Sunday, October 7, 2012

Celebrating Mediocrity

    My [insert offspring, spouse, sibling, pet of choice here] just [insert mediocre task here]! I'm so sick to death and trying not to puke on my own face proud! He/she/it is so  painfully average amazing! Does anyone else wonder why American society has taken to praising mediocrity and giving kudos for performing such ordinary tasks as drinking tea or walking upright without dragging one's knuckles? Why must folk abuse the words "proud" and "amazing"? While I'm on the subject, why doesn't  anyone harbor a desire to find creative and original ways of celebrating TRULY impressive accomplishments?  I believe it's due in part to the "everyone makes the team" mentality and deep rooted fear of failing or disappointing people. If I were afraid of failing, looking stupid, disappointing people or Goddess forbid, offending folks,  I would never get out of bed each day. Yes, I'm a bitch. Get over it.
  There are droves of sheeple wasting hours of their and frankly my time posting their MaryFuckingSunshine versions of their lives in an attempt to make themselves seem to be, well, quite honestly, to make themselves appear to be what they feel society wants them to be. It's sad to see all the folks [virtually] jumping up and down and waving their arms as they scream, "Look at me, Look at me!" So your whothefuckever read a book. Whoopdefuckingding! Did posting it on facebook really cream your twinkie? Are you getting all the praise you desired and more? Does your whothefuckever even read your facebook or is this for all of our benefit? Does it really matter if your dead relatives would approve? I mean really, they're dead. Yeah, that's what I thought.
     How about if you go out and do something really spectacular? Just try. Nut up, man up, shut up or fuck off. Seriously.
     The bitch is back folks, and the world as you know it is no longer safe.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Resurrecting Raven

[ rèzzə rékt ]

  1. raise somebody from dead: to come back to life after apparent death, or bring somebody back to life
  2. reinstate something: to bring back into use something that had been stopped or discarded

The time has come, and for some, it is long overdue, yet others have most likely long forgotten the woman who simultaneously maddened, aroused, amused, insulted and frightened them, but after many years of silence, I am poised and ready to return. A lot of strange events and people have come and gone in the few years I was using my inside voice but the desire to write never did leave me. Sure, I kept it buried pretty deeply, but it was always there pestering me, taunting me.

I can't really pinpoint why I stopped writing, but I can pretty clearly list everything about it that I miss. I miss the feeling of my fingers flying across the keys while music rattles my teeth, I miss giving my words a home, I miss the freedom, the release, the agony, the joy, the pain...With a pen and paper, my hand doesn't keep up with my brain, but I CAN type almost as quickly as I think!

Over the last few months I have been pondering how making new friends (and I'm not talking push the "add to friends" button kind of friends, I'm talking about flesh and blood close enough to make eye contact and share big warm hugs with kind of friends) became so difficult. I remember back in elementary school when making a new friend was as easy as taking a cookie to another child and asking, "do you want to be my friend?". This digital/social/electronic whatthefuckever society has sort of cheapened friendships. Now there are droves of the people who seem to collect names on their friends or followers lists and carry on like they truly know any of these people. Sure, sometimes the stars align just right and we make the time to meet some of these people face to face. This has happened to me maybe half a dozen times in the last 10 years, of those I have shared common space with , I am only still in contact with a scarce few, ok, 2. I have an amazing friend whom I "met" back in the days of MSN Spaces and she came out to stay with me a few years ago. She and I quickly became great friends. It has been entirely too many years since we occupied common space, but we close the distance a wee bit by IMing a squillion times a day. I want a few really good friends. People to share laughs, meals, inside jokes (preferably dirty ones!), knowing glances, birthdays, heartache, triumphs, joy, pain and everything in between. Yes, I ask a lot. Yes, I deserve it.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Coming back to myself

     I haven't written what's in my heart or from my soul in years. Things have happened, or [un]happened depending on who's telling the story, that sent me into hiding, for lack of a better word. Sure, people can sit on the other side of the table, screen, phone line, country, or world and offer up all kinds of judgement helpful suggestions, but do any of us have any right to advise another person on dealing with their own emotions? I have heard countless times, "you shouldn't let "them" make you withdraw or censor yourself, you shouldn't give "them" that kind of power". Really? How about if I give "them" your phone number & address so "they" can interrogate you? Gee, thanks for that advice, now ALL my problems are gone! It's a bloody fucking miracle! Assholes. You have someone jump down your throat for every single word you write, someone who apparently thinks they are much more important than I do, someone who assumes everything you write is either about them or is in any way their business and wants answers or explanations for every little letter that spills from my soul. Someone who had the gall to spend hours looking for ways to contact other people in my life for reasons I still have never figured out. I used to write for me, and I gave that up to keep my sanity. Dropping out of sight became the most effective way to deal with this as my normal lashing out & ridicule tactics were met with threats. I had to find a way to stay sane inside insanity.  So here I am again, ear buds nestled in my ears, music blaring in my skull rattling my teeth and my fingers pecking away at the shiny keys still proudly displaying all their letters. I'll wear them off eventually, I need to, I've been away from me for too long.
    Since my agonizing decision to stop writing, I've been through a lot. Some really bad stuff, some really great stuff, all of which settled down in the deep crevices of my soul waiting for me to acknowledge it. I didn't. For a while, I just wanted to be. Yes, just simply be, or be, simply. I wanted to organize my house, play Suzy frickin Homemaker, spend a lot of time at the gym, and all those things society tells women with children they're supposed to do or want. I'm a silly person by nature, being a grown up has never been a good look for me. I discovered that my family are pigs who leave out every single item they touch, I stood staring out my kitchen window for what seemed like days on end. I did have a good run at the gym though; dropped 45 pounds & exercised to the point of exhaustion for entirely too many hours a week for months on end, all in an attempt to maintain whatever it was I was struggling to maintain.  I wanted to be something I'm not good at. I wanted to be normal. That didn't work out very well as it became increasingly more apparent that the whole domestic gig doesn't suit me. The whole June Cleaver act isn't me. Oh, I knew it wasn't, it hasn't been since I was a very young child, but I thought I could bullshit my way through it.
    My relationship with my littles started to become strained, the spouse and I fought nearly constantly and at times quite loudly. Life began to unravel and still I wouldn't write, all those words, interrogations, accusations, bullshit screamed and threw chairs in my head whenever I sat down, be it with pen and paper or at my old worn laptop to try to write so I could stop this downward spiral. Not expressing myself in the way I have expressed myself since I first held a pencil made expressing myself at all nearly impossible. I felt caged, restrained. I had never justified what I wrote for anyone, so why stop writing because some folks can't handle me?  I always wrote the same way I love, with wild abandon. So if you, and you know who you are, have somehow after all this time tracked me down again, you can officially fuck off and die. Go ahead, stop threatening to hang yourself and just do it. This isn't yours, it's mine. My life, my heart, my emotions, my soul. MINE!  For me, I'm going to go back to being myself. I've missed me.    

