A Post Brought To You By Real Paper, From A Real Notebook.

I need to reacquaint myself with the habit of writing on paper.

Writing used to be my escape tunnel, dug with a single stainless spoon over a period of time--decades, maybe--through a brick and mortar prison wall. On the other side, I could see things impossible in my dingy cell. I could run around in that beautiful world, creating something from nothing, seeing pure greens and blues unaffected by reality's shadowy presence.

I always had to come back. My cell was unguarded, but a prison nonetheless. What kept me there? The fact that long periods of time spent "outside" had a tendency to stretch my sanity thin when I returned. What's missing here is the explanation of why I had to return at all--I don't have an answer for that yet. I'd come back and continue to act as if I were still free, and nothing I said or did made any sense to anyone but me. I started to wonder if my field trips were excursions into the realm of lost minds. I had days when that idea scared all the imagination out of me, but I also had days where I was perfectly all right with it.

How many writers go crazy? Stark-raving mad magicians of words, creating something out of nothing, who delight in making readers feel deep emotion, using only 26 characters that only mean something because they said it did. Are writers insane? Are they hypnotists? Are they as weak as anyone else, or have they tamed insanity--put it on a leash and named it eccentricity?

As a general rule, they are all required to be slightly egotistic at the very least, even if it only stems from living inside themselves for too long. Am I thinking of eccentricity? Probably. But that requires being egotistic to an extent, so I'm sort of right. They're all--as far as I can tell--very particular about their pens and paper. Or their typewriters, or word processors. Line spacing, how the page looks when it's full, is very important. They'll rip a masterpiece to shreds if it's not aesthetically pleasing.

I know I do. I have done so. But they probably weren't masterpieces.

What is my problem, then? Why can I not identify with that group who calls themselves writers? Out of fear that the moment I do, it will become false? This is true, it's what I think--but it's false. I am afraid of what that label will mean when I stick it to myself. Afraid I won't live up to it if I call myself a writer before I really am. Afraid of disappointing everyone who heard me say it. Because outside of scheduling writing courses, it's always been my little secret. Because if I know it's going to be read before I write it, those poisonous thoughts will fill my head and smother my ideas. That is a fact.

So it's safe to say my problem lies in not being eccentric enough, because I give more than a shit if what I write is liked or impressive.

What's upsetting about that is that it goes against every bit of advice I've ever given to anybody. It goes against my mantra, if I have one: "love yourself, or no one will." I've preached this since... the birth of my self-awareness. That summer day in the daycare pool when I realized I wasn't exactly stunning in a bikini. It snowballed from there.

I guess I figured if I said it to enough people, they would believe it, and I would, in turn, come to know it as a fact about myself. This thought has been my crusade, to a point of absurdity, to a point where it has come between me and significant others.

What convoluted logic! It merely points a gaudy, blinking arrow back to my insecurity; that it would take others' opinions for me to love myself, and that can't happen. It can't hinge on others. So awful it is, that for most of my life, I've known that the louder someone shouts "I AM THIS", the more likely it is that they're not.

Deep down, I wonder, am I just a pre-pubescent chubby little girl in a swimming pool full of judgement and self-loathing? Are the things I write all just metaphors for what I wish was my psychic condition? What happens now that I know this? Is it possible to change, to accept myself untethered, without losing my mind? Or is that just the way psyches are built--interconnected, reliant, dependent on each other; and anyone who says theirs is otherwise is preaching doublespeak?

Do I change?

Or do I just stop preaching my own contradictions?

I get all the news I need from the weather report

I need to weed the garden, prune the bonsai, fertilize the petunias. Or perhaps I should just uproot the entire plant.

Certain things in my life have fallen into stagnation. Not because they are dead, or aren't being used, but because they remain still. They're thinking, they are alive, but like a tree, they're growing algae and moss, and parasites threaten to drive a chisel through their bodies slowly, until one day, they crack and the rot is exposed. And passers-by peer through the crack, and think, wow, it's been dying for years, I thought that old tree would be there forever, it looked so strong, and it was so stable...

