Motivationless (so immersed)
There is- perhaps- a fine line, between what i would call myself, and a workaholic. As i mentioned in Three Thirty, i love what i do for a living… But i love doing it to support the life i want to live, and not living for my job. Right now, it appears that option isnt present for my choosing, and so i fight and work heard for the life i want to ONE day lead, although its not here at the moment.
Thats hard for me. I liken it to cooking a 5 course meal, when no one is coming over for dinner. I could do it, sure… But why all that hassle just to feed myself? I can just as easily cook a quick entree, and call it on account of simplicity. Ive been working hard at home, getting things together for the (long term) outlook on my career. Filling out licensure paperwork (be proud, thats hard for me LOL), submitting timesheets, working on getting my pipe dream napkin sketch designs in to models, simply for showmanships sake… Still, like that five course meal, i find it amusing because im doing it all for the little dream and the simple life that only i seem to want to lead.
But its there- The neo-craftsman style house with the big garage sitting on the ranch property, the *getaway* cabin perched on some lake or some faraway land… With an old-about-to-be-retired cruiser for putting around the strange land when ive ran away to my getaway home. Sundays. Spent entirely working at home mowing grass, cooking brunch, to be eaten on the sleeper porch, and to spend the day with a family… Maybe one day. Today though, im fairly inspirationless. For thats not a dream that happens by ones self.
I cant write about work. Its just not emotional for me. I take my projects very personally, because i invest fully in everything i do. But even THAT passion isnt… Emotional. So i feel a bit emotionally deactivated. I wrote Motivationless on July 5, 2008. Seven weeks had passed since i had been able to write ANYTHING, and i felt void. I went to my favorite bar, and sat there wanting to write something… to feel something. It ended poorly, to say the least. This isnt even what i wrote, as after two verses i crumpled that one in to my pant pocket, and resolved to just enjoy the night out. This followed the morning after, on the subject of wanting to but not feeling anything worth writing about. Its not all bad, as im being productive during this time… I suppose im just waiting for something to come light that fire again. 
Plastic keys, the hands that rapped them, as the words were always writing,
Stand full height, as hands stand idle, disconnect where mind is fighting;
Wanting words and craving rhythm, discontent in newfound silence,
Apathy, no captivation, towards the writing: sending violence.
Seven weeks and one day passed, since my hands and keys have spoken,
Since i payed my visit last, the road to writing, has been broken.
Many flights, where idle sat, staring at a screen in waiting;
Thinking then, and knowing that, what to write i was debating.
Lacking inspiration knowing, all the things that light my fires,
Smiles, laughter, racing, chasing, all the things in my desires.
Missing from, the metronome, that here ive found im stuck while beating;
Knowing as i sit at home, that i alone, the one defeating:
What is missing, whats dismissing, what i dont find here surrounding,
Is perplexing, as im hissing, that the problem, im compounding-
For i know, the dream tomorrow, and the detours i should drive,
As i dont, but sit in sorrow, (wonder why im not alive),
And so i left those keys behind, returning to a pen and bottle,
And pen did send some words (unkind), before i got out of the throttle,
Giving in, to folds and creases, discarding in to attire,
Folds (in folding), short term leases, wondering: did i retire?
Not from writing, but from living, as i used to thrive for chasing;
Storytelling, in the giving, and the way im now misplacing;
Dreams for bitterness, im finding, as the former gave the latter,
Space to board, and to be binding, and the way it doesnt matter
As i look and find the reasons, once i found to give a story;
But in bitterness, these seasons, seem to sell a different story-
Foresight to an end, distracting, though ive never been before-
One to take hand back (retracting, before ive even, opened door)
Found one smile; one: ambitious; and another: taller than;
Made a goal, of broken horses; and with all that would think i can-
Find the way where once before, i would carry “not be stopped,”
Knowing that win, lose or rain, balls to throw would not be dropped.
But played in overtime as always, chasing after what life sold-
Still maybe as vision is haze, i wonder now, if im too old?
Not in age but in the bitter, maybe as we lose the youth?
We find where never once- a quitter, innocence, replaced by truth.
And what to make of times in pleading, where before, i wrote for you?
And now though inspiration needing,when its present, it wont do?
In jokes of time to go without, one in days and one in years-
Whats to say this ever ends? Inspirationless, in fears?
