In with the new …
“It will be the year of courage!” she announced. We were having a very late New Year’s breakfast, still in our pjs; uncombed hair, uncombed thoughts.
I liked the idea. “Here’s to that.”
When was the last time you felt courageous?
While jumping on your bed (even though you knew it might break and spit you out or eat you up)? While eating spicy food (even though you knew your mouth would burn and rebel for hours afterwards)? While rolling snowballs with your bare hands (even though it would make your fingers turn blue and go numb)?
I’d say there’s plenty to feel courageous about.
I’ve never had a slogan for a new year, so this is the first new thing of 2017.
… out with the old.
I do believe making mistakes is a necessary part of becoming a better person. That being said, I don’t like catching myself making the same mistake twice (let’s be honest: three times is more likely). So how about not making old mistakes anymore?
How about: “Don’t fool me twice.”
I’m sure there are enough new mistakes waiting just around the corner.
So. New Year’s. Really? Already?
Okay then. New Year’s. New resolutions, of course.
Not because everyone talks about their own resolutions. Not because I feel like I have to come up with something inspirational (but if I did, wouldn’t it be great?).
Simply because, let’s face the obvious: there’s always room for improvement.
Am I the best version of myself? I doubt that. Am I getting close? Closer at least? Who knows. Honestly, I don’t think so. There are a lot of things I’d like to do that I haven’t done, a lot of things I’d like to be that I’m not (yet), there are ways in which I’d like to behave given certain situations and I don’t.
Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean that I don’t like the person that I am right now (most days, I think she’s quite alright – despite the occasional bad hair day, the overly emotional fit from time to time and other lovely quirks I prefer to hide until the third date at least). But still. Maybe I can do better. Be nicer. Be more aware of what’s really important.
As an (almost) teacher, here’s one of my (very original) catch phrases: that was great but I believe you can do even better! Hell yeah! I’m going to earn myself some new gold stars in 2014 – who else is on board?
So where were we? Resolutions, right.
***So here are a few thoughts***
Don’t change for someone else. Although you may very well change because of someone else. Or simply because of yourself. Of course.
Something to remember: everyone’s very different and the fact that you’re dealing with something in a certain way doesn’t mean everyone else does – we should all try to be aware of this and respect it. We’re all little individuals – this is why life gets exhausting sometimes but it’s also what keeps it interesting and exciting and lovely. Think about it.
Sometimes, you just need to rest.
It’s not always someone else’s fault (… sh** … I don’t really like this one, but oh well).
It’s not always your fault either (now it gets complicated).
Maybe this year it’s time to learn this one: not forcing something that just isn’t meant to be but also not letting chances slip by – is there ever a way to tell these two apart?
Music. There’s no way around it. And maybe there’ll be time to improve your guitar playing skills and write a few more of these silly songs. And maybe there’ll be someone to play them to. Maybe.
It’s all very scattered, mind you. I know. But whose thoughts aren’t, really? It’s mostly a mess if you ask me. It’ll be a mess in 2014 as well, that’s something I’m sure of, but maybe it’ll be a little shinier and maybe it’ll be the first step towards something like an actual arrangement system.
You’re not supposed to laugh at this, I was trying to be serious. Okay, whatever. One last resolution: don’t take yourself too seriously – you should use every opportunity to laugh you can get, even if it means laughing at yourself.
***Have a wonderful New Year’s Eve and a marvelous 2014!***
Do you believe in soulmates? I asked her. It was one of these pensive Sunday mornings, the apartment empty as usual. I’d been contemplating life and love and the many layers in between over (at least) three cups of coffee, and suddenly needed to know what she thought. I believe in sublime connections, absolutely; her answer bridged 3000 thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean and 8 hours of time difference. That alone told me that sometimes connections are deep enough to work, even transatlantic. Thank God, I thought, and then: I knew it. Her words were soothing like Advil or a mug of hot chocolate. Why do you ask love? She wanted to know.
