Elucidation

To be honest, I don't have to explain myself to you.

To be honest to myself, I have some (internal) explaining to do.

Ever since I hit puberty, my life has been a multitude of questions beginning with "What": What do I want to be when I grow up? What is sex like? What am I looking for in a relationship? What do I believe in? Whether or not this is a common stream of thought in all adolescents, I don't know. I like to think, though, that this is part of the shared experience of growing up with my peers.

At 26, I've managed to answer many of my 'what' questions, but the path to my answers has not always been clear.  Sure, it was made apparent to me at a very early age that my life would revolve around music and the written word. While I've had some uncertainties through the years and experimented with other paths, all signs led to those two passions. It is an undeniable calling that I am finally choosing to no longer suppress with fear and outside influence. But this outside influence was answering some of those other 'what' questions.

We are raised by people with their own set of values, and up to a certain point it is all we know. Once we are old enough to make our own decisions, to ask our own questions, we are not a clean slate; we have the bias of a past generation. So, we start out by answering the questions of 'what' based on how we were nurtured. At some point, though, the answers stop making sense to us, and we start asking "Why."

Why do I want to be an artist?
Why do I have this spiritual belief?
Why do I continue to follow social constructs that go against my basic ideas of human life and liberty?

I am at a point in my life where I am constantly peeling away the layers of conditioning I have gathered over the years. Each time I peel one away, I run the risk of putting it back on because I feel too exposed. In some instances, I feel safe in the beliefs I was raised on because not thinking about it is a much easier task than being honest with myself.

I have questioned everything from my sexuality and idea of love, to the ethics of owning a pet and buying canned goods. I found early on that the notion of 'normal' doesn't exist; it's just the way of the masses. I am finding that many of my ideas don't align with these masses, and perhaps at some time in my life, I may be judged and ostracized because of this. I am always tempted to just keep the layers on and suffer in silence.

I am constantly changing, constantly evolving into a person that I will one day be able to look in the mirror and recognize, but I don't feel that right now. The reflection is familiar, like an old photo of a classmate, whose name and relation to you is right on the tip of your tongue. The woman looking back at me is trying to break through; she's trying to break through all the bullshit 'whats' and screaming 'why'?

While it is not an easy task, and I certainly don't have all the answers (where's the fun in that?), I feel a little freer knowing that I made a conscious decision to explore it all and listen to my heart rather than settle for what has been handed to me.

But, to be honest, I don't have to explain myself to you. This is all for me.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Assertive (Or, She has a Pen.)

She had a bad habit of playing therapist. She was the modern sexless sapphire;  the matriarch there to suckle the adult toddlers, to solve everyone's problems.

She watched them talk. She watched as the complaints rushed out of their mouths, like levees breaking, like dams crumbling, flooding her mind, washing away any self-reflection she was saving for herself when she got a moment alone.

Because to them, she was just the girl at the tin can on the other end. She was the Freud, the Dear Abby, the Oprah--ethereal beings that were untouchable, that didn't need assistance. They comforted and soothed the self-absorbed, the emotionally afflicted.

They told her laconically that they wanted to know what she was going through, but she knew better. She knew that once she began to talk, it would always, Always, gravitate/relate back to them. She helped them believe that the world revolved around their melodrama, their fuck-ups, their self loathing.

But things have changed.

She is now purging her life of anything that does not benefit her progress, her comfort, her self-assurance.

That includes those who have likened her presence, her friendship, to that of a therapist's session.

She has no time for one-sided relationships.

She has no time for those who only see her as a "good listener."

You have been mistaken. She is merely a writer that enjoys observing and analyzing the human experience. She will take your stories of self-inflicted woe and twist them into her own beautifully flawed gems of fiction.

Be warned. She has a pen. And she will fucking use it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Don't...Get...Distracted. (Metaphors up the WAZOO in this post)

(As I write this blog from my desk at work, the title just seems perfect.)

Hey--hey, you guys: Don't get distracted.

