"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.~

New Beginnings

I'm one of those people, who, if unhappy with something, will immediately change it to my liking.

This is how I live my life. Sometimes, it's a good thing, and other times, well... have resulted in my current track record of having attended five different post-secondary schools:

1)University of Michigan

2)Macomb Community College

3)PennFoster (yeah. Shut up)

4)Columbia College

5)Cortiva Institute

6) ???? Still working on that.

I've done the same with hairstyles (I've been known to pick up scissors within 5 minutes of my gushing over a haircut I see online), apartment design, hobbies, and jobs.

Jobs, guys, jobs.

I currently work in a thankless job that makes me feel like I'm ruining lives. And I can't do it anymore. Won't do it anymore. I'd rather give an old man a sponge bath than do what I do.

But I'm on my way out, and interviewing and applying like mad for other jobs.

Of course, I already gave my notice. :)

See where I'm going with this? Thought so.

And guess who isn't worried one damn bit? When I'm determined, I am motherfucking determined.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Slutwalk Chicago 2011: A Reflection

I had no idea what to expect. For the most part, anytime a form of activism is posted on Facebook, it's either virtual, or cancelled within a week of the pending date.

But this one wasn't, and I am SO GLAD I went.

I stepped out of the doors of the Clark and State El Station with two ladies and a sign, saying, "This is not a Walk of Shame". The air was thick with humidity, and the sun beamed down onto the heads of hundreds of people in front of us.

Wait-- hundreds? The three of us looked at each other as we watched the crowd wrap around the corner, and begin marching down the street. And they were still coming. Running to catch up, it was easy to get into the spirit of the march. The energy was all around; and it was dressed in nighties, fishnets, jeans, shorts, corsets, dresses, banana hammocks, stilettos and miniskirts. They came from everywhere, and traffic was at a standstill.

Hm... maybe we broke a thousand.

People looked on in horror, pride and humor. Vehicles from all around honked in support. We screamed anytime it felt right, and had a few rotating chants, like,

"No means No! Yes means Yes!"

"Gay, Straight, Black, White, all Unite for Women's Rights!"

and one of my favorites,

"What do we want?"

"Consensual Sex!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

That last one didn't catch on like many of us hoped. But it kept the spirits light.

We marched down Michigan Avenue, scaring tourists. There were cameras all over, taking pictures of the throng--actually, our sign was pretty popular (I can't take credit for it, unfortunately--another member of our awesome trio was the genius there).

We were dripping with sweat, losing our voices, and making a stand. And I had a little moment of reflection as my feet padded the pavement:

I'm doing this for my sister, who lost her life at the hands of an abusive man. I'm doing this for every other person who has experienced sexual assault, abuse in any way, been made to feel less than Zero, or that they don't matter. I'm doing this for myself, to remember that I never have to feel like my liberties are any less than a man's. Of course I'll scream til I lose my voice. I'll walk til my knees give out. I'll make sure someone fucking hears this, and listens, and understands.

It was a necessary reflection, a validation that I was indeed, alive, kicking, and standing up for something I believed in. And it felt really good. And I think 'she' would be proud.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Happy Memorial Day--uh, Evening!

I missed yesterday, I know, I know, I'm sorry. I was in the burbs without the 'net.

But if you'd like to see the progress of my knitting adventures, Click here!

In other news, I've started writing a melodrama. In script form. I've never completed a single script (or anything else for that matter), but I am determined as hell to finish this one. I already have the entire plot figured out, in three acts. It's not really good, it would remind you a little bit of a soap opera and Basic Instinct, but I need to do something lighthearted, and not as deep as what I normally write. I think if I start with something small like this, it will spur me to finish the projects that really matter to me. I began the script yesterday, and my first goal is to have Act One's script done by Friday. Not a bad goal, considering I don't have much of a life, and it's not a novel.

So let's see how that goes!!

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Oh Paper, How I love theee.

That's Me. If I were Anne Hathaway playing Jane Austen, at least.

I never start a story on my laptop.

Seriously, never. It's so... bulky, electronic, and... dry.

I had begun watching 'Becoming Jane' today, and some of my favorite scenes have absolutely nothing to do with that Hot Dude from Limerick. It's when Jane is alone. For example:

-The opening scene of the film; it's early morning, and Jane is writing alone at a desk in a nightgown and shawl. It's so quiet; just the sound of a faucet dripping, snoozing piglets, her family sleeping. She plucks some notes out on the piano for inspiration, thinking. Then she finds the words, writes them down, reads over it, and in a little fit of accomplishment, plays a happy tune on the piano, waking the entire household (including the Pigs) and startling the maid.

-She just overheard Hot Dude from Limerick consider her work juvenile (after falling asleep during her open letter to her newly engaged sister), and runs upstairs to tear apart the pages she wrote. She then pulls out a trunk from under the bed, and opens it, reading over other pieces of her work-- it's filled with single pages of her writing, ink, quills, and all other literary paraphernalia. I love this one. It makes me think of my approach to writing, and the disorganization that comes with it.

To be completely honest, most of my writing is scattered about on sheets of paper of various sizes, shoved between notebooks and textbooks on my bookshelves and in drawers. Even the notebooks I have that are devoted to writing are paper-clipped and dog-eared like I just have no place to put my things.

But I love it. I love picking up an old journal and going through it for inspiration. I find stories I had completely forgotten about. It's like finding an old friend. And we become reacquainted, but with new knowledge and experiences to draw from, the friendship evolves into something else. Something better, perhaps? Or maybe something that would never come to fruition. And I enjoy seeing my handwriting on the pages. I change it, consciously, from time to time, just to play with lettering. And I love the way it feels between my fingers--the new paper, the old paper, the high quality versus low quality, the thin and thick, the recycled--the crinkling sound a melody in my ears as I leaf through my imagination.

Oh, and the look of the new sheet of paper. It is so intimidating, yet so inviting. I want whatever I write to be magnificent, but I want there to be imperfections as well. I'll doodle on it just to break it in.

I don't transfer stories to computer until I'm sure it is something I would like to seriously pursue, or eventually post online somewhere. Only then do I open my laptop. Even if I have more ideas for the story, I still begin on paper before transferring to a word document.

It's so difficult to think freely when you have a word processor correcting your misspellings and underlining your grammatical errors. The bright light is disturbing, I have to keep my hands on Home Row. My thoughts flow so well from my left hand to the pen to the paper, and the sound is much more soothing than the click-clacking of keys (which I enjoy as well, but only when blogging--which happens to be the only time I don't use paper).

Which brings me to pens. Oh... pens.

I'll save that for another post.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S. I just started knitting! Check out my other blog for the amazing adventure... there's pics!