I was recently looking over the questions for a future podcast and there was one about what the best and worst parts about writing were. It gave me pause. Writing (and probably any creative endeavor to some extent) contains multitudes. The good, the bad, the pleasantly and not-so-pleasantly unexpected, the disheartening, the exciting, and even the monotonous. Becoming a writer, the process and journey of it, spans the entire field. But if I had advice to give to someone just starting out, what would I say the best and worst thing is?
It might be the same thing.
All that I didn’t know and still don’t know about writing. Even after nearly twenty novels, countless short stories, hundreds of poems and ten years worth of blog posts, I still don’t know how to write. Not really. There are so many arenas within the vast city of literary skill that I have yet to visit, let alone conquer. And just when I think I’ve got it down, that I’ve perfected a skill, or mastered a genre, something comes along to prove me wrong. Someone better shows up to hand me a big, steaming plate of hubris.
And that’s both exciting and enraging.
That there will always be something to learn, emboldens me to stay curious and interested. That through all my countless mistakes, knowing that I’m still not done making them is frustrating. Writing is, in some ways, an unhealthy, semi-psychotic relationship with a muse that is ever changing, and fickle as Tyche. How some times I can sit down at my desk and unexpectedly write the most beautiful heart-dropping poem, and the next day not be able to pull together a coherent blog post makes it hard to feel secure in my future as a writer.
And that’s beautiful too.
Not knowing how long you’ll have the drive, desire, and time to create makes every moment doing it a celebration of being human. That in the trenches of editing or rewriting it can feel like a nine-tailed flogging and yet we still persevere is a testament to our ability to grow through the muck of the seemingly impossible. Not knowing where I will go is both terrifying and exciting. Not knowing what I’ll write next is the same.
Ten years ago, if asked the same thing I would have said the best thing was the writing itself and the worst thing was a poor review. Today I would say the best part is the writing, and the worst part is writing something that could be my last project. Time has shifted my perspective from outsider’s viewpoints being the rusty sword to the heart, to the inability to write or know how to write what I want to as being the decimation of my creative soul.
I don’t really have a resolution here. But maybe having the knowledge that it’s important for me to travel the path of what I love in writing, and not try to attach the expectations of future projects to them. Maybe the worst thing, that I won’t know enough to write another book, is a good enough driving factor to keep me curious. To encourage me to branch out, to embrace being the perpetual idiot in exchange for constantly tripping after that distant, beautiful horizon.
In a slight deviation from last month, I’m looking through a different book by Robin Devoe. “Dictionary of the Rare, Creative, and Beautiful” is a book with strange and beautiful words but also “cool-sounding names from history, poetry et alia“. There are some fascinating and funny examples in this book (take for example: Brandolini’s Law or the BS asymmetry principle which states that the amount of energy needed to refute bullshit is an order of magnitude bigger than that needed to produce it. AKA every day of Trump Administration en toto.)
Today though, we’re going to talk about lacrimae rerum which at first sounded like some kind of yarn art that you do over and over… ha. hahahahahaa… See my past post on malapropisms if you have a hard time understanding what my weird little brain does. But no. This is not a rerun of macramé. This is something much sadder.
Lacrimae rerum is latin for: the inherent tragedy or sadness of human existence; literally: tears of things.
The inherent sadness of our existence. The undeniable knowledge that is taught to us by almost every world religion, and made concrete with every scientific revelation. We are impermanent. And most of the the little time we have in our conscious, physical existence is plagued with suffering. Not just physical suffering of a body that springs up in painful-bone growth ways, but also begins to decay and hurt as we age. Add to that the inevitable pain of wanting things and people (to stay the same, to have, to love, to pay attention to etc.) and not ever really having them. Suffering is caused by wanting, desiring, and never being able to have in perpetuity. Because there is also the universality of change. Everything will always change. So we can never really hold on to anything.
Along with that, there is a certain sadness in knowing our own mortality. While it can be a great driving force to experience and live our lives more fully, it can also leave us feeling regretful that we don’t have more time or perhaps have ‘squandered’ said time on ‘unworthy’ pursuits. It has yet to be proven or disproven whether any other animal on Earth has consciousness of it’s own death, and what that means in terms of its very existence being snuffed out. We do know that some animals practice rituals around death, and even grieve. But do they see in themselves, the ending of it all? Do they wonder if there’s something afterwards? What a horrible price to pay for such big and beautiful brains, am I right?