The Three Thirty Train
I would be lying if i said i wasnt a little dismayed at how i felt writing this. Normally, they come out quite quickly, once the ambition has set in. But a long time ago, someone pointed out theyre rarely about me, and more so about the objects of my attentive distraction. Perhaps that is one reason this one was tougher than i thought it would be.
It has a lot of conversations in that ive been privy to, this week. With Jennefer on the times we write, the notes we stow, the feelings we take steps forward and steps back on, and how we war with ourselves over getting on those trains. With Dave, for the life we live for, the lives we work for, the work we do for living, and when living becomes work… Or when work becomes our living. “What ARE we fighting for?”
Make myself that minute late, as i hear the voice thats calling:
“On track 2″, the declaration, time to halt procrastination
Wrap that uneasy sensation, up… The Unknown: Destination.
Its then we find, for we wont sleep, that though our minds no reasons found:
That we can gauge, as we lose time, both in minutes, then in hours,
Time we waste, rehearsing rhyme, instead of making chances ours.
With no baggage as we stalked, amongst our thoughts with no refrain
Nor reprise, towards the past, as were all standing, here alone
“One way please,” i spoke at last, resigned to ride to the unknown
“early morning,” a refute: complacent, as i stand, sedate
My mind, in disconnect, perception, theirs in laughter at my jest:
Mine, the smile: misconception, that they dont understand, is best:
But mine: a time that i would start, and time: remind, that in this game
Theres no retreat, for trains keep moving, theres no ticket back to sorrow
And the solace found, is soothing, that there is only Tomorrow:
Ride alone, i have conceded, that there is no correspondent,
Writing to, or juxtaposed, accepted: as its my prediction:
That i know, its here supposed, this train reigns by my conviction:
This Train seizes trepidation, then anoints it with destruction,
Through Eleven, then passed Twelve, lended life to face rejection
Half passed three now, as we delve, secure, its ONLY my projection
So i wrote the time, in feeling, i would seek my penchants, visions-
Discount what is in discourse beyond control, relied on others
Leave them standing, no remorse, no more ducking under covers-
And focus on what i believe, i can, and that will then beget
A life, perhaps: consolation, but all together it will borrow:
Strength, its bred determination, from three thirty, til tomorrow
Now is for what i will fend, and see what End to that is giving-
You that choose to stand beside, as i no longer, am the chasing
if these dreams to you confide, let me down, then im erasing.
And said goodbye (the life ive known), the way i let you breed my doubt,
The way its gone, no more in vein, the way MY life, now YOU can borrow:
I boarded that three thirty train, and it rides on until tomorrow.
Music of the Minute: Yanni- One Mans Dream
The three thirty train to tomorrow…
Myspace pisses me off, but i have to tell you… its not for the reasons you would probably guess. Every night, i do my *wind down* and play a few songs with either the speakers cranked or my headphones blasting… It just calms me down, and i let my mind have its way with its daydreams before i go to bed. Then, after i find the *closer* song (my playlist is always on random, and i just keep hitting next until a song HITS me… and thats the closer… I know, im a mess…) i generally flip to IE which is opened all day, and i go to close it to go to bed. Thats when i usually type whatever my last thought is in to that stupid status thing on Myspace, or Facebook, or whatever. My last thoughts are usually the biproducts of my wind down, and my submission to my daydreams, and as such, they usually propagate my next Written, when i have time to go back to write.
Well, its 4:01 am right now. i tried going to bed an hour ago, but im wired on God knows how much coffee, and some adrenaline. Tomorrow (or today, rather) could be a great day, or a giant disappointment. I take solace in not worrying about it, because its now out of my hands. I digress, thats not the point. I tried going to bed again at 3:20, and i figured maybe i needed the Wind Down. So i came in here and dropped my headphones on (trying to be nice to the old lady next door). I jokingly asked my insomniac sister-in-arms Megan which song should be the Closer, but when she responded i looked down at the IM window and saw it was 3:30am. While my first instinct was to bitch and moan, i jokingly thought “Eff it, im on the three thirty train til tomorrow.”
Then i got super pissed, because i know what have to write now. But i wont do it tonight, because my mind and eyes are too far gone for rhythm. But the three thirty train til tomorrow is great. Its this midnight candle burning at both ends, that says my alarm is going to go off in 3 hours, and im going to have that labored breathing in my chest that says i didnt sleep enough… But im going to know its because i said “I WANT this… This one is MINE.” And i went for it. I hate paperwork, its no lie. But this is the dream, and i want it. This one might not bite, it might not happen. Who knows? Certainly not me.
