Skip to main content

creative escapes

last night, i pulled out my current notebook [i always use one at a time for everything] and immediately became puzzled. i had three pages of notes prepared for a project i'm working on. i remembered creating each of the three pages in some detail. but when i opened my notes, there were only two. 

my brain is such that i immediately assumed i'd imagined doing the third [actually the first] page, but it seemed like  an awfully vivid memory. realizing that this meant that i had either created the page or was having the most mundane hallucinations ever recorded, i made a point of looking through every page of the notebook. three times. I checked the coil spine [i'm not fancy when it comes to my notebooks]. i couldn't even find a shred of paper to indicate that the missing page had ever existed. 

finally, i checked the place where my notebook had been and several feet away, cowering behind some facial wipes and edging towards the space under my night table, was the missing page. i don't know how it managed to wrestle free [some telltale marks indicate that it might have had some assistance from a feline]. and i certainly don't know how it managed to remove all traces of itself from its former home. but i'm happy to have it back all the same. 

what worries me more than anything is that my writing projects are apparently trying to run away. how bad a writer am i that the things that i create want to get far away from me before i work on them more. for that matter, when did my writing become self-aware? is this like a super- small scale version of  "the terminator"? are my bouts with writers block just some kind of preemptive action? i'm pretty certain that i've never found advice on this on any writing forums. probably because most writers create things that are happy to be associated with them. me? i apparently create literary emo kids. 


Comments

as long as you're here, why not read more?

jihadvertising?

i keep seeing this ad for tictac candies:



am i the only one who finds the suicide bomber clown at the end a little unnerving? all the nice natural things like the bunny and the [extinct] woolly mammoth and the fruit get devoured by a trying-to-appear-nonthreatening-but-obviously-psychotic clown who then blows himself up. congratulations, tictac, i think this ad has landed you on about a dozen watch lists.

oh and by the way, showing me that your product will somehow cause my stomach to explode in a rainbow of wtf makes me believe that doing consuming tictacs would be a worse dietary decision than the time i ate two raw eggs and a half a bottle of hot sauce on a dare.

mental health mondays :: the dangers of diagnosing

when you take a look at any reputable online source of information about mental health, it comes with a warning that anything you read on the site should not be considered a substitute for evaluation by a medical professional. so why are so many people jumping on the bandwagon to diagnose donald trump?

it's not uncommon for people to make glib judgments about the mental health of others, because we think that we understand what disorders entail. when i was working in offices, i noticed a lot of this: an immature and garrulous employee being labeled and partially excused because others were certain he had adhd, or a moody and indecisive boss dismissed as bipolar. [as you can imagine, that one struck me as particularly ignorant and, since i was the audience, ironic.] but in the case of trump, even professionals are weighing in on the subject. no fewer than twenty-seven psychiatrists have collaborated on a book called the dangerous case of donald trump. up to now, it's been unde…

making faces :: a winter tale

so this is it. we've reached the final season in our colour year. so far we've looked at spring, with its heart of citrus yellow, summer and its symphony of cool blues and autumn with its spicy bronzes and golds. and i'm still not sure i've found a good place to rest my face. i've chosen seasonal winners in each category, but are they really me?

it's a bit of a rhetorical question, of course, because i already had an inkling that my precocious childhood self might have been onto something when she declared herself a "winter". not that she knew what she was talking about, of course, but sometimes even fools say the right thing without meaning to. even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. [unless you're in europe and use a twenty-four hour clock, which actually makes a lot more sense.]

as with all the other seasons, winter is divided into three parts, the true winter at the centre, flanked by neighbours who carry a hint of the adjacent …