Well, why did I want to know exactly? For one, I’m an over-thinker. I love to think about things – be it the question whether or not it’s really necessary to have light products of things that aren’t supposed to be light to begin with (such as frosting – really, who wants light frosting?) or the question whether or not soulmates might possibly exist, I’ve thought about it, at least once. Simply thinking about questions doesn’t give you any answers, of course. So after I’ve spent quite a while thinking, I tend to look for the answers in books. No how-to manuals, of course. Any book really. I believe that if you come across the right book at the right time it can tell you something. Maybe even if you come across the wrong book at the wrong time it’ll tell you something. I’m not sure, though – I’ll have to think about it some other time.
I’d also been doing some soul-searching for a while and had just finished reading a book about soulmates. A bit esoteric but not too far out there and strangely gripping. I stumbled over it on one of my many amazon binges. Actually, a friend had recommended the author to me almost two years ago and for some reason I had suddenly remembered him. I almost ate, slept and breathed the book until I was done. And although I was out to find answers, it just handed me a bunch of new questions. Maybe that’s a type of answer, too. Of course, a book is just a book; it’s not an oracle, not a life-line. Especially with this book, I had my doubts anyways. I imagined the author’s smirk as he typed the epilogue, bedazzled by the fact that he can make actual money by making shit up as he goes (who wouldn’t love that?).
The problem: I’m a cynic and a believer, all at once. Like everyone else, I certainly would like to return a couple of things life’s handed me down the road. I’ve had days (weeks, months) where I felt like kicking and screaming: was this really necessary? At the same time I’ve always had hope: there’s got to be a reason for all this; it’s got to get better eventually. It just had to. It was the same with the book: I wanted to believe, I just didn’t really trust it. In the end, however, I decided a little more belief and a little less doubt couldn’t hurt. If we’re honest with ourselves: who doesn’t love the idea that one or maybe even two or three soulmates exists for every one of us that we are destined to meet (what is done after the meeting, of course, is free will – (un)fortunately?). Not because the book had convinced me to. Just because I wanted to. I guess, that’s what believing means anyways. Also, because the book left me with so many questions, I’d just found my own answer: another soul that agreed with me and made me feel a little less crazy about it all. A soulmate, maybe?
There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon, Mr. “Iron and Wine” Beam sings in one of his songs (songs you can often pull over your ears like you would your blankie, back in the good old days).
If you’d ask me what I did last week, my answer would be very short. Not because I didn’t do much. I studied, worked, studied some more, had an exam. I could say a lot more about all this but it doesn’t really seem to matter in the light of last week.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to write about bombs, terror, injustice, fear – a lot has been written about it already, probably in a more eloquent manner than I ever could. Besides (as one of my friends rightly pointed out and is all too obvious): you could always write about any of that.
Whenever someone tells me we’re currently living in one of the longest periods of peace in a long time, I wonder what they’re talking about. I wonder if they’ve watched the news lately. War (terror) doesn’t have to blow up right in your face to be real. So that’s that. Let me rephrase: I’m not going to write about bombs, terror, injustice, fear – not any more than what I’ve written so far.
But if this isn’t about any of that, what is it about? Perspective, maybe. Realizing what really matters and what really doesn’t, maybe. Also, realizing that sometimes, even though something matters a lot, there’s still nothing you can do or say or feel that is going to change anything. And then, realizing that none of us is immune to pain and fear, no matter how much we’d like to believe it.
It’s about building a shell all around you to distance yourself (from whatever, really), only to find out it just doesn’t fall to pieces as long no one tries to break it – because as soon as they do, it’s falls apart all over you and it knocks you down or out right away. It’s also about how things like that often happen when we least expect them.
No, actually, I take it back. They always happen when we least expect them. Like that phone call happened just like that, this one summer day when you were simply having ice cream with your best friend (your grandmother died). You’re never prepared because there’s no way to prepare yourself for something like that. That’s what this is also about, maybe.
And it’s also about how life goes on, just like that. Because it’s that moment, when life just decides to go on (no matter how much you think there’s no way that this is how it works) and you’re not sure if you’re just dreaming and you decide you wish you were so you just try to numb all your senses (not temporarily, this is not something a couple glasses of gin could do for you; rather, you will your body to go numb – because there’s nothing else you can do) – these are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon. Thank you very much, Mr. Beam.