But were on that three thirty train, its not stopping til tomorrow. Ill post back when i get an hour of freedom to write it out, its all there.
Closer- Megan picked Indie Arie, but 34 minutes later- Bruce Springsteen- Because the Night (live cover)
We desire… How we love (and move)
We desire, the way a twice-poisoned dog eyes a third piece of meat. - Philip Milito.
Ive written very little new Writtens this month… None actually, save for Ready to Move. Im okay with that (though it upsets me so), because while i havent written, ive been working on walking on, and out of, the House of Cards. But i came across this quote in Mens Health (i know, right?) and it struck a paramount chord with me, and so i thought i would post the LAST written that touched this subject for me. It needs little explanation, for SO many people ive talked with this month are in the EXACT same situation: We want what we want, no matter how many times weve been hurt. And all of us (them) in those situations, will never understand the carnage they leave in their (our) wake. So… A note from a twice-poisoned dog.
The way our time (born in distraction), sent towards me the motivation
And how (just enough) attraction, weakened you (to my elation)
As we walked a pattern’s start, as fingers (slowly) circles traced,
Yours upon my opened heart, as mine upon, your back, which faced
Me at times, when I’m not staring in your eyes (but in your hair)
For wanting you to sleep, I’m sharing, is that instants only care.
As the gentle touching eases, all the stress that’s holding you
from sleep, such touching also pleases, me… As that’s how I love you.
The way: exhausted, we retreat, to bed, as people often do,
And such a purpose we defeat, as were conversing, me and you
Talking then (and always), sharing, everything, as we don’t hide
As I’m knowing how you’re caring, all my truths, to you, confide
And the you that I love best, the one I liken “my best friend,”
The one, for in my life im blessed, who’s heart as broken, hope to mend-
You who sing, dances, and daydreams, who’s visions paint the rooms in red
(You who touches me, so hungry), the way what I felt, can’t be said-
Looks in eyes, that we don’t mention, we deny, as you don’t feel it.
Though I cry, for my contention is: its there, though I can’t steal it
And though my watch, said time was wrong, at times that watch was barely moving,
As physically, we played that song, that to my heart and body: soothing.
Not in acts but in emotion, as to you- completely bound.
And though I brought on life’s commotion, in this situation found:
I’ve no sorry’s, no regrets, for all again, id always do.
Even all the hurt again, id take… As that’s how I love you.
Though discussed, we then discarded, any chance that hands would hold,
Together, though, I then regarded, you (my friend, lover), and told
That I will hold the ties that bind, at seams ill stand against the tearing,
But how I love you, you won’t find, and that’s the pain, alone, I’m bearing.
As ive made extensive progress recently in trying to get out of my dark hole (and ive put down the shovel… Brian. (For those of you that dont know, Brian and i are writing a book titled “Put down the shovel…” LOL), its probably a disservice to myself posting this. But ive been busy trying to do, and trying to think less, and so there is nothing new to post. I keep wanting to post Insipirationless, on the subject of not being able to write at the moment… But im not, because im only not writing because i want to write when im in a NEW frame of mind, and not when such a Written will go to somewhere or to someone that isnt worth the thought. There is too much for me to do to waste time on that. So i cant say im Inpirationless, just that im warring with myself on what i want to light my fire at the moment…
I dont get over, but i do move on. Thats what ive been able to discern, for better or worse. It doesnt bother me in the least either, because i find validation knowing feelings ive had werent so slightable that i could make them vanish with a thought… More than some people i can say, i suppose. But for now, im not sure what im trying to say. My motivation is coming back, and im excited… Im just not sure what im exicted for, but im hoping something will come soon. Because i dont post this to think about who i loved, but about how i loved. I love the way i love, and it makes for wonderful times with people. Time seems wasted in the absence of adoration (Its your God forsaken right to be loved, right Mr. Mraz?), but for now ill focus on carrying my ass out of my house of cards.
