stablization

As I look at my small red clad feet I feel the world shift under me. This is not a new thing, this is my thing. I have always questioned the foundation for which I was set. The ground has always been riddled and rocky, and I balanced, spinning like a top, spinning like my thoughts.  I wonder of what substance I am made of since it is not a stable substance. Closing my eyes I can see myself flow like liquid, fitting in the cracks and flowing back out before it I can assume the shape.
The trail of liquid, the clanking of ideas, the consistent loss of footing, these are the things I am composed of. I am made of fairy tales, imaginary valor, sacred contempt, and withering will. Still I not afraid of these parts and pieces. I don't scorn myself for lack of internal normalcy, because Christ in Heaven what is that and where would that place me in the grand scheme of things? Once placed there would I want to visit, take up residence or long wistfully for the inky flow of my soul to allow me passage away?
Who cares if the I fit nowhere yet melt into everything at the same time. If my mind rides a back road and my veins drip ink what does it matter? I adore the constant inconstancy of what I am and all that I become. I should be a million things and somebodies but it is hard enough being me at times to focus on the shoulds. The am's possess me and I am happy as I am broken, battered, fearful, fulfilled, flawed, loved, scattered, loyal, and inspired.
In youth I searched for roots. Tied myself to rotting limbs just to say I belong to something bigger although never better than myself. I dirtied my temper, would forsake my desires to feel a part of this dying murderous thing. To feel the wobbling flux of a thing that I couldn't really belong to. I choked on the guilt , mocked my own heart and dreams. I looked in the skies pretending they held the answers, pretending it was the weakness of my voice that refused to part the clouds. I stared into red rimmed eyes, I stared into the face and existence of insanity clenching my fists to keep from being swept away, swept in, carried off in the waters that drown me.
Now I look at the clouds. I stare at the beauty of the formations, searching for shapes and rainbow's. I have weakly severed faith and family as one severs a sick limb, but still feels the phantom pains of where it should be. I grow, I learn, I melt into my own cracks. Christ above or mother below, I'm am still uncertain, but what am I ever certain of most days aside from the uncertain path of my thoughts and the inevitable rush of my blood, black as night pure as ink.

Washing Away...

The water pulls at me, weighing me, crushing the breath from my lungs. I am treading in genetic cyanide. The wounds gap as the life ebbs out of them. I don't know how much longer I can force my mouth above the waves as they crash and suffocate me with relentless fervor. I feel awkward and hollow. I don't know anymore where I came from and don't know if I want to go back. I pull in the last breath as I go under, go away. My mind floats through a screen of memories of good, of bad. The good is more like a sitcom the bad an epic Greek tragedy.
Closing my eyes I surrender. I don't have an idea of what I'm fighting for anymore since I am clearly never winning anything. My solace is the eventual exhaustion that brings on fretful sleep. I would prefer my happy nights of walking the halls then the sleep of desperation. It all falls from me, sister, mother, attachment. I open my thin fingers and visualize my mind letting it all drop. The rush of water swirling the images out, past me. I seal myself from the hurt, biting my bottom lip that quivers from injury, anger, contempt. My fingers instinctively start to form a tight ball, a fist, but they can't. Why?
Another stronger, careful, callused and sensitive set hold fast to mine. The world rushes, throwing shadows off of me as the hand pulls me, supports me. I see a set of blue eyes, then another, and then a sparkling set of green. This is what I am, this is what I am made up of, not the lies that pull and contort by heart. I feel the small tight stitch pull my wounds together with a squeeze of his hand. I feel the healing in the laugh of my daughter. I feel it in the arms of my son. I breath them in, claiming their beauty to nourish the ugly inside of me. The water still washes below my knees but it will no longer drown me. I will float my own way, or wade it out if I wish.
I can't starve for scraps of affection, nor suffer for deeds not done. I can no longer apologize for transgressions I never committed. I can not seek forgiveness when there is nothing to forgive. I shall emerge and thrive in the eyes of my family, the laughter of those I love, and the arms of all those that love me. I don't need genealogy to make me who I am, I can make my own family and relations myself, entwine my soul with those that deserve it, not those I have been saddled with.

                                           I was listening to the impeccable Johnny Flynn.

I'm sorry what did you just call me?

Ok, so I'm a bit on the smaller side, this is a fact. Lets not to forget that I'm at the same time on the less healthy side of the spectrum in general having the muscle consistency of veal. Ok, so not everyone is built the same, awesome, I love some variety. Fine, I kind of hate everyone equally if you want to know the blatant truth! Not because I'm self righteous or that I think I'm Superior, or that my music choices are better than yours (they are trust me!), no it has to do with the fact that total strangers, friends, and even more strangers have a bizarre habit of calling me by the delightful moniker of, brace yourself, "Skinny Bitch". What the hell? Do I know you? Alright so I get the fact that you pointed out that I am on the spare side, but you also whapped me with Bitch. Where in the hell is that a complement? Back handed perhaps but still not a damn complement. If I was talking to someone and was rather taken by something they had/did/said I would not show my admiration by calling them a fat bitch to show our dissimilar places. First I would get me skinny bitchy ass kicked, second that crap is jacked up! Examples you ask for, well here you go:
Me: Well I kind of hate Sting.
Friend: Really, he's my favorite.
Stranger(thin, beautiful): Yeah I've never liked him either.
Friend (after stranger walked away looking at me) must be a skinny bitch thing.

