It's been a heart beat since I posted here. A lot of churning, swirling, and raging water under that bridge. Truth be told, as always, I've not been sitting on my ass eating bon bon's. There has been dis and dat. Some flailing at my life which, when I think about it I'm aging like a carton of milk. But hell aren't we all. Yeah old man bitching about the circle of life which is a Garrot choking me slowly. But I degrees.
If I can muster the discipline like I do with exercise I will post something or another twice a week. There I said it. Now I have to do it. Ugh What this will be in my newly minted state of mind is less blog to social media since I'm not a luminary or really known. I'm invisible. (Which is the Title of a Novel I finished "The Age of Invisible".) Being invisible is a state of being today. A neutrino of sorts. Accepting this state makes my posting in absentia. The motivation for this. The film by Jim Jarmusch "Paterson". A lovely film about a poet. The seemingly mundane life that holds the beauty of man writing for himself. No one else.
This is now my journaling. A public journaling with great caution of course. In the harsh reality of a bright June sunrise no one reads this so I can go all ideation, KMS, and shrug. Maybe stay away from that kinda journal entry for the moment. On the upside this will my chance to reflect in real time. To capture the clanging pots and pans in my head beating out a Rush song that incessantly shatters my internal peace. Putting all of that internal dialogue here slows the emotional erosion. Gives me pause to see better what is going on.
Ya know thinking about all my rambling since Donna died I've been putting it up here and there. I was driven more by a need to share...hey look at me. If ya look ya look. If not well that's good too.
The loudest sound in my head has been angst. The self imposed fear of myself. The sense of "Is That All There is"? And then stopping in mid lyric thinking I got more. I did finish a novel of sorts. 50k words about love, loss, and being invisible. The novel is just sitting needing to find an editor. Like the dog chasing a car. I caught it now what? Self publish? Hump it to publishers? (My own doubts bloom just thinking about that cluster fuck of failure) Or put up excerpts here in a faux moment of living in my own private Idaho literary salon.
Also I've written a play. Was so blessed to have met a brilliant young woman producer who believes in this play. So that's that and it's good. It's all part of the angst shit storm I stand in without an umbrella. Producing a play is not just writing it. A lot of moving parts with costs. Need some sappy snappy quote here to keep my emotional head above water. Self-care and/or self-love was never my go to place. This play is a bit of pin drop in my future me to move toward.
Here’s a rough working description of the play for your reading pleasure.
"Silent Whispers" is a play that examines the importance of connection in making us more human. A crisis volunteer who's journey of self discovery reexamines his grief to revel a greater understanding of his life, his loss, and direction. A true authenticity of his being unfolds and presents itself in a new light as he supports others in crisis. Discovery and knowledge and change are elements found when we listen to each other.
Closure is denial of who we lost. Though memories, connections, and sharing those we lost live within us. It is said a person dies three times. Once when their heart stops. Once when they are buried or cremated. Finally when their name is said for the last time. This play is how our lives and the lives of those we lost are forever carried forward as we share and learn.
See ya soon. Peace out scouts