle I totally would have done it when I read the title of the post. I still believe that there is a chemical in fluorescent lights that sucks away all my energy.

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