Thursday, November 25, 2010

On being different

     Today, in America, is a "holiday" called Thanksgiving. Most of us have been spoon fed a homogenized version depicting Native Americans and Invaders Pilgrims sitting peacefully sharing a meal together. If you've never been inclined to do a bit of research or are a person who prefers to remain blissfully unaware you might want to stop reading here. Before you get your granny panties all in a twist and accuse me of trying to suck the joy out of your holiday (again), fuck off.  It always seems to be acceptable for everyone to have their own opinions as long as they don't differ from the popular. I've been called difficult and opinionated and stubborn for years, I think  for myself, read, ponder and form my own views, popular or not, so I'm OK with whatever names you want to call me.
     There are several versions of the origin of Thanksgiving, history was, after all, written by the winners, right? Here's a little something I found. I wasn't present at the original "Thanksgiving" table, so my dislike of this holiday comes from a purely personal place and a dislike of masquerading as something I'm not, but I have found numerous accounts of the massacres and atrocious acts that occurred around the time of "Thanksgiving" and found that little article interesting. Do your own research, see what you find. It's fun!
     What I never have understood, and I have asked my own mother multiple times, as she claims to love all the "traditional" Thanksgiving lies foods and keep trying to shove the convoluted "it's about being with family" line of bullshit down my throat, then why don't you shove stale bread up a carcass' ass in July and spend time with your family whenever possible? My mother generally stammers and stutters until she finally gets pissy and simply says, "why do you have to question everything, why can't you just accept things as they have always been?" BECAUSE I'M TOO INTELLIGENT!
What sort of person thinks it's preferable to mindlessly follow? HolymotheroffuckIhopeI'madopted! I also know for a fact that my mother hates her own siblings, or is "money grubbing soulless vultures I hope to never see again" a term of endearment? Anyone? I also know that my parents wouldn't drive down to watch my son & I compete in our karate tournament but 2 weeks later they drove down with the intention of watching my nieces subsequently rained out softball tournament. Being with family my ass. 
     I am thankful, I am grateful and I am appreciative, but I don't wait until the 4th Thursday in November to SHOW that. And no, logging into your facebook page to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving is NOT showing your friends and family that you are thankful they are part of your life. Bringing them soup when they are sick, writing them a letter, yes writing, on real paper, holding their hand, kissing their foreheads, wrapping your arms around them and holding them against you, making them something with your own hands...those are a few ways you can SHOW your loved ones how thankful you are for them.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Hidden in plain sight

I haven't written in what seems like forever. I used to write over at a little joint called Windows Live Spaces, maybe you remember it? I had a good run of 5 or so years, but the longer I had that space, the stranger my flock became until soon I was spending more time [not]answering questions people demanded I answer, deleting spam comments left in some foreign characters, fending off jealous misguided suitors mistakenly believing I was some lonely desperate housewife looking to be swept away or peeking at my e-mail through nearly closed eyes due to an influx of penis pictures some assholes felt compelled to send me.  I tried to write because writing soothes my soul and eases my mind, but the bottom line is, it became more trouble than it was worth and soon, time escaped me, the flock found other victims and I finally faded from memories and bookmarks.  That's when I finally had some time to breathe deeply and recover.
     I miss writing. I missed it everyday. I miss writing for me and not concerning myself with who's going to need to be held after I post a flaming rant of death or who's shrew of a wife/girlfriend/allegedly "female" online only love interest is going to have a hissy fit worthy of middle school drama club because her man is fawning or jacking off over something I wrote. I'm controversial, at times obnoxious, intelligent, thought provoking, arousing, irritating, amusing, bitchy, judgemental, oftentimes just mental, kind, mean, silly, serious, and scarily comforting. I'm everything you never knew you always wanted. I'm me, and I'm back.