Stranger at daughters school: I can't believe you have a kid, your so tiny.
Me: Oh, I have two, my sons a few months old.
Stranger: Oh, I fucking hate you, you skinny bitch.
(I'm still working out if this had any compliment in it, but she was smiling and talked to me everyday after so I guess it was supposed to be.)


Stranger: Hey where did you get that belt?
Me: Tillies
Stranger: Oh only skinny bitches and gay guys shop there! (way to offend two groups there lady!)

So what is my point here? No, not oh poor me I'm so thin you don't know my hardships, blah, sob! Thing is it turns into a form of reverse discrimination. You would never comment on someones weight if they were heavy because its offense. You would never ask them if they gorge themselves because that is evil so why on God's green Earth do you think it's fine to ask me if I like to throw up? It makes me cry actually, thank you kindly (the puking, not the question that just pisses me off). Look just because Oprah did a special about eating disorders doesn't mean 1. That I have one 2. That you have any damn right to ask or comment that I do!
Here's how I see it, you can dress it in as many fluffy compliments as you please, you still just called me a bitch.

This the bit of loveliness I listened to while writing this.

What's in a name?

It turns out there is a lot it seems. I don't mean the the complete annoyed knowledge of how a name defines you and what exactly that means since I from the bowels of my existence dislike my name. It isn't so much that I detest other Susans. I am fine with them as a whole, I hate myself as a Susan. It's like a shirt that never fits and the tag always feels scratchy. It is my proverbial hair shirt it seems, that aside I will get to my point. I have been working rather drolly on my second novel that I lazily saved as, well, novel. I write my heart out, drop a few music references, tuck in some biblical illusion, sneak in a proverb or two, and hit save. What happens? Nothing. Why do I walk away and feel unfulfilled. I just purged but the cleansing feels weak. Is my ability already waned?
I read over it, not bad, but something is missing. In my dreams, my deeper thoughts, I have moved on by my frustration, I have mentally composed my third novel, researched my fourth. I toy with shelving Novel, knowing it would be injurious to the parts of my third, already tucked delightfully in my mind. Plus the concept of quitting makes me queasy.
At a glance of my saved documents I can pick out easily my babies. My literary abstractions. I see Finding Faith, The Reality of Sleeping Beauty, The odd Couple smiling at me. Hugging my broken spirit. My wordy little cheerleaders! The I see one titled blandly book. What the hell was that? Another says chpt 2? Chapter 2 of what, of book maybe? I am clueless at these discarded bits of imagination. Did I ever love them? Did I dance before my fingers hit the keys, clearing my mind. Did I cleave to Ian Curtis while I wrote them? I always listen to something( even now), are these my bastard children since I can't even place their inspiration? mental soundtrack blank!
Then it hits me, they are nameless bits. They have been pushed aside, souls ignored in the dark throws of my hard drive. Eureka! That is the root of my disconnection with Novel. There is reason you don't name farm animals, they seem less tasty when you put a title to your burger. Take eggs for example. Full of protein, how would that huevos ranchero taste if they were called embryos instead, because well that's what the hell they are. So that is the cause of my detachment, it was my egg. Enjoyed at the moment easily discarded because it had no life to it.
The Sacrificing of Grace, that's its name. It's lovely, joyfully endearing name. I reread it and I am in love again. I am inspired and I am found!

I wrote this while listening to The tallest man on Earth, FYI. ( the actual song, had to stoop to video since it won't let me post mp3, sigh)

Publishing purgatory

So what is the proper amount of time to wait, waste until faced with the harsh reality that the editor you submitted to thinks your work is shit? According to Avon Impulse it is a irritating three months. Three months of waiting, but for what? Well an acceptance of course. Still is it insane to value a rejection almost as much? I don't refer to the wait around, unable to submit that particular work to another firm until it has been freely dismissed, insert term "painfully ignored" here, I mean the potential of receiving feedback. Why do I suck? Is it my query? Did my query hold up only to have my actual novel dissipate any hope of my being a justifiable author? Could it be my lack of professional expertise? You see I can remedy the first two, but the latter is inevitably out of my scope of control. How does one get street cred as an author? What does it take to go from a simple figure hovering over a keyboard writing to stay the unstable demons of my mind to being a bona fided writer? How does one earn that coveted R? I look on with frustration, stumbling to go from a person that writes to a writer. If someone is blessed with this sacred knowledge by all means radiate your intelligence on me! Short of having to shank a librarian I am all about gaining my literary stripes.
Sadly, Avon Impulse will not grace me with a letter of disgrace. No Dear John, you are not editorially viable,  your verbally stunted and you tend to use the term fuck a tad too often and offensively. Nope I will receive none of that, sigh. So now I just wait out my time, praying to get bought, peddling my literary goods. I will not fall, I will spend the next two and half months waiting peacefully, centering my chi and writing my ass off! I am waist deep into novel two and mentally arranging several more. Viva la Inspiration!

Disclaimer

So I speak my mind the good the bad, wretched, amusing, and hearty ramblings that course through me at any given time. I am not always, insert the term often, politically correct. I am not a  holder of hands a  fondler of your feelings, I am a writer. If what I say offends you, I'm almost sorry, you are more then welcome to move on. I won't always be tragic, I won't always be funny, in fact I can't promise I will constantly be posting ( I'm also deep in novel land, pray to the publishing gods for me please), I can promise I will give it my all. I will spare no thought, feeling or observation no matter how vague or trying. No matter how blisteringly wrong or positively divine. I am who I am. I offer myself and it is up to you to take it or leave it.