When we think of inherent anything, I feel like it’s short sighted to believe that there is only one inherent emotion. I have seen too many humans with inherent joy at their existence, to think that it’s all just sadness. Perhaps when the phrase was coined, it came about to explain the great tragedies of the time and of the stage. Perhaps it was to bring us all back down a notch and remember our sadness. Hey, you kids! Stop eating, drinking, and being merry! Have you forgotten tomorrow we die? Focus on worthy pursuits so your one wild life is not lived in vain! Or some such nonsensical mashup of ancient Greece and Mary Oliver.
But perhaps being aware (all this goddamn awareness) of our inherent sadness…our bone-deep tragedy of loss, of disappointment, of death, is the ocean we must build seawalls against in order to actually live. Don’t get me wrong, we all deserve a good ‘woe-is-me’ fainting on the couch moment. And I’m a huge proponent of painfully hard, cathartic crying once in a blue moon, but what if we can build a sturdy wall to stand on amidst it all. A rampart against the pounding waves, and ever rising and falling tides, to watch the swells from? If our hearts and brains (those stupid, beautiful, big brains) were meant to be awash in tragedy, then I believe we were also built to notice, accept, and eventually find beauty in the tears of all our things. We grieve because we love. We fight against losing, because we love. We miss, we pine, we ache, because we love. So maybe the great sadness of things is really our funny little human hearts constantly saying; ‘this is beautiful to feel this sadness. This is beautiful because it means I care. This hurt is beautiful because I would not and do not cry over what I do not care for. This is beautiful because a lifetime of loss comes from a lifetime of loving. Of being in love with the inherent act of living. Of knowing it is short. Of knowing we will lose. Of still wanting to love despite it all.
So…as you go about your day, and you find yourself down from some unavoidable loss, or tearing up over something tragic, and you start to think of the great lacrimal sea of sadness inside of you, I hope that you find the purpose in it all to still smile. Life is a beautiful, tragic, heartbreaking, enigmatic ride that no one prepares you for, and no one can tell you how to do properly. Except to love it. In all its joy. And especially in all its sadness.
Both about two different people…two different souls. And I’m always in wonder at how my heart can hold so much, and how much it is constantly asked to let go of. And how defiantly (and dumbly) it doesn’t. I guess that’s why poetry exists, n’est-ce pas? To have a convenient shelf to set our hearts on when we can’t bear to walk around with their contents sloshing unevenly in our chests? Anyway. Here’s poetry.
tender ache
weren't you just the subtle pine rising from penitent footfalls along quiet trails
weren't you just the romantic glide of a train across forested peaks the anticipation of journeys towards something better
weren't you just the late summer glow of sun kissed honey dripping into the waiting cup of succulent apricot flesh
weren't you just...
weren't you just
the hard turn left that slammed my heart's momentum into a concrete pylon
weren't you just the biting words tearing away at delicate seams of newly grown flesh
weren't you just the coldness of an unexpected glacier cleaving through my underbelly sinking me into the dark
You would think, that laughter among friends would dull the incessant ache of missing you
but somehow in any joy I miss you more
daydreaming, apart from crowds, that you sit across my table eyes crinkling with the absurd infectiousness of silly mirth like bird wings in my heart and shoulder shrugs of isn't this life terrible? beautifully terrible? but when your eyes meet mine it feels
only beautiful
knowing you exist is like a breath added to the dying embers of hope
you're still the only thing that helps me sleep
I imagine you slide into bed beside me curl warm length into my cold lonely chin tucked into my neck, arms like blankets hold me close and push out the rest
It’s Newsletter Time! Hold on to your hats my friends. There’s actually some news in this one. First thing’s first…
Have you ever seen something so perfectly perfect?