As humans with language, song and thought, we don't like to think we can fall victim to things so easily wiped away as lichens or fungus. We're active creatures. We clean ourselves, our food, our living spaces. We run from being in one place for too long, with our jobs, our kids, our schools, our restaurants. But when you come home from all that at the end of the day, you sit.

See, that's when it happens.

When you're sitting there with your beer, your significant other and your television, you're letting things outside of you think for you. You're letting your television, your couch, your computer, your significant other, become parasites to your thought.

In farming, that's when the plant is cut and burned--after it's produced fruit, and probably won't any longer. Farmers know when to terminate life. Plus, it's good for the soil, all that decaying matter, mulch for the next crop.

If I terminate it now, it will decay. But when it's done, I'll be better for it. Spread the compost around so the soil can gather experience.

My life looks too much like this right now. I'm trying to find a compromise, to make this situation as painless as possible, but that's probably because I've been sitting still for too long. No real change happens painlessly. Compromising with what ails you is a silly thought.

My neighbor popped her head in my place the other day when we were getting ready to grill some steaks outside. She looked in and said, "Man, it's cozy in here. I love our little apartments. But they're so cozy, they make it hard to leave, and change, and grow." Then she turned around and left me with that.

This just isn't getting better with time.

I am obviously pleased with myself.

What an exciting year. As I previously stated, I've given up cigarettes, and I'm on day 4 with no nicotine. After last night at work, I thought I had broken down and would buy a pack on the way home, because I wait tables. Everyone who waits tables smokes cigarettes as well. A year on the job and you'll know why.

But I stopped for gas, and just pumped gas. I thought about it, the smell of lighting up, and that I could in fact SMELL it now, and realized I didn't want a cigarette. I wanted something, but it probably wasn't a cigarette.

Still no cigarettes. And now I have this crazy idea in my head that I'm going to cut out booze for a few months to shave off some pounds and save maximum money. What's happening to me?

Believe me or not, I don't care: I'm pointing my finger at the crazy trip on New Year's Eve. Cigarettes were so offensive, and I didn't want to drink for days afterwards. Plus I was broke for about a week and a half after that road trip. All makes sense, right? Thanks buddies, for dragging me to Oklahoma City and making me spend all my money, trip MOUNTAINS, and quit smoking.

Another exciting thing about this year:

"Smoking cigarettes costs you $43.75 per week, $190.10 per month, and $2,281.25 per year."


I'm gonna buy some real cool shit this year that probably won't give me cancer. That's a lot of money, people. I could live for 6 months in a foreign country for that much.

Making real changes in your life is one of the most exhilarating and motivating things you can do when you're in a rut. It's the only thing you can do that will get you anywhere closer to leaving said rut. Don't take this as, "Take a trip: quit smoking", please. Doesn't work that way.

Now for a bike ride. Hello, lung capacity.

50 Minutes

50 Minutes of writing, commence.

Happy new year! In true form, I'm not going to talk about 2009. Fuck that year. Nothing bad really happened, but I didn't improve my situation as I'd hoped.

2010, however, is shaping up quite nicely.

I tripped the new year in with the Flaming Lips in Oklahoma City. It might be the most mind-blowing experience I've had to date. For really real.

I have vowed (and so far, not broken) to eat better and exercise more, in a habitual fashion which I won't have to think about in a few weeks.

I have quit smoking cigarettes. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN I DON'T KNOW! I think it had something to do with abhorring the smell of cigarettes when I was tripping in Oklahoma City. I'm somehow more alerted to how offensive the smell is to people who don't smoke. Advice: Don't take psychoactives if you have a chest cold, unless you want your life to change. I smelled everything separated. For instance, if there was a mixture of body odor, bad breath and booze in the air, I smelled what felt like "beads" of each, one at a time, unmixed. And when I lit a cigarette... ooh. My nose said, "No ma'am."

That first morning after zero cigarettes was absolutely priceless. So refreshing, to sleep without shit in your lungs wanting out.