So this last week’s just walked by me – and if I’m really honest with myself: not just this week. And if you’re really honest: do you remember what you did last week (last year maybe)? It’s scary to think about how life slips by if we’re not careful; if you let your suffering, your fears take the upper hand. Life just goes on, that’s the way it’s always been and although it sounds tacky: this is how it’s always going to be.
We wake up the next morning, to dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, work, another day, brief moments (a fifty-fifty chance: meaningless or meaningful) and all of this is going to be there – no matter whether the times just walk by us or we try and walk with them.
That’s the challenge: to try and keep up. I guess that’s what this is about: keeping up. Even if this week, that’s the last thing on earth you want to do. Especially if it is; especially this week (and other weeks like this).
(Daily Prompt 7:) When was the last time you felt really, truly lonely?
I put down my collection of Anne Sexton poems, turn down the volume of my favorite The Smith’s album (the world won’t listen) and think: I can’t really remember – I only ever feel really, truly lonely between 5 and 11 pm on weekdays and between 11 am and 12 pm on weekends.
Alright, that was my first reaction to the prompt – a coping mechanism: when it’s too difficult to face reality (I feel really, truly lonely too often; I feel really truly lonely right now), resort to humor/sarcasm and laugh at it instead. I always hope it might get annoyed and just go away. Of course, it never does. It’s a true pain in the a**.
This isn’t a blog post I meant to write. Right now, though, I can’t write anything else. So I’m writing this, sometimes you have to surrender to the words that want out the most to move on.
I’m just not sure whether I’ll publish it.
Some bits and pieces – realities that won’t go away:
If anyone ever cared to look close enough, they would see the scars on my shoulders (not the ones on my hips, the ones in the crook of my arm – and the ones on the soles of my feet, they healed quickly). They’re the remains of other times, times when I felt really, truly lonely, when I looked for someone to blame, someone to take it out on. In the end, I only took it out on myself.
These are old scars. That’s why sometimes I trick myself into thinking: I’m different now. I have learned how to hurt without hurting myself. Yesterday wasn’t a good day, this isn’t a good morning. It’s still early and I’m about to smoke my third cigarette for the day. Yes, I’m different now. But I haven’t yet learned how to hurt without hurting myself.
It’s funny how some things are more socially acceptable than others, even though in the end, they mean the same. It’s funny how no one ever cares to look close enough.
It’s funny how some things never change.
Loss: a lack, an absence somewhere inside – something you can’t quite locate.
Or maybe not.
Loss: a weight, something growing inside. Something spreading out until you don’t know where it ends and you begin, where you end and it begins, until it begins where you begin and it ends where you end, until you feel so heavy you wish you could truly lose: this feeling.
It doesn’t leave room for anything else: no room to think, to feel, to breath.
Loss: it’s hard to let go, even though all you want is to feel light again.
What does it mean to really, truly feel lonely? What does it mean to really, truly struggle? I’m struggling: I’m trying to see things how they are. I’m trying not to look for problems where there aren’t any. No real ones, at least.
A hurricane that sweeps across a city and leaves behind nothing but damage: a real problem. Flooded streets, destroyed homes, no electricity, death even: real problems. Is a hurricane that sweeps across your soul a real problem? Is the metaphor weary? Should I simply pull my sh** together and be thankful for the roof over my head?
Something I’d say to a friend: If you’re hurting – it’s very real. I don’t know if I should believe myself. I don’t know, but: the struggle, at least, seems very real. It always has.
I’m spending so much time cleaning up wreckage. This is not the best way to look for perspective.
How to deal.
I’m not my scars and my history, she sings. For a second I believe her: I can be different. But the feeling quickly fades. I don’t really believe it. I’ve been trying to run away from the scars, all the pieces of my history (maybe I love traveling so much because I’m constantly looking for a place free of all the things that could remind me of them).
Yet, they’ve always come back to haunt me: there may have been different stories along the road, but in the end, hurt always sat in the same places. Like picking at wounds you thought healed long ago to find them bleeding all over again. I have patterns I can’t break: I find myself caught up time after time and all that breaks is something in my chest – a red mass splintering like glass or broken bones.