In, non-writing related news, the garden is going smashingly. Our tomatoes are enjoying the heat and the squash have put on several flowers. My radishes are out of control. With any luck things will start producing enough for at least one of us to get a salad (we shall fight over it with tiny forks). Beyond that, I find the necessity of getting in to weed, or water extra in these ridiculously hot afternoons, helps to calm my mind and give me a break from the made up world of adulting. Any day you can dig in the dirt, is a good day. Any day you can pause to watch how busily bees utilize your catmint is a day you’re reminded that there really is no such thing as society…silly humans.
We’ve had to put up traps for these little assholes that seem to be everywhere. I think it’s probably a good lesson for how climate change is probably causing an imbalance of certain species over others, but I that would probably be a college course, not a newsletter post. However, if you want to geek out over invasive species, perhaps the lady/gent/non-binary Captain would prefer this: Popillia japonica. In any case, for any of my fellow gardeners out there, we’ve been having good luck with the traps and I’ve found no noticeable difference between the “flower blossom” or “Japanese Beetle Sex Pheromone *Party” (*party added by author) scents . They are equally attracted to ‘food’ and ‘sex’. Listen, I’m not judging, because…well me too.
What else? I’m attending a CSU Transfer Student/Parent Orientation this week for my oldest, and gearing up to take my youngest to a Paleontology camp in Thermopolis, Wyoming ran by the Wyoming Dinosaur Center and Dig Sites. There’s a bit of a lull in between the two things, which leads me to the next section…
Writing and Editing:
I’m in my final proofreading round for “Heir to Time”!! Which means this little gem is soon to hit the bookstands (AUGUST 11th). I will have some cover reveals happening on Friday (tomorrow), so be sure to check those out. The Timekeeper series is now complete. Stay tuned and I’ll let you know how you can order a complete boxed set or any of the individual books, signed with some goodies.
I’m waiting to hear back for my next round of edits for my anti-Hallmark novel, but I’m sure that’ll get wrapped up in time. Pray for our poor editor.
My edits for “FaeSpawn” (mythology-based, contemporary fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia) were interrupted for the proofreading for Heir that came up, but I have made it about fifteen chapters in and it’s not as bad as I remembered. There are a few things to clear up. I don’t generally write fantasy or even urban fantasy so I’m trying to remind myself that world building has to be both consistent and clear…without being so expositionary that your reader falls asleep. Who knew writing could be so complex? I did. I knew that. And I do it anyway.
I’m toying with the idea of gathering up some of these beautiful and generative poems I’ve collected over the last year for a possible anthology out next year (possibly from a publisher). I just need an accountability partner I think. I think I’ll bother one of my good friends (I’m looking at you Nina (9-uh)) who also has a book of poetry probably waiting for her to put together. Another reason why writers need other writers.
I started, and am keeping very close to my chest, an interesting new story inspired by a good friend who has always supported me. And over a recent breakfast of runny eggs, and discussions of oddest-family-stories-ever, reignited my creative spark. I’m not going to say much about it (writers are often afraid of good ideas being startled away), except, again, writers need writers and I’m so thankful he’s in my life. Every girl needs a Charlie.
Reading:
I finished “The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies by Allison Goodman, and loved it so much that I ordered the sequel: “The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin”. The first was such a fantastic romp, with adventure, humor, and romance. Plus to get to read something, albeit fictional, about women in their forties destroying abusive systems that hurt and imprison women was pretty satisfying. Please check her out. It’s great writing.
I’ve also picked up “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. I read it before in middle-school and find that I’m enjoying it eve more now. Sometimes its good to get back to the classics. Especially if they’re smart, subversive, and absurd.
I’m also reading a couple of beta copies for friends. Both non-fiction. One from Ted Williams about the advent of the Alpine Rescue Team in the 70’s here in Colorado (check out “The Art of Rescue“). Basically middle and high schoolers, were partaking in high-stakes rescue missions before calling in CPS was a thing. It’s wild and so far, very good. I’m also reading a book soon to be released, from Michelle Ray, called “Lessons Unplanned”. Part travel memoir, part philosophical soul-search, I think it will appeal to so many readers. You can check out her Substack here: States of Matter.