Tonight will be the real test though: I work for the first time since quit day. Working in a restaurant is nightmarish to an ex-smoker. I feel strong now, and I'll bring my sunflower seeds to work with me, but I'm a little scared. I think I'll be alright.

What's next for this year? Learn, read, build, build. A project every day. Happy 2010.

Driving Through

I'll always think of it with fond memories. The dawn of the internet, with the dialing tones and tied up phone lines; Chuck pissing on the crowd at the American Legion Hall, effectively shutting down youthful live music at the venue; the blossoming of my first love. Aphex Twin, and the experience of trapping a time period--smells, words, clothes, eyes--within a song that's never long enough. Staying up later than my parents ever dreamed of at my age, with nothing but a friend to talk to, before I was interested in things like booze or drugs.

All the stuff of my adolescence was contained in the bubble of Denham Springs: a place whose only purpose seemed to be raising children. Our teenage birthrate let me in on that little secret--my graduating class had lots of young mothers, some with children three years old by the time they were 18. It never seemed odd until I got to college, where I met no mothers under the age of 28. I hate to discredit my intelligence, but I didn't put together the reason until several years later--silly me--high school mothers more often than not, don't go to college. They stay in Denham Springs to raise their children, in the same broken (or breaking) homes their parents raised them in.

I don't often go through the city of Denham Springs when I visit my family. I prefer the back roads, away from traffic and all my old stomping grounds. My current friends seem to be in similar ways about where they grew up, because, well I suppose we're growing up. Suddenly, whether we dropped out or got degrees, we shifted into adults almost imperceptibly. The few times I've realized the change have been when I'm encountered by someone who hasn't made the shift, and even though I thought like they do as few as two years ago, I find myself shaking my head and not going to 80s night.

The back roads are comforting in their recent familiarity, i.e. driving home drunk from LSU every other night three years ago. I didn't really live with my parents, I only slept there sometimes. I lived in my car, if you're counting by total time spent in a single place. That's where my clothes were, and my razors and my perfume. Most of my belongings.

And when I came home, it would be so dark that I couldn't see the floor-to-ceiling collage of pictures I'd put on my wall in high school. I wanted to forget about the people in them, and the things we'd done in our crappy little town. Why? I don't know why. We weren't lame. We were pretty well liked. We actually were rather close. Then we all went our separate ways, and no one really talked anymore. I'm not mad that they didn't keep in touch, because I didn't either.

The reason I wanted to forget, I think, is because at some point, I began to associate Denham Springs with being trapped.

And I just balled it all together--all the people I'd met there, all the things we'd done, all the signs we'd stolen, and every memory I'd ever made there--and threw it out the car window on my way to Baton Rouge. I did that every day, for years.

When I drove through Denham Springs today for Christmas, I took River Road, which runs through the main part of town. I passed the place where I crashed my first car, which was next to the house where I crawled through my first window, the first time I ever snuck out of my house. It was overwhelming, and warm, like apple cider.

After Christmas at my parents' house, I left around dusk. I decided to go through the city again--I wanted that warm, encompassing feeling that River Road had given me earlier, in the bright light of morning, but I found nothing of the sort.

The sunset would have been beautiful anywhere else, but in Denham Springs, the shadows enveloped every crevasse and alley I'd ever had fun in. Everything I saw had memories attached, but they were dying without the sun; lichens grew on the bricks I had climbed on, a slow slime that prevented any other adventurous teenager from retracing my steps. The streetlights seemed to burn out as I passed, and I had the distinct sensation that I was not welcome. I sped up to reach the interstate in the same car that had driven me to high school. The axles groaned; a car that's been driven by a child can only take the weight of so many memories.

Denham Springs spat me out tonight. And from now on, it probably always will. It is a place for children and parents. I guess I finally don't qualify.

I eased up when I got on I-12, my muscles loosened and I stopped death-gripping the steering wheel. I turned the radio up and lit up a cigarette, watching my single working headlight catch pieces of decaying trash littering the shoulder, all the way to Baton Rouge.

