Haha, the only reason I'm updating this...

Is because a local radio DJ said it on air. Don't read this, go here:

www.facebook.com/falserhetoric

or

falserhetoric.bandcamp.com

or

www.reverbnation.com/falserhetoric

Maybe someday in the future I'll update it and it'll become the band's tour diaries or some shit. Until then, go friend/like/listen to/love us at one (or all) of those links above!

;)

~Alyce~

Teamwork and Kids. (or, 'Why Children should never be Game Spectators')

As of late, I have been spending many hours on the wonderful planet of Pandora--I've been playing Borderlands with a friend like a fiend lately, and I fucking LOVE it. And I'm not even a fan of first person shooters.  I'm beginning to wonder if co-op is my preferred gaming mode. There are a lot of things I do on my own, and I have a tendency to keep to myself. But when it comes to videogames with friends, I'm always the first to suggest a co-op game over any PVP. Perhaps it has something to do with my avoidance of confrontation? Even fighting games lose their luster. As of recently, I kinda hate them. But Let Me Tell You Why.

I have a couple of friends (a married couple, in fact) with kids that I hang out with during a good amount of my weekends. We'll call 'em Mama and Papa Friend, and Kid1 and 2.

It's pretty relaxed; we watch shows together, play games (video and board), and occasionally go out. It's honestly a relatively rare situation we have, but it works for us. Most of the time, the games we play are arcade or puzzle videogames. But every now and then, it's a fighting game, or some other competitive game that pits me against (9 times out of 10) Papa Friend.

I'm beginning to think there's a genetic alert that goes off in the kids' heads that tells them to come into the living room whenever Papa Friend and I play a competitive game. This same alert seems to shut down their sense of good sportsmanship during the duration of the game and they, in turn, cheer for Papa Friend The Entire Time. 

The ENTIRE FUCKING Time.

Now look, I'm 26, I'm single, I don't (want to) have kids, and I haven't been consistently around them in over three years. Doesn't mean that I don't like them (after and before a certain age). My little siblings are 13, and 8(twins, too). Love em to pieces.

But I am Not Used to being booed by not one, but TWO children. I already don't really care for PvP, so the fact that these little people are hoping for my failure just ticks me off.

I know what you're going to say, "Pusher, honey, it's just a game. They're just kids. Chill out." And maybe you're right. Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps it's the environment. I'm spending time with an entire family that is not my own. And while I feel welcome enough--as a guest and a good friend--I am not part of their family. So this act feels like a very subtle attack on the outsider. And this might say a lot about where I stand with my own family--being away from them, only getting to see them once, maybe twice a year. I feel a disconnect with my blood, and I'm not quite sure where to begin with fixing it--and whether it should be fixed.

BUT maybe it's all about what the kids say:

Kid 1: "Yay, Papa won! He's the best!"
Kid 2: "Aw, Papa lost! That's not fair!"
Kid 1: "Go Papa! Papa's way better than Alyce."

Am I being too sensitive? I must be--if my family said stuff like this, I'd totally blow it off and talk back. But hearing it from these kids makes me want to duct tape their mouths shut. It's interesting, because other than these moments, the kids are fine, we get along well, and there are no problems. It's just these fucking competitive games that bring out the part of them that makes me cringe. And fume. And blog, apparently.

So, I've made a promise to myself that I will never play a competitive game over there unless the kids are asleep or away. And even then, I would probably be opting for a co-op dungeon crawler or first-person shooter anyway. ;)

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

PS: If Mama and Papa Friend are reading this, you know I love you all (yes, including the kids). But you know exactly what I mean.

Reflections on Nanowrimo

(or, 'How I learned to appreciate the half empty glass')



According to the mandated rules of Nanowrimo, I didn't win. By the end of the month, I had only made it to 15,000 words. Now, I could say that there were distractions by the ton: I took a trip to New York, there was the Thanksgiving holiday, new friendships, etc, etc.

I could also say that these were merely excuses that kept me from the task at hand. Both valid (and commonly used) arguments, yes.
A goal of 50,000 words can be a daunting task for the literary neophyte; but some can pull it off (I know of one, for sure). The feeling of accomplishing such a goal can and should be liberating--every single one of those words belongs to you. It is your own creation (now do you understand why there are so many writers that are assholes? They feel like a god--and I completely understand).
So should I feel like a loser? Part of me totally does. I didn't even reach the halfway point in my word count. Perhaps it's not impressive in the grand scheme of novel-writing, or the high aspirations for the month of November (especially when, like me, you try to compare your word count to someone like, oh, I don't know...Stephen King. The man writes fucking tomes). But, in spite of my word count, there was one thing I didn't do.