Events and BOOK RELEASE
Heir to Time
It’s finally here!! The third and most soul-sucking (to write, not read I hope) novel in the Timekeeper Series will be released August 11th. I’ll be posting on my social where you can find and buy it. An exciting conclusion to the adventurous, romantic, time-traveling capers of Lillian Byrne. The third novel features a side sapphic romance, and brings back our beloved favorite couple (well they’re MY favorite couple) Richard and Thomas. It’s a bit “Mummy” and a bit “Indiana Jones” wrapped in pretty, romantic comedy paper. There are exciting chases, escapes, curses, and a bit of magic thrown in. If you want to know where time-travel came from, this is the capstone book that will tie the series all together again.
I do not have any book signing dates yet, but I’ll post them soon.
July Class with “The Pause” on The Feminine Divine
In July, I’ll be teaching a class for The Pause, a cool writing group devoted to mid-life women. The class will center on exploring the power of the Feminine Divine and the innate knowledge of body to explore expression. Its a topic I think about a lot, especially in a patriarchy where so much of what we ‘know’ is beaten down or ignored. And how so much of that knowledge would have actually saved the human race a heapful of grief, suffering and death. Anyway, we’ll be exploring how to tap into that, how to trust ourselves, and how to use what we know to help others. Here’s more about that organization: The Pause Writers
Fort Collins Comic Con
Ya’ll, I’m going again. This event is so well ran and I’ll be talking with my friends Rod Martinez and Heather Hein about writing. The joys, the failures, the gains and the loss. Not just that, but how we create in times of turmoil and why it’s important that we do. I hope we’ll have a good crowd and can answer any questions you might have. I believe our panel is on Saturday August the 15th. Register here! They have so many great vendor booths, authors and books, cosplay, panels, and other fun events.
Closing:
I’ve uncovered some deep rooted issues with self-promotion (see “she doesn’t have a book signing booked yet for a release less than a month away?” hint above) that I’m trying to deal with, which probably stems a lot from an overblown sense of self-doubt and/or deeply instilled rural-upbringing humility that very rarely allows me much pride in anything. Also, and maybe you’ve experienced this, the weird phenomena of “Yes I finished a book, now on to the next”, and ignoring or purposefully taking out the pause between. I suspect it has a lot to do with the discomfort of praise and the reminder from someplace deep in my “don’t get too big for your britches” brain, that I’m not so special and to keep working.
All of that aside, the marketing issue has also made me think a lot about what I want to accomplish as a writer and with my writing. I will say that I am proud of myself in that I held a really hard boundary that’s protected me and my little shoe-box heart, and in the process (and after a long and arduous hike), I’ve put into motion a long-term (but not too long) plan to rediscover and honor who I really am and what I really want. Sometimes its scary to sit down with yourself and be honest. Because often what you discover will affect not just you, but a lot of people around you. In seeking a balance that takes care of all hearts involved, I feel like I’ve got some solid footing on the journey ahead, and for once in a very long time, I have a little hope for my own future.
Hello gentle readers, writers, and aficionados of a strange and lovely vocabulary (much respect to my fellow sapiosexuals out there–that’s a word for a different blog I suppose), ahem…sorry, where was I? Ah, yes. Ideopraxist. Honestly, I just fanned through the pages and landed in the id-im page and I was torn between this lovely word and “imbrute”. Since this one came first, and it also carries a bit more positive connotations, I thought I’d run with it.
Ideopraxist: One who is impelled to action by an idea; one who works to bring an idea to fruition in reality. (from Dictionary of the Strange, Curious & Lovely, by Robin Devoe)
Listen, Merriam Webster didn’t have this listed, which made me have to dig a little bit for more information. The British dictionaries seem to agree to this definition, in that it is a person who is moved to bring an idea into action. It originated sometime in the 1830’s and was first used by Thomas Carlyle a Scottish essayist, philosopher, writer and mathematician (he apparently invented the Carlyle circle: I’m not going to bore you with the rabbit hole I fell into about circles and quadratic equations and some of his more fascists leanings? We’re gonna stray away from that and focus on the word).
To be impelled to action by an idea. To bring an idea to fruition in reality. A more perfect word for dreamers, creators, writers, and artists may not exist. But it is also a most tortuous word. For I’ve yet to meet a writer who didn’t struggle with how to bring their ideas into the world the same way they appear in our minds. I have yet to find a photographer, painter, actor who got the first shot, stroke, or line exactly right. We are both ideopraxists and idiots. (I don’t mean that really, I mean it through the lens of frustration with which our brains and abilities allow, or don’t, an accurate accounting of what we’re thinking and seeing inside of our minds.) As Steven King once said:
“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out.”