M.I.A. due to soap

You know, I could stand to be happy with doing just a few things. But somehow, I'm incapable--my interests go all over the place, and as soon as I've so much as thought an idea through, I'm leaping to another. I'd say that "this is the product of a healthy active mind," but it actually just resembles the picky child who quits every hobby before she gets good at it. In my case, before I ever get to the point of using the supplies I buy for it.

Examples: Christmas lights. I bought a bunch of LED lights with my neighbor, since we live in attached apartments, we were going to decorate. This was a week and a half ago, and all I've done is put some grandma knicknacks outside.

#2: this blog. I'm trying to warm up to the idea again, I really am.

I could go on and on with examples, but I forgot most of the other endeavors this year.

There is one interest, though, that has stood for about a year. And it's completely weird that it's stuck. I believe I'm addicted, actually.

I like making soap. Real soap. As in, measure out the oils and pour lye into water and get chemical burns Soap.

Last Christmas, I was short on money and went to Hobby Lobby to find something to make as gifts for everyone. I had no idea what I was looking for. I then came across the "melt-and-pour" soap base bars. This is the cheap and easy way to do it, but I had no idea at the time. I made them all within a few days, and bought more base. Thought about the business opportunities. At some point I realized that I didn't know how to make soap base at all, and I would have to learn if I were to start selling soap at a Farmer's Market or something.

A year went by; I didn't make anymore soap. I thought it was gone like all my other hobbies. Then October came around, and I started to research how to make soap base. It took me approximately 2 months of reading to believe I had a good theoretical grip on the process. About 2 weeks ago, I bought all my materials bit by bit.

Two weeks later, I've spent ~$120 on soap materials. The oils aren't cheap. The scents are SO EXPENSIVE. That's another idea: I need to get into the essential oils business, I'd be a millionaire. My fridge is empty, and everything I own is covered with a thin layer of soap and/or lye. I botched my first batch because I measured everything in fluid ounces instead of weight, including the lye, and once cured, my soap would create rashes on everyone I gave them to. This is a dangerous process!

But four batches later (including 2 crumbled to the point where they're unusable), I have real soap, like people in the 17th century used to make, with no preservatives or harsh chemicals. I know exactly what's in them, ingredient by ingredient, and the respective amounts. I know what oils turn which colors, and that honey caramelizes and turns everything orange (and smells like sugar cookies!).

The only thing I don't understand, and what I might never understand, is how the hell lye water mixes with oil to make soap.

Harsh, caustic drain cleaner + the hardest thing to clean = sanitation. Maybe that's why I stuck with this hobby--it has an inherent mystery of nature that I have learned how to manipulate for the benefit of my species. Soap/sanitation is one of the most important inventions of the human race. I say "invention", but it's really the chemistry of nature that put it there for us to find.

And when it all goes to hell, whether it be zombie-related or nuclear fallout, if I survive, I'll know how to make soap. Without soap, disease and pestilence run rampant.

Ok, so maybe it won't all go to hell and this will just be some silly hobby that I could bypass completely by going to Walgreens, but putting it that way makes me feel important. So shut up.

It's 2am, I'm driving away, and everything evaporates.

all the secrets I've told tonight, all the secrets I'll never tell

melt into one giant blob

makes it hard to walk upstairs

what's upstairs? some place I call home.

I need some food. I have no money,

I do what my mother taught me

in times of need:

"always have a sack of grits and a carton of eggs"

although I don't remember buying them,

I have them

I remember her warmth and her wisdom but

I don't remember her saying it,

maybe it was just me?

1 cup grits

1 2/3 cup water

some salt, whatever

throw it in the microwave, in that

pyrex bowl I bought at a thrift store

add some salt, to taste

To taste: oh, what a feeling. I can't taste anything right now but oh

that egg, slightly uncooked

poured atop those grits and salt and water

tastes like home

I might be able to forget tonight.

oh, to forget: the enemy of the drunk twenty-something

the girl who needs to remember

might always choose to forget