Hi there world. I am getting over one of the nastiests flus…ah, that’s a lie, I’ve had worse. Anyways, it’s a pretty bad case where my head felt like it was swollen and my germs were so deadly all I had to do was breath on my boyfriend and he got it. Yeah, anyways it was pretty bad. I was lying in bed today around noon, almost one o’clock actually with my boy beside me, trying badly to recount the dreams I had the past two days when I realized I couldn’t remember too much detail. I was frustrated, was it because I was sick or because I have dulled my brain so much from work that I was actually starting to not remember my dreams? And if so – yuck that sucks! A horrible thought occurred to me, what if this was it. I was so succumbed by work, by paying my loans, by making sure I have enough money to pay rent and not ask my parents for help ever again, by living miles and miles away from the cray cray family — have I detached myself from all that inspires me? I mean, I’ll speak for myself when I say this, but I have a pretty good idea of my what my writer fantasy looks like. Let me paint you a picture:
Imagine a world where there are no aliens to abduct you. A place where you may see a fox here or there, but it doesn’t really bother you because he’s after the ducks in the pond. There’s a pond. There’s also a lake. It’s probably late Spring, early Summer. You are somewhere in middle America. Life is peaceful. When you wake up you smell Folgers’ in your cup. And when you go to your writing nook – a nice little desk in an empty room with a glass window overlooking the water, the fields, the mountains, the danger free skies…you sigh and think, this is freaking awesome.
Anyways, that’s my idea of a writers retreat. A cabin somewhere in the woods where nature surrounds me for miles and there are no threats like aliens, bears, mountain lions, or creepers with a weird mask lurking outside the windows. But a las, I think this place doth not exist! And not because I can’t make it happen, because frankly y’alls if I want to get me a cabin somewhere I can find a way. No, it’s not that.
It’s mostly because I am starting to realize that I like chaos. I need weird to be in my face. I want freaky to show up at my door wearing a tutu and saying that she’s a Jehova witness looking to help a soul out. I appreciate the man on the BART who sleeps under a giant sleeping bag on my way to work every morning. And whoever walked out of a stinky coffee shop after a rainy day without taking a good look around, in my opinion, has just missed out on so much weird material.
So I sit here, almost 3:00am in the morning, scanning papers for an employer who lives miles and miles away thinking to myself…man, I could be working on my novel, but instead I’m doing this. Dilemmas.
I suppose I have to appreciate the weird when it comes, and the writing urges when it flows through me.
Wishing you all a messy new year, may you all get inspired from something deliciously fun on your path in life!