We are in constant process of trying to bring ideas into the world. We are so driven by an idea that we are impassioned to act because of it. This a beautiful, and terrible, human concept. Driven by our ideas. Ideas that can be both, ingenious and amazing, and also terrible and hurtful. Like when someone has an idea to draft a Declaration of Independence. Or when someone else has an idea to start a needless war. Ideas are power. (In my case, ideas are mostly just half-assed sentences scribbled in the margins of the morning paper; “what if a lovable group of elderly mystery book club members used all of their knowledge of poisons to do something swift, and undetectable about the presidential cabinet?” *disclaimer to any CIA/FBI/Secret Service member reading this, I write fiction and really, even if I didn’t, would you be THAT mad?)
With all of the millions of ideas sprouting up out of each our billions of little heads, the world is a vibrant and deadly garden of thought. Luckily (or not) not every thought gets acted upon. Not every idea flourishes. Not every plan, goes to plan. So how do we know which ones to let go, like dandelion fluff in the wind (*see secret service guy, I’m harmless, and flighty, just waxing poetic about dandelions) and which to carefully plant, water, tend to, and birth (ew?) into creation?
I can’t tell you that (not because like my new bestie at the FBI, I’d have to kill you). But I think it is safe to say that when an idea hits, whether as a whisper, or a like the butt of a Glock 9mm to the temple (standard issue for the FBI) there is a knowing that threads out tendrils into the other parts of our brain. It feels like a tickle at first, you think of the idea, or read something that sparks it, and instead of it floating past, your little soggy, electrified, clump of raw bacon starts to form small connections. Starts to wonder, starts to contemplate…
…Where would these little old ladies meet? How could they possibly agree to this (How could they NOT)? How would they do it without being detected? Does the White House accept baked goods?…how do they get caught? Do they get caught? How can they get over the fence with bum hips?…
Pretty soon, other parts of the brain start to fire.
…Beatrice is five foot two but she was a gymnast in her younger days, she’s kept spry with Tai Chi and regular chiropractic visits. Loraine used to work as a cyber security analyst until AI took her job and forced her to retire early. Janice, who’s lost three fingers in combat doesn’t give a fuck anymore and she can make a mean Kentucky Bourbon Cake…
Suddenly you’re hearing them speak, conversations running through your head…scenes that play out like a movie, hilarious and heart warming. And frankly kind of scary in the cool way that makes you remember you can’t mess with grandma or you’ll get a wooden spoon to the back of the head. Long ways if she doesn’t like you.
Some ideas are silly and fantastical and are fun to write. Some ideas are scarier to think about (forming a peaceful protest against a combative government). But all of the ideas that settle into our brains and tug at our core values to do something, will help to drive us into action. Writing that next story, painting that next canvas, drafting that next bill to put before congress, or leading the next revolution…they’re all actions of bravery that are inevitable for each and every human who contains the spark of idea.
I wish you a creative week. I wish you forward action on something that drives you. I wish you safety and courage. I gotta go, there’s a knock at the door. It sounds official…
This was one of the poems that I wrote in April, during the Poetry Month Spree for Writing Heights. I produced a lot of interesting stuff that month (as one does) and I love that the space between writing the poem and going back through the deluge offers so much more reflection and perspective.
It’s that extra special time of the month….no, not that one. The other thing… Where I tell you all of the fantastically boring things happening in my life, and see if there’s a chance you want to join in. Let’s not waste time, I know we’re all excited (she said with a sarcastic shrug).
In, non-writing related news, the bathroom is done y’all. It’s pretty nice. Though the tub is tiny, and the toilet seat fell off last night. It’s mostly functioning. Here’s a little gander:
What else? The xeriscaping is complete and we’ve got a few new garden beds planted. I’m not sure how much of it will survive, but I’m crossing my fingers and hopeful. The idea is that if we can grow a few things, we’ll have to buy a little less. My oldest has been reading “Braiding Sweetgrass” and so we have a whole box devoted to the three sisters. I’m excited to see how it all turns out. Also, some berry bushes and a poor decision of climbing grapes for the trellis. I don’t know shit about grapes. Especially in Colorado, but *shrugs, let’s giver a go.