I’ve been wondering: maybe it’s not really about getting rid of them anyways. Maybe it’s more about accepting them and accepting that, despite of everything, there is still room for more. Room to heal. Second chances. I’ve been wondering.
Do I really believe all this?
Conclusion (sort of).
Do I feel really, truly lonely? Today, I know I do. Tomorrow might be different. There’s room for more.
Live and Learn
People say that little children have to learn how to talk while they are still so little – if they don’t, they might never be able to learn it at all. They will grow from quiet little children to quiet not so little adults. All the sounds they could have made, the words they could said, the inspiring speeches they could have given, all will be lost in the nirvana of the million and one things people never said but should have.
Then again, people say a lot (maybe silence is really golden).
Remember that one time: your mom got you this really pretty dress/cool shirt/insert whatever clothing item comes to mind. You thought it was great (because it was) and you wanted to wear it, all – the – time. But, of course, you weren’t allowed to. It was too pretty/cool/whatever. So you only wore it on special occasions (if you wore it at all) and then one day, on one of these special occasions (maybe Christmas, maybe some distant relative’s 75th birthday) you wanted to put it on – but it didn’t fit anymore. You’d grown out of it.
Then again, it might not have been so special if you would have worn it all the time (no, that’s bullsh**, it really was special, no matter what).
Live and Learn: it’s over
It’s never good to neglect something (a skill, an item, a person). Here’s what you’re going to get back: anger (if you’re lucky), or nothing at all (most likely). Something/someone only wants to play, be your friend, be with you – but you won’t let it and after a while it’s too much. It leaves you alone (it needs to let go) – play with yourself, stupid – screaming the f-word – I’m out.
I’m rollercoasterred, i’m feverish, like August. I will only let you in if you have a golden ticket. Don’t ask me when or where to get it. I don’t know. And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you because you know what? This is supposed to be special, it’s supposed to be a challenge and you have to deserve it. This is not unconditional, not from the start (not anymore) – Try it or play with yourself, stupid – fuck – I’m out.
Is it really over?
Live and Learn
What about trust?
Live and Learn: it’s over
Hope grows on clouds and if it wants to come down, it needs to rain. That’s its way to travel, it is a rule.
(Then again, that’s bullsh**, why doesn’t it just rain hope? Let it rain hope).
Generations and generations of girls (and guys who won’t admit it) have picked daisy petals and so am I. I’m not the one to break with traditions. I need something to hold on to when my inner voice and God aren’t responding. It’s not even spring, there aren’t any daisies anywhere. But it’s time for a break. It’s fall and the leaves are changing colors. I’m picking leaves off tree branches. I don’t know what else to do. I’m struggling to talk (silence isn’t golden, it simply shimmers when the light hits its surface on the right spot, just like tin foil or gum wrapper). Nothing fits anymore, everything that used to be so special sits in the trash (and needs to become less special, but that’s bullsh**, and I know it won’t). Play with yourself, stupid – fuck – I’m out (I’m not, maybe). What are
the my chances?
Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately:
We all stood huddled in a corner of the kindergarten playground, so close I could feel my best friend’s breath on my shoulder and some girl I didn’t know was touching my hand with the back of hers.
It was recess time, but no one was running around or screaming or throwing up in the hallway from winning the unofficial lunch eating contest (two bowls of chili, a glass of chocolate milk and a bag of Cheetos in 12 minutes and 33 seconds, more or less, no one really knew how to read the clock yet).
Our teacher held up a poster showing different clothing items. Sort of like in the fashion catalogs my mom sometimes would look at. But not really. There were no smiles, in fact, no people at all, and the clothes didn’t look pretty and new, like anyone would want to wear them. They were dirty and crumpled and some of them even torn. No one knew what was going on.
Then, Mrs. Archer spoke.
“Do any of you recognize these clothes? Or maybe a shirt or a pair of pants? Anything?”
She was the only person I knew that could cut out the most complicated figures, steadily and neatly along the lines. That day, her hands were shaking.