I didn't quit.
Not once have I said, 'Oh, just forget it. I'm a failure. This is going nowhere.' Yes, I have skipped a shit load a few days. I have had some writing days where I was so scrupulous with my words that I would overthink every sentence that went down, and ultimately delete it. Other days, 2000 words just flowed out so beautifully I thought I may have been slipped some speed (and wanted more). And, of course, almost every day every now and then I chose videogames, movies, Korean Dramas or knitting over writing because I truly felt I had nothing to say. And who wants to stare at a blank screen or page with nothing to offer? It's like going on stage, and you forgot all your lines. And you're naked. And sweaty.

Our goals are our own. 50,000 words is just a catalyst to get you thinking about your own aspirations. It could actually be any amount of words you want--30,000, 15,000, 4000, 100,000.  Whatever makes you feel accomplished, set the mark there. Maybe you aren't writing every day, but you are thinking every day. Throughout an entire day, I think about all of the stories I'm writing at some point. I like to build in my head, and then get it all out in large quantities. Sometimes that takes a couple days, and sometimes a whole week.

Don't get me wrong--I still have a lot to work on when it comes to discipline, and I would love to write every single day, but I refuse to beat myself up over a goal not yet reached. I'd rather think about how I can keep moving forward.

November is over, and I'm still writing. I'd like to think of myself as a winner.

~Pusher.of.Pens.~

Accountability post (and teeny nerd moment)

Happy Friday, people!

Guess what my plans are tonight?
Exactly.
Yeah. I'm a lame-o.
A lame-o who's gonna get published, dammit.

This is just a quickie, but I thought, for accountability purposes, I would post my word count goals and the respective rewards I set for each of them:

1: 10,000 words: Upgrade my laptop. 
Since I can't afford a new laptop just yet, I'd like to keep the one I have in tip top shape. Right now, because it's from late 2007 (or early 2008?), it only has 1 GB of RAM, which is a little pathetic. So I'm upgrading to 2GB, which I think will be its limit on the processor it's running on (Intel Core 2 Duo). After this, we'll see how long she lasts...

2: 25,000 words: 250 G Hard drive for my xbox 360
Shut up, I like my RPG's. And my Arcade Games. And my TCG's.

3: 40,000 words: NEW RECORD PLAYER! (Or, at least, start seriously looking for one)
My current one is pulling some slow demonic shit on me right now.  Yeah, it makes my Baroness album sound hella gritty (It already sounds like Odin's house band), but it's not how it was meant to be heard, ya know?

4: 50,000 words and beyond: AHHHHH I'M NOT SURE YET. I was thinking of dinner at the best damn steakhouse in Chicago (with a friend or two, of course), but we'll see what else I think of. Maybe I should just make it: Save as Much Money as Possible to Get an apartment when your Lease is Up. Maybe I can convince someone else to take me to a celebratory steak dinner? (you know who you are...and yes, there's more than one of you)

If/when I figure out how to maybe make this a list that I can cross out as I progress and put on the side as a widget, I may do that. But maybe not. Don't want to clutter up my ad-free blog with my crap.

Anyway, back to writing.

Post coming soon, though. I was having some thoughts today, and I was thinking maybe I'd turn em into words for you to read.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

There is no try...

"Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."

~Ray Bradbury

NaNoWriMo.  

I got serious about it this year, kids.  I created a schedule of writing with daily word count goals, rewards for when I hit certain goals and recruited a team of supportive readers to give me input throughout the process. 
But most importantly, I have an outline for my book this time around.  A working, plausible outline for a story I'm really excited to write.
But even more most importantly, I showed the idea to a few friends, and they want more.   To have that kind of support behind me is a completely different feeling from my normal 'keep-it-to-myself-until-I-churn-out-a-draft-that-I-don't-want-to-burn-immediately' state of mind.

It's great incentive to know that someone is hoping for and expecting me to continue an idea. This was where my team of supportive readers stemmed from. Anyone who knows me knows that it's rare that I ever tell more than one person in detail what I'm writing about, but there was something about this story: 

I wanted to share it. I wanted to share my idea before I even started writing it. This never happens.  

I, being a believer in Fate when it's convenient for me, took it as a sign that I should continue on with this story, and work my glutes off to get this baby written, like, seriously. And so, it's my focus--for this entire month and beyond. And even when I don't feel like writing a lick, I can remind myself of a few things:  

1. It sure as hell isn't gonna write itself.
2. I have people who matter to me, waiting for this story.
3. Merely 'trying' will get me nowhere.
4. I want this more badly than anyone else does.  