So discussed (as so alone)
I got a phone call yesterday… And im trying not to get my hopes up about it too much. But the long and short of it, is that there is a dream ive had for quite some time, and its a rather simple one: Its just doing my job, but doing it the way ive always believed i could do it, without being held back, and not having to fight so hard for it. The phone call may turn out to be nothing, but heres what was funny about it:
I suppose our lives are like chapters in a book, and we catalogue them as such. People come in and go out, as do jobs, as do homes. Theyre like titles, changing as we turn the pages. So while that phone call came (and i AM excited about it…) this was a pipe dream that i had, when there were other people around, where now there are empty seats where they remained. They were never closely tied to my dream, but (for an instant) one was going to work on it with me, and the other just sat next to me while i dreamed and schemed and talked and hoped… And in my naivety, i thought we would stay seated there, and maybe theyd believe in me in case it actually happened. Anyway, when i got that phone call (its nothing serious, just an opportunity that MIGHT be coming!!!) there were four people i wanted to call. Two i did, two i didnt… That chapter is closed. While im okay, i realize it is just about discerning what we want and what is best for us: In the end, its about ME anyway. But i wish i couldve told them that it may have actually happened. Though i wrote this on November 4th 2008, its written about that EXACT feeling, realizing that it takes more than numbers in a phone book and a dialtone to be able to make that call again. Its a somber memory, acknowledging that sometimes a dead horse just ant be kicked anymore, and that you need to lock all the doors to the chapters behind.
If it’s true, that were alone, and maybe so, we’ve always been?
Is it real, that when at home, the veil of lies is paper thin?
That to trust, to give and take, to be as halves (complementary).
Is deceit, and such mistake, (maybe we aren’t meant to marry?)
Or to love, as lovers do, or with friends- to stand together.
Could there be no follow through, ties that are not meant to tether?
So discussed, and then dismissed, as we go on but don’t advance,
We cry, and count, and make a list, those who struck when given chance.
Those who broke the rules unsaid, the codes of friends, (and expectations)
Some who laughed, (as they misled), amidst the hurtful accusations.
Of the wild horse, the shooter, said an axe to grind and swing-
Of life’s treasures, as a looter, as a dissident to sing:
Against the choirs holy chanting, notes off key and sounds all bent-
Wondering, while running (panting), where is a song that for I’m sent?
Where are words that im not finding, where are smile im not seeing?
Why just sounds of chains im grinding against, but that, im not freeing
from, as tied, as lived, and died, of woken, spoken, and exhausted.
Thoughts, ive tried, ive fought and cried, protested, contested, alas, accosted
That as rhythm changes prose, lending confusion to verses,
Worlds so painful (no one knows), what lives in each others curses.
But to each, their own, (and more, if theyre wanton to keep giving
Others), as they are alone, and so they figure living-
Through those eyes that they can’t see, the ones who’s lives they tried to lead,
Turn blind but through the mystery, the pain is something that they need
To know that some will find that life, some will find the follow through,
That maybe some will find the strife, but happiness may still find you
So its dark, its disconcerting, as were aging, getting older
As our minds, are disengaging, and our Crazy’s getting bolder
Tired, of the tired, as were staring at admired, and were wondering, what more?
Perspired, and expired, locksmith ive hired, drop the hammer, lock the door.
Twice within, the rhythm completely falters. It irritates me every time i read it (and im always so tempted to alter it), although i did it because my head was just a friggin federal disaster area when i was putting this one together. That makes me wonder what can be said about someone who saw trouble coming from 60 paces, and still was dumb enough to walk forward.
Ive always contended that work was… The easy part. And i stand by that. Sure, these days work or the lack thereof has been one of my biggest anxiety inducers, but its nowhere i havent been before. I dont believe it bothers me by itself, i think its just… The rest of the house of cards, that fell. Ive always been great at the work fight… But it was always when it was FOR something. The 70 hour weeks never hurt, and i MERRILY got up at 4am after getting home at 1, and i dragged myself in every day for months straight… When i was doing it for a life, for a living, for an us. I remember Buffalo, 2 jobs, the summer heat, the 60 hour weeks, and getting in my car to FLY home. To go HOME. Fight for it all day, and make it happen… For home.
Its my dream, and it doesnt involve anyone else. I get that, i really do. Im not so rediculous so as to think it needs someone else to be a great dream… Thats just insane. But maybe its just that dreams are so much more endearing when someone else WANTS to be in your dream with you. Either way, if the NEXT phone call comes (and my fingers ARE crossed…) im going to set the world on fire in the best way i can, and im not going to stop until i have everything i want.
But, we cant fight hard enough to get everything we want… Now can we?