I know, I know, you've got SO much going on. Work is kicking your ass, and your significant other is being such a dingbat right now, and one of your friends is being super dramatic about something or other, you're incredibly lonely, you're trying to figure out how you'll pay for that next bill without incurring a late fee, your school loans are piling up and you've got a zit the size of Tibet. On your ass. And it hurts.

But don't even fret. Mama Pens has you covered.

When things like that happen, hide. Hide under a really cozy rock, or in a deliciously inviting cave--one with a blanket, pillow and the tools of your passions. And don't come out until you feel satisfied with putting that passion aside for a moment to deal with your crazy life.

Life can have this fantastic way of pulling you away from what you'd like to be spending your time perfecting, tending, nurturing.  It can also have this really fantastic way of pushing you in that same direction, and there you are, face-to-face with what you love.  It's sitting on this shiny platter, piping hot, smelling oh-so-delicious, and you are absolutely famished.  How do you say no to that?  Easy--you don't.  And you don't deny yourself of it when it's out of reach, either. You're still hungry either way, right?

I recall a time when my producer and I were craving Popeye's (actually, we crave it ALL the damn time, but I digress.).  We had finished a really successful writing session, and wanted to celebrate with some chick'n legs, biscuits and sides. We drove around for 30 minutes trying to find one, and would not settle for anything less than Popeye's.  Our reward?  Good-ass fuckin chicken.
Why is it that we will go out of our way to find a good parking spot, fulfill a food craving, the best seat in a theatre without a second thought, but when it comes to our own happiness, the things that make us tick, that make us wake up in the morning feeling like we can OWN the world, we settle for less than we deserve? And boy, do we come up with some great excuses. Think about it. We could have easily applied excuses to the parking lot, the fried chicken, the seats, but we didn't. We Made it Work to get what we want, and felt so damn awesome once it was achieved.

If we can apply it to the trivial things like food and entertainment, why can't we apply that same determination to self-fulfillment, self-actualization? 

I have been making it a goal this year to line up my priorities and increase the fulfilling moments in my life.  This means dedicating a helluva lot more time to my Music and Writing. Yes, I'm stressed, busy and trying to figure out my budget to live more comfortably, but none of these things matter if I'm not progressing as an artist. Without my passions I am nothing. I feel like nothing.

No. I'm hungry, I'm starving, really annoyed and that platter is NOT in my face. But I'm going to make it work, because it's exactly what I want.

And when I get that steaming hot platter, I'm going to hide away with it until I'm stuffed. Then I'll come out and deal with the real world, full, energized and ready to Take life head-on.

I swear, you have so much more control of your life than you want to admit. When you hit that realization, your growth will increase at breakneck speed. Take the wheel again, my friends...because if you aren't driving, who do you think is?

~Pusher.Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 4:

(aka, 'Yep. Just Me.')

I don't think I'm alone when I say that Valentine's Day as a single woman makes me reevaluate myself. Not so much in a 'Why am I single?' way, but more in a 'Where am I now?' frame of mind.

For some women, when you're single (especially when it's recent), I don't think you can help but recall last Valentine's Day. Was it spent alone? Was it with the one you recently broke up with? Or was it a night you can barely remember because of the ridiculous amount of shots you took, and you're trying to erase the memory of that guy/girl you woke up with in the morning (You swore they were hot/younger/normal the night before; you ignored your friends' protests because you assumed they were jealous of how lucky you got).

I've spent the last 7 and a half months of my life learning to be single again. I'm slowly figuring it out. It feels different this time, because I'm finally at an age where I realize that I would like to have someone stick around for longer than a year, and a kid doesn't seem like such a bad idea under the right circumstances.

On the upside, I have a secure job that pays well, a place to live, a cat that cuddles with me every single night, and great friends. And Hulu. I'm working feverishly on both music and my novel, and I'm still pursuing other interests.

But on the downside, I'm alone.

It's this single factor (double-meaning!) against all the other positive aspects of my life, but it can still depress me at times, despite the fact that I'm not looking at all.