I haven't finished a draft of anything since I left Columbia, and I am long overdue for something completed. I am done 'trying' to get through a story.  

I set rewards and goals for myself, because I have realized that I become easily distracted by life in its many aspects. Last year during this month, I was in the process of moving out of my old apartment, staying with friends for two weeks, and then moving into a new place. A novel was the last thing on my mind. Over the summer I was having other issues. But right now, I have no big moves, no nervous breakdowns, no important dates (Other than my trip to New York)--just a shit load of writing time when I get off work. I am not going to 'try' to hit my word count, or 'try' to finish a draft, I am just going to do it. And if I fall behind, I will not 'try' to catch up; I will.  

I have noticed that when the word 'try' comes into play, lots of other little defeatist words sneak in, like, 'but', 'if only', 'I don't know', 'maybe'. These all form excuses, which keep us from moving forward.  

Look, we're all human (I think), we all err, we all get distracted. But we're also much stronger than we realize. There's something to be said about perseverance and stubbornness in the face of obstacles. When I feel beaten down, lacking motivation, I have to remind myself of how it feels when I finish a long section that had been stewing in my head all week. I have to think back to how I was in my writer's flow, where the words just kept coming for hours and tell myself that I want to feel that again.  How else can I get that feeling back except to Keep Writing?  

So yeah, find me on NaNoWriMo (PusherofPens), look at my widget to the right to track my progress, etc etc. 

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~  

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.~

NaNoWriMo UhOhMoFo

That's right, kiddies. NaNoWriMo starts in 4 Minutes, I've got a notebook and pen in my lap, all of my notes and plot points around me, and I'm ready to go.

And a little scared shitless.

What if I can't keep up?

What if I run out of steam?

What if I get distracted by trivial things?

Oh yeah, that's right--I won't.

I'm registered on the site. If any of you are doing it too, let me know. We can do a write-in together. I'll give you one hint about my screenname: It begins with 'Pusher', and ends with 'ofPens'. I mean, what else am I going to use? It's tattooed on my body, and is hella motivational.

So, this blog will probably begin to be more active with updates about the masochistic joy I get out of literary expression.

And now it's midnight. Gotta jet.

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Hey!

Hey guys.

You know that thing you've been wanting to do? You know, that thing that you always plan on doing but something usually comes up and keeps you from being able to do that thing?

Well, no more excuses. No time like the present. Do it.

It's all about action. We can sit around here thinking about it, but it's not going to get us anywhere. You know, like the disgruntled music/movie snobs that use their displaced anger to make others feel unimportant and small because they don't have the talent/drive/mental capacity to do it themselves. Those people sit around and think. And brood. And as for quality of life?

Shot to shit by copious amounts of drinking/cocaine and prescription pill abuse.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right--Get up and do something. Or else you'll become a loser. In life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 2:

NO ESCAPE. (Or, 'I Remind Me of You')

I saw my mother this morning as I was getting ready for an interview. Not physically (She’s in Michigan, or Philadelphia, or something), but in everything I did. I was running around in my nylons and a blouse, putting on lipliner and drinking coffee. As I finished applying my lipstick in the mirror, there she was staring back at me. I did a double-take. Did I just encounter a Freaky Friday moment? I don’t remember eating Chinese food the last time my mom was in town. Oh wait, no, it’s me. I’m just TURNING INTO MY MOTHER.

Perhaps part of it was the fact that I actually had nylons on-- nylons are one of those items of clothing that are on the borderline of being both vintage and timeless; It’s like my friend and I joked: nothing makes a twenty-something feel dated like a pair of nylons (Unless she’s Amy Post’s protégée.)-- but there was no denying how much of her I saw in myself.

This wasn’t the first time I saw her, though. One time before, I saw her hand reach down to pet Gretchen--long thin fingers, veins pronounced under brown skin. I stared at my hand for a moment. So did Gretchen, but I think it was more out of impatience. My hand looked so foreign and so familiar at the same time.

You know, I can’t tell you how many times I or one of my girlfriends has said, “I will not become my mother/father when I grow up!” We spend so much time rebelling against everything our parents represent, that we don’t realize that their habits and words during our formative and teenage years stick with us. It’s an unplanned tradition of sorts, and reminds me of a fine (although offbeat) wine. It sits deep in our psyche, untouched, until it’s ready to come out in that perfect situation... be it a commonly used phrase, a mannerism or strange habit. Then, there you are, face to face with THEM, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.