Most of us shook our heads, still confused. One girl said she’d seen the shirt before, but in a different color. Mrs. Archer smiled and told her she needed to know about clothes that were exactly the same. After that, no one said a word and a couple of minutes later, we were shuffled back into our classrooms.
When me and my best friend were picked up later in the afternoon, we overheard our moms’ conversation (pretending not to pay attention to what they were saying while, in fact, concentrating on each and every little sound that left their mouths – because it seemed important):
“It’s a terrible thing, I don’t know what to say.”
“I know. You never think these things hit so close to home. The poor girl. And what her parents must feel like…”
“I don’t even wanna think about it…wrapped up in all these clothes…and then thrown out the window…who would do something like that?”
They fell silent after that. My best friend’s mom nervously rummaged about in her purse until my mom handed her a tissue. They hugged, then they reached for us. My mom held my hand the entire walk home (so, so tight) – the last time she’d done that was on my first day of kindergarten, about a year ago.
I still wasn’t quite sure what all this was about but I was sure of one thing: something wasn’t quite right. In fact, something had to be awfully wrong. I had this weird feeling in my stomach, all tingly, kind of like when you’re spinning around and around in a carousel. But in a bad way, more like a ghost train that goes around in circles and never stops.
I was scared.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time I was scared. I had been scared before – scared of monsters hiding in the dark (hiding under my bed, of course), scared of the older kindergarten kids (and what they might do to a munchkin lie me), scared of witches in fairy tales (because they sometimes ate little children or turned them into animals), scared of the neighbors’ huge, abandoned shack in their backyard (and of who or more accurately, what might live inside) – but it had never felt like this. It had never felt as bad.
I had nightmares for days: someone wrapped me up in clothes, layer after layer after layer, someone put me in a bag and tied it up and just left it somewhere, someone locked me up in a dirty room full of nothing. Some nights I woke up and was sure I sat in a trash can. Some nights I woke up and struggled to breathe.
Finally, though, the nightmares stopped.
The poster was put up on a wall, near the main entrance, but we still went back to recess and lunch eating contests after a while. Because that’s what people do and because we didn’t know what else to do.
But what we knew (what I knew) ever since that day: something was awfully wrong. And we all felt (I felt) it wasn’t just something in our neighborhood, it felt bigger than that. Something was awfully wrong – we knew it and we felt it but we didn’t want to think about it – with the world. We had, after all, discovered it. We had (I had) discovered evil.
[According to the National Crime Victimization Survey (NCVS), kids have crime victimization rates over two times higher than adults. For the year 2000, the approximate total number of violent crime victims from birth through 17 is 1,935,000. That is one child among forty. That is one child in every other classroom.1]
1: Stats: University of New Hampshire, Crimes Against Children Research Center
I was born on a Saturday. Twenty minutes to midnight I came: no beautiful dress to show off, just one of the smooth glass slippers, the left one. Old spells seem to wear out much quicker these days. Even on your birthday. Old superstitions, however, never do: my mother always says she would have wanted me to be born on a Sunday. If only you could have taken these extra minutes, she’d say, you’d have been born a Sunday’s child – born under a lucky star, as they say. Maybe then, things would have been a little different, she thinks (and sometimes my mother must have wished for things to be different). That’s probably what she’s really wanted, for a long time (but there’s no spell, not even an old one, that can turn back time) – you just never understand these things when you’re younger. On the other hand, maybe things wouldn’t have been that different after all – but who knows? (I don’t.) Probably a lot of babies were born that Sunday, and possibly, all of them lucky– but again, who knows? (No one does.)
Written in the Stars.
I’m quite sure, though, that all the babies born on the Monday after, they were born under a revolutionary star – born under a night sky lit up by candles, torches, lanterns; born to the sound of raised voices; born to the smell of autumn; born to the bittersweet taste of frustration paired with anticipation. Every time my mother sees a shooting star and wishes I was born on a Sunday, I close my eyes and wish I was born on a Monday – I would like to be a Monday’s child. I would raise my candle, torch, lantern and leave a mark: a dab of light, like a tiny hole in the dark sheet that covers the earth at night. There’s more to life than simple luck; more than old spells that wear out even before the clock strikes twelve, more than old superstitions that leave you hanging on to things that could have been. You can’t change the past, but maybe, if you try, you can change the future.