And don't give me the line about not relying on someone to make your life complete; I don't look at it that way. I look at romantic love as an incredibly unique and beautiful way for two people to express themselves, and anyone who hasn't felt it--well, I'm truly sorry. I believe in love, I believe that it can be a fantastic feeling, better than any psychedelic I've tried (I'M KIDDING, RIGHT?). I think it can bring out the best in people, and improve our quality of life. But I also think that it doesn't do any good if you can't love yourself first.

So instead of getting sad, let's evaluate ourselves this Valentine's Day. Where do you stand on love? For yourself?

Me? I'm still working on it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

(W)ri(gh)t(e)

The other day, I posted a status about how writing lyrics is much easier than writing a fiction story--most likely because it's shorter. One of my friends replied with: "(part time) Pusher of Pens." Ha.

So right.

So, write.

Write Now.

Right now.


~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Of all the Things I've lost...

...I miss my discipline with writing the most.

I'm beginning to think that I (along with 90% of the writers in the world) am a sadist. Who else would do this to themselves? I tease myself with the NaNoWriMo challenge (which I failed in every way possible) which came to a sudden halt with that latest batch of shit-luck, and now that things are looking up (I'm not homeless, my temp job is now a permanent job with benefits), I'm all vermischt about the holidays (One of my coworkers uses many Yiddish phrases; I've been picking it up).

Today I wrote for about an hour, then got distracted by music. But I NEED music to write. Especially because there is something loud in the apartment, and I think it's the fridge. The hum actually keeps me up at night. The wine could possibly be exacerbating this issue, but you just don't tell a writer to give up her muse (seriously, it's been helping).

I've come up with this crazy hare-brained goal of actually having something worth reading by the end of spring. For me, that's like, late May.

Which means I have 5 months to write this novel(la): including numerous rewrites, a couple pair of eyes not belonging to me, sleepless nights, crying, self-injury and lots and lots of wine.

So glad I got this pay raise.

Here's to the 22nd attempt at keeping up the blog, and keeping up the writing.

I swear, the only constant going for me right now is knitting.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 3:

(aka "Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go...")

Okay, so let me start this off by saying:

I'm kinda homeless.

Well--in between apartments, I suppose. Because of this, I had to put all of my belongings into storage until things were figured out. I spent ALL of Saturday with a friend packing up my things and getting them to a storage facility.

It's in these moments that you reevaluate your worth in possessions. What do my things say about me? Why do I have this item? What would it mean if I threw it away?

I don't know how it happened, but I managed to practically fill an 8x8 storage space with all of my belongings. Of course, I could barely fit it all into my studio, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But really, what is all this shit?

Toward the end of the storage journey, I found myself on the elevator with 5 bags thrown over me, and all I could think of was Erykah Badu's fantastic lyrics:

"Bag lady, you gon' hurt yo back...Draggin all dem bags like that. I guess nobody ever told you, all you must hold onto, is you, is you, is you...."

I know it was more metaphorical than literal, but there's something to be said about those of us who cannot easily let go of our belongings. How do we look at life? Do we let situations roll off our backs, or do we hang onto them, like the sweater that doesn't fit us anymore and has a hole, but we can't bear to throw out? And for me personally, does this reflect my current situation?

I used to save love notes shared between me and my exes. At first, I rationalized it as my enjoyment of the written word; a way to document expression between two people in love. But after some time, I began to notice that I would look at these letters and this wave of nostalgia would wash over me...with a pinch of regret, or maybe anger at having been so stupid to be in love with that person. How could I not have seen the writing on the wall? or Why didn't I follow my instincts? This lack of ability to let go of the past would prevent me from growing in relationships because I was too busy hanging onto these experiences; these people.

Perhaps when I am able to move my belongings back into an abode, I will seriously consider what I take with me. I know that I have things strictly for sentimental value, which isn't bad. I keep my sister's jacket, and I wear her ring every day. These things I don't personally see as a hindrance. But the love letters, or maybe an item of clothing kept from an ex, a sign of a mistake made, or an unwelcome gift could keep you from moving on. Sometimes constant reminders of the past can trap you in that mindset.

I think it may be time to do some cleaning out. I'd like to make some room for my future.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~