Personally, I was relieved to see my mother. I spent most of my life being told I was a carbon copy of my father in looks, habits, talent, even facial contortions. To see my mother in the mirror makes me feel a little like I have finally ‘become a woman’. At 25, no less.

Every aspect of my getting ready reminded me of mornings--Sunday mornings, especially-- when I would watch my mother get ready for church. She would run around half-dressed, coffee in hand, the wonderful scent of White Diamonds perfume and deodorant flooding my nose as she whisked back and forth, fixing her hair, fixing my hair, putting on her jewelry, waking up my father....

I wonder if that’s what the kids see on Sunday mornings with her now. I wonder if the girls will see that in themselves later in life. Will it be as comforting for them as it is for me? Will I come out in them in some way? I know I’m just a big sister, but still... I can't help but hope I make that kind of impression on someone if I end up not having kids.

If nothing else, that is one hell of a way to haunt someone for the rest of their lives.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files:

One is the Loneliest (and most Freeing) Number.

Independence. Everyone at some point crave independence--and why wouldn’t they? We spend (normally) 16-20 years of our lives depending on our guardians for food and shelter, at the very least. And then suddenly we’re doing it all--Working a job, paying bills, complaining or drooling over pesky/hot neighbors, creating a social life on a tiny budget, and eating food that isn’t our Mom’s.

For some, this moment doesn’t come at all. I know women who got married straight out of school and into a life of codependence. That’s great, but this post will not relate to you in any way. Go on--click on another tab. You’re not allowed to continue.

I don’t know about anyone else, but there aren’t any classes in high school or college that can ever really prepare you for Living on Your Own. It’s part of the Core Curriculum at the School of Hard Knocks, however, and you’d better ace it right away.

I didn’t get my first apartment by myself until last June, just before my 24th birthday. Before that, I lived with friends over a couple of Summers, then my parents, then a fiance, then back with the parents, then my best friend for a year. I was so excited to finally have a place of my own, I assumed that all of the mistakes I made in my past living situations would make this time so much easier. Who would’ve thought that there were more mistakes to be made?

First of all, location was at the top of my list for both the right and wrong reasons. Sure, my place is sinfully close to the El and CTA, there are two grocery stores, a coffee shop, a 24 hour drug store, and numerous cheap eats within two blocks of me. And to top it all off, it’s right by the water. But I chose it because it was also near my then-boyfriend (who i broke up with at the end of July), fit my budget (kinda) and the building accepted me readily. I didn’t look anywhere else; things had become strained living with my best friend, and I wanted out before we started hating each other. So I took it, optimistic that this would be a great decision.

I quickly learned that acceptance isn’t always a good thing, and convenience does not equal safety. About 5 months in, I noticed a pattern of interesting characters milling in and out of the building, and they sure as hell weren’t high on life. I rode the elevator with a woman asking me for money to get her something to eat. I watched a cockroach crawl from my open window into my apartment.

After doing a little research, I also learned that a woman was murdered in my apartment about 5 years ago--strangled to death. Hello, deadbolt lock. I now understand your presence. There’s a blog based out of Edgewater that gives the local news, be it crime, events, local businesses, and the like. I read recent stories of crimes happening a block away from me, or on my street, a mere 3 hours before I arrived home.

Did I mention that I am living on my own? I mean, my cat Gretchen is my darling little huntress in her own right, but that’s usually for predators smaller than a bottle of nail polish.

So what did I do? I had recently started seeing another guy, and found myself staying at his place half of the week. It made my commute to work longer, and I traveled twice as much, just to go home, feed Gretchen, pack clothes and go back to his place.

This is no way to live. It got to the point that when I did stay alone (and now I am single again so that is a lot more often), I was incredibly uncomfortable. I wasn’t happy with my apartment; it didn’t feel like mine, and while I got over the original fear for my safety while at home, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. When you get your own place, you want to make it a refuge that you return to after a long day (or night). You kick back in your undies on your cheap/free sofa/futon, do whatever makes you feel good, and fall asleep knowing that this is all yours. That’s living the dream in your early to mid twenties, isn’t it?

So I did what any broke kid stuck in an 18-month lease could do: I rearranged and reconfigured. Dear readers, this is something that I think people forget about when they find themselves stuck in a rut: To make a change on a smaller level. Here’s what I did:

~~I Mixed it up a Bit: I felt like the current set up in my studio made it seem smaller, so I arranged it to accentuate that I had a long, narrow apartment that really can’t be cut up into sections, and I keep my closet/bathroom doors open. Now the room flows easily.

