.restless as a willow in a windstorm.

I think spring does something to me, and mostly, it's good. Days like this - sunny and warmer - make me feel more charged. I'm not a naturally motivated person, despite the things I have accomplished in life. I have to work at it and off and on lately I've felt overwhelmed. But the last couple if days I have been coming out of it, feeling clearer and thinking more about all the things I want to do. Moreso, I've been thinking about how to reach those goals. Occasionally, I feel so far away from the things I want and I obsess about dying unfulfilled. Yes, I think about that, morbid as that may be (or dramatic, maudlin - pick an adjective). I am between books right now, though, and the ones I am reading have me all over the map emotionally. And that's good. Yes, good. At work, I am listening to the audiobook of Kris Radish's Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral (not the most briliiant thing ever written, but it has its really insightful moments and it's really fun, too...for a funeral). And while I am waiting for The Host to come back my way (long story short: had to return it while I was smack in the middle because it was very overdue and the lords of the library were making a fuss; put a hold on it at both CPL and SPL and am now waiting for it), I am reading a wonderful graphic novel called French Milk that is making me realize how desperately I want to go to Paris and alternating that book with Denise Levertov's poetry. The effect is this: me wanting to write more, read more, travel more, do things for myself more. The poetry makes me want to sit in the corner and write lines and lines of verse; the graphic novel makes me want to draw, write more about my own experiences, be more aware of my surroundings and what's in my head and heart...and of course, travel; and the Radish novel makes me think about how I'd like to go out of this world and more importantly, how I'd like to live while I am in it.

So maybe it's not the change in seasons alone, but also, my choice of reading material that's making me feel this way. Either way, it's really great. I have to make a list of the things I want to do and get pro-active about getting them done.

.take this sinking boat and point it home.

I've been thinking about how I am turning 32 next month, which is strange and hard to fathom for me. I still feel, on some levels, much younger than that - though I have my "feeling old" days as well. Mostly I've been thinking of what I want for my birthday and what changes I would like to see in my life by this time next year. I emailed my sister this week to tell her that I would most likely not be taking the trip down south that I hoped to this year. Due to a funds snag (long story), I don't see myself taking any major airline trips this year and I'm really sad about that. I miss my NC friends and I haven't seen my sibling or nephews now in about 3 years. And of course, this rules out other trips, too. Not that I thought I'd be running off for a major vacation, but I like it when that's at least a possibility.

I have also been thinking about where I thought I would be at this point in my life. In a great many ways, I am at peace with who I am now. But in others, I am not where I hoped I'd be - emotionally/mentally, financially. One of the big things for me lately has been my obsessive worrying about the state of my dreams. Since I was eight years old, with very little inconsistency, I have wanted to be a writer. Sometimes I wanted to be a poet, once or twice I thought I might be a journalist and more often than not I want and have wanted to be a novelist. All roads lead back to words on paper for me. Or on the computer screen seeing as how the world has leaned that way, toward lit in cyberspace. A lot of my most recent conversations with my therapist revolved around the fact that lately, I mostly just write for myself. Even the novel I've been working on for...well, awhile, has not been seen by anyone else in some time now. My therapy assignment for the next few sessions is to work on this. To work on me and on my joy and well-being. Most importantly, the ways in which these things are connected so deeply to words and writing. There are three things I want before the end of April: an agent, a circle of writers/readers from whom I gain feedback and a completed screenplay. That last one is part of my participation in Script Frenzy, which I am looking forward to.

By the end of three months, I would also like to have begun writing poetry again and I would like to have been to a couple of open mics. I wouldn't mind attempting reading at one, in fact, if I can get up the nerve. But I just have a desperate need to get out there more. It probably is partially due to the change in seasons. As the months get warmer and the days get longer, I find myself restless more often. This is a pretty typical pattern for me. I'm trying to curb some of my less appropriate restless urges by catering to some of the more understandable ones.

Recently, I went to a hypnotist on the (yes, sorta kooky) recommendation of my therapist. It was an interesting experience and different than what I expected. My expectation was, I suppose, that I would walk into this office and there would be some tinkly new age music and incense burning. And then there would be some hippie guy with glassy eyes who would hypnotize me. Instead, it was a nice, normal looking office and the receptionist led me to a room where I watched a video of my soon-to-be hypnotist as he introduced himself - an attempt to put clients more at ease before meeting him in person. It was slightly helpful, but I am pretty much a ball of anxiety no matter what. He was nice, though and except for a very soothing voice, he was not at all what I was expecting. Did hypnosis work? I think for a time, it did. I felt more relaxed and at peace when I left his office than I had in a long time. If I had the privacy and motivation to do maintenence I might have seen more results - I'm not sure. Anyway, I go back in a week for "reinforcement." It's all very strange, I know and I feel a little wacko for it. But I think if it ultimately makes a dent in the anxiety I tend to walk around with on a regular basis, it is worth feeling like a freak.

Found: library check-out receipts

This is probably strange, but I find it really interesting. I come across library receipts in the pages of books (or on the shelves and tables at the library where I work) and I like reading them, seeing what books, music and movies other people check out. I came across this one in Stephenie Meyer's The Host a few days ago and it inspired this post. I may update it periodically with other found receipts and just keep an ongoing list.