Their names are Geoff and Gerald.
So…all in all…it is less chaos, and that’s something good for a change.
Reading:
In reading news, I’m still reading “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri, and enjoying it. I’ve finished Chuck Wendig’s “The Book of Accidents”. It was a wild ride and I keep having thoughts about doors and making ways into other dimensions. Check it out. I’m also finished with “Walking the Invisible: Following the Bronte’s Footsteps.” by Michael Stewart. It was such a lovely book, interweaving the historical record, with literary insights, tied to the land they lived and walked through. It also was charming in the way Stewart made the journey personal and whimsical. (Personal favorite was using “Steven Kinged” as a verb)
Next, I think I’ll be reading “The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies by Allison Goodman. You have to love a dedication that begins this way:
Writing and Editing:
I’ve picked out the cover for “Heir to Time” and the release date is set for August 11th! I’ll try to work up some fun cover reveals. My problem, I’ve realized is that by the time I get done promoting and managing Writing Heights, I have very little drive to promote my personal stuff. But… I’ll work on it because I’m really excited to get this series out in total. I’ll let you know about book signings that will be coming up.
I’ve finished my first round of edits from the publisher on the 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology novella. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently doing okay, with only some minor consistency checks to make and solidifying ideas of faith. If I can do that for Isaac Engel, you think I could do it for myself *shrugs again (my god she’s shruggy today). I’ll be offering a spicy, annexed chapter from Eight Nights in Everpine, on my Substack. Follow me for more details on that.
My mythology based, contemporary fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia is on the post-it board, and I’m trying to make sure I do a better job of writing the last as good as the first. If you like demons and fairies, Valkyries and björns, witches and merfolk… you’re gonna love this one. I already do.
some of the board was cut off to preserve surprises
In addition, I’m playing around with a little apocalyptic satire that sprung up whilst I was sitting in a green park near Leeds Beckett, thinking about the formidable knowledge of birds and the equally crippling idiocy of humans. I’m not sure it will go anywhere, but it sure is fun to write in a different genre and style. So far I have four main characters that are all a little neurotic in some way, and for some reason have been deemed worthy enough to be saved from certain disaster.
I’m keeping up with my submissions, but missed last week because I honestly just completely forgot to do it. Maybe two this week? Maybe I’ll give myself grace, who knows? *again shrugs
Events
Wyoming Writers Conference:
I survived it. I met a lot of great people. I had a weird, and kind of intense existential crisis. I bought some books. I sold a few (AND kudos to Wyoming because I sold more of my Male-Male romance there then I have anywhere else). I won first place for Adult Fiction (Short Story) and Flash Fiction, which was a pleasant surprise. I’m still on the board for next year, as it’s a two-year term. But now that I know how it goes, hopefully I’ll get through it a little smoother with less crying in my hotel room.
Quid Novi Presentation.
In June (30th at 5:30pm), I’ll be presenting for Quid Novi and Writing Heights on the best ways to utilize a writing community, how to find them, what to expect, and how to get the most out of them. We’ll discuss how they can help not just network as a little-known writer, but also give you valuable insights to every part of the process. It takes place in Loveland at the Forge (next to Grimm Brothers Brewery) and there will be authors there selling their books as well. You can register for that here. Quid Novi
July Class on The Feminine Divine:
In July, I’ll be teaching a class for The Pause, a cool writing group devoted to mid-life women. The class will center on exploring the power of the Feminine Divine and the innate knowledge of body to explore expression. Its a topic I think about a lot, especially in a patriarchy where so much of what we ‘know’ is beaten down or ignored. And how so much of that knowledge would have actually saved the human race a heapful of grief, suffering and death. Anyway, we’ll be exploring how to tap into that, how to trust ourselves, and how to use what we know to help others. Here’s more about that organization: The Pause Writers
Closing:
A lot of things have come up, washed over, and receded in my life this last month. I’ve had some wounds on my old heart reopened, and it revealed a lot about the darkness of loss I’d been burying under obligation and to-do lists. (Thus the nearly-self harm crisis) I’ve had to think about what’s good for me and what I do simply because I want to please others. It’s made me think of all the things I do out of obligation, but not out of joy or love. And that’s a hard place to find yourself. I feel like I’m carrying a lot of big questions on my shoulders lately, about where to go, how to proceed, and what I know I need to give up. How to do that. How to let go. How to not worry about the disappointments of others in the face of my own spiraling mental health. It’s a lot. It always has been. But I guess seeing it and acknowledging that something needs to be done is one step closer to cleaning out those wounds, yes? (*adds shrug here).