~~I put more Things on the wall: A fan, posters I snagged from random events, concert tickets, hell--post its and scraps of paper of things I don’t want to forget. My niece sent me a painting of a lion, and as soon as I buy a frame, it’s going up on my wall too.

~~I Added a little Green: I got the cheapest and easiest plants to care for--a bamboo plant, and a Pothos plant (you know the ones; they’re just green mid-size leaves that grow in abundance on long green vines. Cut off a piece and put it in a wine/liquor bottle filled with water; they don’t even need dirt to keep growing.)

~~I Feed the Senses: I Burn a candle or incense as soon as I get home. I put on some music AS SOON AS I GET HOME. This quells the quiet of being alone.

~~I try to have People over: This makes me a little more conscious of my living space. I make sure I can accommodate my guests’ needs (be it as simple as a glass of water and a place to sit, and a comfortable room temp). Also, getting compliments on my place, like, ‘Oh wow, this is So You,’ make me feel like my personality is coming through, and that makes for a home worthy to chill in.

This makes my apartment more bearable. No need to go Martha Stewart on the place, just put some of yourself into it. But make sure you’re getting out, too. Go hang with friends doing what you love to do; just don’t forget about your own lair--because you can’t get used to it and love it without being there to make it yours.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

'Things I Caught on the Train' (PIlot)

Dear Obnoxious Train Rider,
I am writing you to send my condolences to your poor friend whose boyfriend tried to sleep with her cousin. When I heard the horrible offense (along with the other 12 train passengers) I could not believe my ears. To think, after that huge party at your house where your buddy was able to supply a "fuckload of coke," and you got the bangin DJ "from L.A.", it would end in such disaster. Even worse, that cousin, who was "clearly asking for it," should have controlled herself and not followed him into the bathroom where he proceeded to finish off those last two lines.
Tell me, OTR, do you think your friend will really take him back? After hearing you so adamantly exclaim, "Leave his Druggie Ass alone and Find Someone Else" numerous times, I highly doubt she will ever consider "touching that MotherFucker Again."
I think I speak on behalf of train riders everywhere when I say that I truly hope this situation gets resolved quickly. I would hate to later hear about another mad loft party disaster.


Sincerely,
~Polite Observer~

"I Want to Get Away, I Wanna Fly Away..."

"Yeah...yeah...yeah..."

Lenny Kravitz has been stuck in my head since about 3:00 yesterday. It seemed the perfect theme song on my last day of work.

LAST DAY OF WORK!!!!

Guys, I'm UNEMPLOYED. And could not be happier. This is usually the part where people freak out about making money, and what happens next, but... I'm just not worried.

Update: It's been confirmed. I am.

I'm a resourceful gal, and will be able to find/do something to keep me afloat.

This is the part of my life where I stop wasting my time trying to please anyone for a paycheck. This is the part where I stop compromising my values, and bring humanity back into my life, instead of dwindling myself down to a number. I mean, really, look at the way it's set up: Anything that identifies us involves numbers. Social Security Numbers, Account numbers, Case Numbers, Reference numbers, Credit Scores. My job got to the point where when I would receive a spreadsheet of credit card account holders to garnish, the names were completely omitted.

We may as well put a barcode on the back of everyone's necks. It saves plastic and paper, I'm sure.

I do not doubt that there is some beauty to the Universal aspect of the numeric system, and it is a great way to keep track of things, but let's not forget that Hearts beat, Blood flows, and Brains buzz beneath those numbers. If we lose that, we lose everything.

Hm, I didn't expect to go there... "What I was trying to get at" was how excited I am to be able to pursue my other projects wholeheartedly. What am I without my passions? I am working on musical collaborations, writing numerous stories at once, creating wearable items, and petting my kitty.

MY KITTY, GRETCHEN.
You've seen her before. Haven't you?

She's my little angel.

I need to modify my lifestyle to allow me more time to do the things that make me who I am. And not only am I trying to create, but I intend to go back to school and finish that Bachelor's I started 6 years ago. And I can tell you that working a 9-5, barely writing/creating and trying to fit in a class here and there is not going to help me succeed. I am going to find a job that is more fluid with my sensibilities. Or maybe I won't find a job. Or may be I'll just have a bunch of different jobs. Who knows?

All I know, is that my happiness comes first. End of Story.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Lesson Learned.

Sorry about that last post guys. It was complete crap. Leftovers of an angry, dissatisfied writer.

