Sep. 22nd, 2009

lostdetective: (Default)
God damn, I've been empty. This is another desperate attempt to get some sort of writing routine going; something, anything. Better than nothing? I suppose that this is somewhat nicely reminiscent of the days when I actually WAS creating in the sense that I've been putting off a shower all morning just to throw this thing together.

We'll see how long this lasts.

Dreamwidth: livejournal for artists? I'm very okay with this. I know what's been missing from my writing endeavors, and it's community. At Metro Arts, I was surrounded by people eager to create and share and discuss and work and encourage... then I moved to the Bay Area, started working full-time, threw all of my pre-Californian poetry into a self-published collection to "start new," and never got started. I have about 3 crappy poems I spit out angrily one night after having too much coffee and a brand new typewriter and an argument with the boyfriend. In two years. Maybe there's some random bits and pieces floating around that I've written on the back of paycheck stubs or in margins of day planners, but really? Nothing I would ever want to recreate, share, discuss, work on, or encourage to continue.

My therapist says I need to learn to just create without judgment. I need to get shit out and just let it exist, without my internal critic getting in the way. I need to seriously just let things BE.

This is another desperate attempt.
We'll see how long this lasts.


My name is Kayla, and I write. I think.
lostdetective: (Default)
thinking of

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
songs to learn
poems to write
and
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
friends blown off
gas prices
and
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
drinking soaked chrysanthemums
creamy lemon bars
and
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
birthdays and
holidays and
work days
and
battlestar galactica.

(addicted?)




Today I was nearly slaughtered emotionally, but I am recovering quickly and decently. There's nothing like anxiety attacks in bathrooms, sobbing out The Big Existential Questions to no one but yourself.
It's hard to see in the midst of my breakdowns (which are all too frequent, but very slowly becoming less and less concentrated and more spread out time-wise), but the only decent theory I've come up with to answer "What's the fucking point?" - or, in more specific terms, why do we exist? - is human connection. As trite as that may sound, the reason I believe I exist, is to share my existence with other existing people while exploring the documented lives of no-longer-existing people. To connect with another living being, despite differences in age, body, history and time, to find something similar, shared; to decipher what things we all experience universally. Share stories, share experiences, share moments - thus enhancing someone else's life and vice versa, even in the tiniest of ways, so that they may go on and do the same with another, creating a chain of inspiration and sense of solidarity.

Of course, when you're trying to quickly re-learn how to breathe while battling that big question, it's hard to think clearly. It's easy to jump to "one day I will die and that will be the end to me and of everything that I know as far as I'm concerned (even though I won't be concerned since I'll be dead anyway) and that's that."

Meanwhile... I did, in fact, get to watch the first episode of season 3 of Battlestar Galactica (which I was hanging onto for dear life post-therapy) -- and totally worth it. I never thought I'd be so into it. I wish I could watch more, but it's a Kayla-and-Pat thing, and Pat was tired. He wants to watch "Nightwatch" tomorrow night, but I think it's getting the shaft until I need a breather from Battlestar. (Will that happen?)

Tomorrow: work.
Thursday: Breakfast with Jordan, work.
Friday: Tea with Jessica & John.
Saturday: Work.
Sunday: Birthday secret plans with Pat, ending with dinner at his parents' house.

I want to punch work schedules in the face. But I'll spare it a death, because the pumpkin cheesecake we have is fucking delicious.

Now, to scour the inner workings of dreamwidth!

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