Sometimes, in the short moment before falling asleep, I feel the light of candles, torches and lanterns warm on my skin; I hear people chanting; I can smell fallen leaves and I’m overcome by a sullen feeling, quickly followed by a feeling of hope. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel restless. It’s nothing I could ever explain, it’s just something that is. If I had to try to find words for it, I might simply say that I’m a child of my times. We all are.
Hearts and Cages.
Even now, the idea seems so strange, so unnatural, that I can’t wrap my head around it. No matter how hard I try. No matter how often I try. Sometimes I look at a map and trace the borderline with my index finger. With my scalpel, I cut through a city, an entire country – I become a surgeon. I take out half a nation’s heart (pincers!), just like that (swab!), and it’s bleeding all over me. Desperate people behave in ways that scare me. They get that frantic look in their eyes that always reminds me of a caged animal. And maybe that’s what they are: caged. Trapped in their despair.
We’re all people. We’re all in this together. We’re all created equal. But then: How could anyone be so mean (cruel)? How could anyone be so indifferent (inhumane)? How do you sell an entire country for a breadcrumb’s worth of power? How do you barter with millions and millions of people’s fate? Everything’s going to be okay, they said. In the end. They’re all liars; or blind and dumb and deaf. Or all of that. The upside : They’re also solidary like nothing else: you didn’t even have to kill yourself – it was done for you (working men of all countries unite. Unite, unite, unite. Shoot, shoot, shoot.). Once there was a man. He looked at the grey concrete, the barbed wire and the men with their nice uniforms and polished guns and he realized: you have to run. For freedom. Whether you’ll make it or not – you’ll be free, everything’s going to be okay, in the end.
I don’t know whether my mother was truly happy about the fall of the wall. I once asked her if she remembered what she’d done the night people were dancing on it, if she’d been dancing as well. I probably changed your diapers, she’d said, and that was that. My mother never was the dancing type – but maybe not because she didn’t want to dance, I often think the world just wouldn’t let her.
The sudden feeling of liberation might have been too much to handle for some – as anything that comes down on you so unexpectedly and overwhelming. The wall came falling down in front of their feet and then the ground fell out from underneath them. Maybe it was that feeling that scared away my father. Or maybe he was just high on freedom and so he went to find some more, another fix. And I don’t think anyone could have held him back, not with any luck of the world.
First: The obligatory apology for having neglected my blog for so long. It seems, I have been quite the neglecting being lately. I may have been neglecting not only my writing but also some people over the last couple of weeks. My apologies for all of that. I didn’t really mean to, I have just found myself being somewhat – scattered…
Coherence! – an angry voice is yelling, somewhere in the back of my head: Coherence for crying out loud!
A number of thoughts are twisting and shouting in my mind – freestyle – while some are standing by the punch bowl (spiked, f*** yeah…), holding on to whatever there is, staggering, trying not to fall over. Other bits and pieces of me are hiding in broom closets and niches: getting high, making out, writing their last goodbyes before jumping into the darkness…
Coherence! – was lost somewhere down the road.
I’d like to twist or shout or get drunk or get high or make out or write my last goodbye – I don’t feel any need to jump, though. I’ve been collecting my own darknesses in a shoebox since I was four. They come in all shapes and sizes. And different shades of dark. They are, in fact, pretty to look at and feel quite nice. Like tiny pieces of velvet. Coherence! What’s one got to do with the other? She asks.
This angry voice again; it sounds like my second grade teacher who I was scared of.
Shut up! I’m feeling scattered.
Sometimes, it is a nice feeling. Sometimes, it smells of empty roads, summer rain, the sea – of i-can-do-whatever. Other times, it feels heavy, like sinking. It feels like missing a piece, a limb; lacking. Because there are parts of me scattered all over. I’ve been leaving them behind like pebbles – to make my way back, someday, in the moonlight. In spite of monsters lumbering. In spite of the dark.