Forgive me?

I went to 2nd Story tonight, and it had been a Very Long Time since I attended the last one. In fact, it has been a very long time since I participated, attended or viewed anything that catered solely to the written word. It was nice to be in that atmosphere again. It was nice to see my former Fiction Writing teacher on stage doing his thing, and off stage telling me to do the same.

I have this uncanny ability of extricating myself from any artistic community as soon as I begin to doubt my (talents). I get excited about being around like-minded people. Then I have a freak out moment where I wonder what the hell I was thinking, and I bow out, saving myself from any potential disgrace. It's a fear of rejection--so much so, that I can't even bring myself to let my boyfriend read more than a paragraph of something I've written. And not just any old thing like that crap I posted the other day, but something true, something that is inherently mine.

I began writing because I believed that I had a story (or two) to tell. I stopped writing because I began to doubt whether or not I was capable of making anyone care about those stories. But I was going about it all wrong. First and foremost, I have to care about those stories. Because if I can't deal with it day in and day out, going over it, through it, around it, what's the point? It's like the Rilke quote at the top of this blog. Sometimes I think I know the reason I want to write. Other times, I think it's just a glorified childhood game I was never able to let go of.

But then again, how many of us have stories of how our lifelong dreams began? Don't they begin with a childhood game? Isn't that when the roots begin to grow?

If writing were just a game to me, I wouldn't dwell on it as much. I wouldn't have twenty-plus notebooks of journal entries and story ideas. I sure as hell wouldn't be blogging.

"Confess to yourself you would have to die if you were Forbidden to write."

I'm afraid I would.

So let's start over.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

This could be the Start of something Serial.

Here's something I wrote, that was prompted by this sweet little site. It's pretty awesome. People post ten words, and then you have to write a short using the ten words. I only got to about 5 when I began to divert my attention away from the challenge and onto something I might actually enjoy continuing. It's unfinished, but leaves you with a cliffhanger (audience: oooooh):

After a particularly sordid drunken film at a friend's house, I stumbled home in the rain to my own apartment for a great night's sleep--at least, I hoped. I had a knack for showing up on other people's doorsteps and lawns; usually other acquaintances, and occasionally exes. I double checked the address above the door: 1061. 'Okay, so far so good,' I thought. 'Now I just need to open the door.'

As I struggled to get my key into the hole, I felt a ragged, creepy breath on the back of my neck. I spun around to berate the mouth-breathing offender, but quickly realized it was only Ronnie, a very cute attendee of the party, and I vaguely recalled asking him to my place for 'coffee' afterwards.

I smiled my sloppy sexy smile--you know, the one where only half of your mouth rises, because you don't remember how to work the other side, and your lids are heavy because you see three of everything--and threw my arms around his neck, planting my lips on his. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the velocity of my passionate embrace, and we both crashed onto the sidewalk, which, thankfully, was only two steps down from my apartment door.

We both laughed, helping each other up, when I noticed blood on my hand. I looked down at the cement, seeing a small red spot.

"What is it? Did you hurt yourself?" Ronnie asked, his eyes slowly wandering to the ground, then back to my hand.

I stroked the back of his head, finding a wet, sticky mess near the nape.

"No, you did. Let's get inside and find some First-Aid," I said, turning back to the doorknob to work on my 'key-goes-in-the-hole' task.

'Success! This is my apartment after all!' I thought, as I opened the door to my modest Studio. I threw off my raincoat, tossing it on the couch, and zig-zagged my way to the bathroom.

"Feel free to help yourself to something to drink!" I called out, searching beneath the sink. Hopefully that little fall didn't ruin the night's coming festivities; especially since I couldn't really see any of the objects I was reaching for too clearly. First-Aid kits are usually in that plastic thingy, right? Or was it a tube?

A few moments later, I noticed his black Italian dress shoes out of the corner of my eye. I looked up into his crooked grin and green eyes.

"I was thinking maybe you could quench that thirst?"

I stood up, holding a tube of Gold Bond in my hand.

"Oh, well, let me help--" but before I could finish my witty sensual reply, he stumbled back a few steps, his eyes rolled upward, and he dropped to the floor, bumping the left side of his head on the toilet. Blood trickled into his hairline, and a small groan emitted from his lips.

Doesn't look like I'll be getting laid tonight.

(cue dramatic piano music and audience gasps)

Oh my! What will happen to our inebriated heroine and her concussed love-interest? Find out next time in:

I have no idea where this is going. Wanna find out with me?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~