I hope you’re taking time off to rest and be beautifully bored this summer. I’ll try to find a couple of those moments myself.
I found this title to an unwritten blog in my “Drafts” folder. I don’t know what I was thinking when I penned this, or why I never elaborated, but it was simply too interesting to not use. So, to the past me who was tickling at the depths of something, and to the future me who, I hope, someday can fully emerge from her tightening cocoon of depression to do something significant, I’m going to talk about why the world was always ending. And what a strange little, hairless, big brained, ape can really do about it.
My first suspicion is that this comes from the staggeringly beautiful and heart-rending poem by Franny Choi “The World Was Always Ending, and the World Goes On”. (Please find it HERE, it’s worth the read). In it she describes the different ways the world has ended through various apocalypses. The apocalypse of slavery, and environmental ruin, religious bombings, starvation and war, and history miswritten by the ‘conquerers’, and all the ways humans continually destroy and rebirth themselves. That we are in a constant state of not just change, but destruction. And destruction borne of greed has no end, because man will always, always want more. It reminds me, as it should all of us, that the natural state of the universe is entropy. Decay, rebirth, the fall and rise, the constant, ever-present battle between what is made and unmade. Change. Violent, insidious, chaotic, beautiful change.
Our Own Damn Fault
I’ve thought a lot lately about the current state of humans. And how freakishly dumb we are. The only species who will be responsible for it’s own extinction to be sure. AND the only one with brains and cognition large enough to actually have the understanding, and foresight, and power, to stop it. So why don’t we? Greed. Selfishness. Ego. Laziness. All things, and I hate to say it fellas, that are touted, praised and encouraged by patriarchal, colonialist, capitalist societies. Because men look for immortality in what they accrue and what histories they write of themselves. Women create immortality with life. And they’ve been trying to catch up with that for about 5-10,000 years. In their efforts, we have instead become a cyclone of endless, ceaseless destruction.
My daughter and I were having a discussion on the trail the other day, about humans’ impact on the environment particularly, and (because she’s a huge Jurassic Park fan) that she loved the quote by Dr. Malcom (the Chaos Theory guy) that we won’t destroy the earth, we’ll destroy ourselves, and the Earth will continue on, just as it has before us. And then we started talking about what would the Earth look like without us. (Also check out this book: The World Without Us)
Would I be malevolent to say it was so hopeful to think of a world without humans? That the Earth might heal so much of itself. That the animals would adapt and evolve. That the rivers would find new paths and old monuments to war-mongering men would be laid waste by creeping vines and persistent roots? I don’t wish death on any one (well- not true, I do wish death on one person and I think we all know who he is) but I sometimes wish we would all quietly slip away. Because there’s a better life force, more deserving of the world than us, the ecosystems that self correct. Or did, before we showed up and demanded than Nature listen to us. Like men to women. The natural and balanced entropy without our involvement.
I suppose this is the point. We are so concerned with comfort, so worn down by current systems, that we watch this world ending and turn away. So much of the damage has been done, and the worst of it, is the powerlessness most of us feel to stop it choke-holds us into believing no amount of our effort will change the course. As long as the masses have resolution to their instant gratification. As long as the oil execs don’t have to turn down a fifth yacht or another payment to the Epstein estate, who gives a shit about the state of the air, or the water, or the temperature, or the droughts, or the storms, or the disappearing food, and the growth of disease? The powers that be, will all be long gone before it affects them.