Coherence! – has been annoying me ever since writing my first essay in second grade for the teacher who I was scared of. Coherence! – is highly overrated, for crying out loud!
I’d like to do a million things at the same time. I’d like to be in a million places at the same time. I’m dreaming a million dreams at the same time.
I want to be there for my friends and family whenever they need me I wanttobethere for myfriends – my family – whenever (Coherence!) I want to be a writer a teacher I want to make adifferencein childrenspeoples (Coherence?) livesatleastforsomeofthem I wanttoteachand notbescaredIwanttoteach and not scaremystudents I wanttowrite astorypoetryanovelabook. (Coherence?!)
I want to be.
Shut up –
I am scattered. And sometimes, it is a nice feeling.
First, let’s create some atmosphere. Here’s the soundtrack that goes along with this post. This song is to this post as is the frosting to the cake, Elmo to Sesame Street,
the oven to Sylvia Plath, the road to Dean and Jack – caring is creepy…listen, read, enjoy. Well, actually, just do whatever. But the song’s really good.
1. Care – ful.
I’m a carer. I care for a zillion things – some of them important, some of them as irrelevant as one speck of dust in relation to the entirety of our quite enormous universe (that is, consequently: very irrelevant).
This doesn’t necessarily mean that I am also an action-taker, a mover or a shaker. Demonstrations unsettle me; I’m not a loud person – so yelling out catch phrases while angrily raising my fist into the air is really not my thing. Also, it doesn’t mean that I’m a convincer – I just don’t like enforcing my beliefs onto innocent victims that are being perfectly happy simply minding their own business. I’m more of a live-and-let-live-type-of-person. At times, I wish this was different. Because at times, caring just for the sake of caring is – let’s face it – somewhat tedious.
So at times, when I remember that also I am a writer (or at least, trying to be something close), I pick up a pencil or let my fingers work a keyboard – I write to let people know I care. I don’t have to be loud and I don’t have to be enforcing – I just put some words out there, for anyone to read – if they care.
I’m afraid, I am too care-ful.
2. What? (Objectives.)
My objectives, admittedly, shift – depending on my state of mind, the amount of caffeine in my system, how much time I’ve spent reading (terrifying/ridiculous/ *insert other adjective here*) news headlines/ a good book/ a bad book; simply on whatever’s been going on during my day. Of course. I suppose it’s the same with most people. Here an excerpt from today’s list: Several friends having a hard or stressful time (dealing with things I can’t, for the life of me, help them with – not in any other way than caring), international education policies (dear politicians: stop the cutting of funding, please – not all children have the auto-didactic brilliance of our dear Abe, for the most part they need at least books and teachers showing them how to use these books…), finals/presentations/papers (and their nemesis – procrastination – looming in the not so distant distance)…
3. Now what? (Post-caring: Taking action. Or not. Or…)
I don’t know. Honestly. I’ve taken to writing, and… now I’m out. That’s the tedious part I’ve mentioned earlier. That’s the thing with being care-ful. It doesn’t make a difference to anyone else, really. And yet. If you care, it’s because you want to make a difference. So here’s some more writing:
For a friend: I just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you and although I know that I can’t actually change the situation you’re in right now, I can maybe change the way you’re feeling about it – you’re not going through this alone. Because I am thinking of you. Because I care.
For a politician: You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you even know what you are doing? I don’t think so. Yet, you’re probably not even the one to blame – because back in the days when you still went to school, there were other politicians just like you and they were already eagerly cutting the funding for schools and universities. That’s why there was no one (or no good book) left to teach you any better. And you’re just not an auto-didactic. It’s not your fault that you’re not the brightest crayon in the box.
As for the rest on the list – I’m going to stop procrastinating now (because this is what I’ve been doing writing this). I should probably make the best of my education now, before they cut half of the teachers on my program. Or the program (I’m not certain, they wouldn’t – even though it’s a teacher training program). So I can eventually kick one or two politician’s *insert any body part here*. And teach my students to know better. I’ll teach them to be care-ful, I think.