This one was from December 6th, 2008 and all the items on it were due back on December 27th (coincidentally, that's my girlfriend's birthday). The books these people checked out were:

Don't Go To Sleep!/R.L Stine
Disney's The Rescuers: classic storybook
Froggy Plays Soccer/Jonathan London
The Host/Stephenie Meyer


Edit: March 23, 2009

I found the following receipt:

Dead as a Doornail/ Charlaine Harris
A Deal With The Devil/ Liz Carlyle
Her Only Desire/Gaelen Foley
Lord of Fire/Gaelen Foley
The Elvenbane/Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey

.if you don't come any closer I don't mind if you stay.

It's been awhile since I've written a blog, but that's probably not surprising. I have had a few entries started in my head that I never began. This week I've been feeling especially frustrated working at the office. Not to mention especially socially inept - that's everywhere, though. I was having one of those days where I kept getting involved in a conversation and I swear, it seems if I do that with someone I don't know well and not yet even a little at ease with, talking for more than five minutes makes me stupid. I do that thing where I can feel myself sweating and even shaking a little - then all thoughts go out of my head. Ugh, it makes me so mad at myself. Yet, on the flipside, sometimes I can talk to people (maybe it's for a lesser amount of time or because I am around someone else who I am friends with and they are, thus, my buffer) and I feel full of energy afterward. I'll be bouncy-happy and feeling good about myself.

The frustration at the office is, I think, mostly related to the atmosphere there (usually pretty negative), the fact that I feel behind on almost everything and the fact that I really don't feel like I am doing anything to advance myself forward in life. The closest thing to being creative that I have gotten to do recently was making a coupon for my boss's husband's business. It's just tiring and I feel like my soul is slowly being sucked away, as much of a cliche as that is.

The library is, as always, sanctuary. But some of the conversations I get into (and later feel lame about) happen there. I guess I could blame it on the fact that, by the time I get to that job, my energy has already been sucked dry by the first. I'm really trying to deal with it, but I swear, most days I find myself fantasizing about running away somewhere.

Which reminds me: I am attempting to write a list of things I'd like to do in the city and I could use some suggestions. Just a list of things I've been meaning to look into, places I've meant to go, etc. I have a decent list so far, but I am sure I am forgetting things. Feel free to leave me ideas in my comments if you actually read this. I've been contemplating learning something new or brushing up on something that would make me happier, because I feel like I need something to look forward to that isn't still so far away. Swing dancing comes to mine quite frequently.

Most nights, I am writing or at least editing my book. That's good at least - that my motivation and commitment have improved, at least in regards to that. I've been reading a little more lately, too. I finished the first Francesca Lia Block book I've read in ages (The Necklace of Kisses) and it's funny how I feel like I've grown up with these characters. It's also strange -in a good way - how they seem to come at the right time (the Weetzie Bat books always have, that is) and somewhat mirror my life. I remember being young and starting the first book in that series - the language was so lovely and filled with colors and foods and sparkly things. Later, when I read some of her other books - Violet & Claire or Girl Goddess #9, for instance - and it seemed like it wasn't the same. For awhile I was wondering if she was even writing her own books anymore. There was more pop culture or something - somehow it seemed a little off. Now, years later, I kind of like this. I like that, among all her references to fairies and mythological creatures are references to Hedwig and the Angry Inch or Claire Danes. There's a blurb on the book that even says something about how she mixes realism with mysticism (or something like that) and it's the perfect way of putting that. But despite my rekindled love for Block's tales, I do find myself missing the way they made me feel ten years ago. Did her writing change or did I?

I had a brief conversation with another shelver recently about the books we read as children and pre-teens and have had a conversation (sort of) on Facebook about the queer fiction I've read. I like that all these book conversations have happened recently and it's interesting how all these things seem to happen at the same time.
It's a good time for fiction in my life - an escape, I guess.

Besides the list of things I want to do or places I want to go around the city, there is the ongoing list in my head of things outside the city. The places I want to go: Vermont, San Francisco, Portland/Seattle, Arizona, Hawaii (when I am old), France, London, Canada - and things I want in my life: most recently, a different second job where things aren't so chaotic and where I can be more creative (because I have really started to hate that office). I'm so grumpy lately, too, from being so tired and professionally dissatisfied.

Moving right along (so I don't start screaming), I also finished reading an instructional book on writing by Walter Mosley (probably best known for his mysteries) and that was somewhat helpful. It gave me a different lens to look at my own writing through, anyway and it improved my ability to show rather than tell. Not that I was terrible at it, but I think my writing can be a little lackluster. It needed more glimmer and spice, so to speak.

Other things as of late: I went to see both Coraline and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, attended a couple of parties (back to back) with people I'd never met before this past Friday (one of which consisted of a group of Asians singing Karaoke - I was reminded of Lost In Translation - and me being the only Caucasian there) and went to a much-discounted performance of Too Much Light..., followed by dinner at Andie's (where we also celebrated Valentine's Day last month).

Last month: yes, we are already in March. In fact, today was the first death anniversary of my year. I acknowledged it when I wrote the date today, but I am not dwelling. It's not to say that I won't be sad and think about them, but I don't want every year at my parents' birth and death days to be a day of mourning. So I'm going to try to make this the last time I mention it in a public arena without something more enlightening to say on the subject.

Now, I guess I will go have tea and do something else.