The world was always ending. The world is always ending. Whatever can be done? Besides massive revolution that no one has the time or energy for because we’re in a real indentured servitude situation here? I don’t know. Maybe nothing at all. Drops in the bucket. Electric cars and recycling. Growing what you can. Giving more than you take. Refusing to believe any story that seeks to keep corruption in power, because that story is a tool to keep corruption in power. Thinking for ourselves. Acting for our neighbors. And trying to think about the seven generations beyond our own. Will there even be three generations beyond ours?
From the “Dictionary of the Strange, Curious, and Lovely”:
Your word of the month is irenic: promoting peace, conciliatory, peaceful; [from the Greek eirēnē peace] or if you want the Webster’s official: favoring, conducive to, or operating toward peace, moderation, or conciliation
In Greek mythology, Eirene was one of the Horae, the goddesses of the seasons and natural order who in the Iliad are the custodians of the gates of Olympus. According to the Greek poet Hesiod, the Horae were the daughters of Zeus and a Titaness named Themis, and each had a name indicating her function and relation to human life. Eirene (in Greek Eirēnē, meaning “peace”) was the goddess of peace. Her name gave rise to irenic and other peaceable terms including irenics (a theological term for advocacy of Christian unity), and the name Irene.
What do we think of when we consider a move toward peace, or living in such a way that we are constantly striving towards moderation, conciliatory behavior, or striving for a world of working together? It seems like a Herculean task, honestly. We (or perhaps I just mean myself) can tend towards defensive and sometimes offensive behavior when our values, communities, and lives are threatened, and I am often torn between wanting to remain committed to peace, and the understanding that sometimes it is necessary to take a stronger stand to protect others (I even have “the sword doesn’t write poetry and the pen doesn’t win battles” tattooed on my body). But even in that, and thinking of the struggle to stay peaceful I think of the saying ‘fighting for peace, is like fucking for abstinence’. Is that even a saying or did I make it up?
Either way, operating towards peace feels pretty foreign right now, I’m not going to lie. With our country embroiled in a war no one asked for or wanted, and the heartless killing and destruction of another human’s land and people, unlawful imprisonment of human beings, the unchecked and unpunished sexual assault on women and children by people in positions of power, peace seems like a flimsy concept, no more concrete than an ever-changing and quickly dispersing cloud.
So how do we, as single and rather powerless individuals, artists, parents, and conscientious observers work towards a way that embodies an irenic existence?
I’m truly asking.
Because all I can come up with is by keeping our protests strong but peaceful. By not physically harming human life in our quest to find justice (but an unpersoned warehouse of a moral-less, greed-filled capitalist who doesn’t pay their workers a living wage? I didn’t see anyone strike that match, and even if I did, I didn’t). All I can think is that we protect our own, personal peace by staying informed but not being caught up in the mental barrage of over-played and cyclical horrors purposefully fed to us by social media. All I can think is that we cultivate peace, caring, and empathy in our communities and homes. We take care of others, we give our time and resources to those in need, we step away and breathe when anger and ignorance springs up from the comment section. We keep asking ourselves, what’s the good fight? What takes care of the most people? How do we keep the most vulnerable safe and live in such a way that when we step into a room or conversation, any inciting temperature lowers to calm.
How do we do that?
I’m not entirely sure. I guess, by listening, really listening, not just to the words expressed but the feelings that have driven them out into the open. By not taking it as a personal attack, even when it feels that way. (Toddlers lash out the same way a lot of people in comments sections do. If you take those repetitive, brainwashed phrases and replace them with ‘nuh uh’, or ‘my dad could beat up your dad’, you can really see through the façade of righteousness to the insecurity that drives it). By relaying back, “I see that this upsets you, that you are scared and that’s okay. It means you care and there’s something important you fear losing.” Perhaps would open enough space that we could start a conversation. One that cuts through ideologies to the core of our shared humanity. The challenge is in knowing that this proffered olive branch is not always returned by the other side. The idea of rational, thoughtful, genuine empathy is often misconstrued (and brainwashed into the masses) as ‘weakness’.
But we have to try right? I want to believe so. I want to hope that the current, boiling and murky water that we’re treading can be settled and cleared with a commitment to peace. And even if, in our best efforts towards this utopian ideal, we fail, then at least we know we tried…Before we burn it all to the ground and start over.
