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 |  Zee Journal! |
| My blog. Journal. Documentary. Life. Sometimes. |
| After the response by a couple of people from my blog post the other day, I'm finding myself thinking about what it means to have a blog. I would love to say that my blog posts are for me, and only me. A place for me to be honest about what I'm feeling. My friend posed the rhetorical question to me, "Is the blog more for the reader, or for the writer?" The format might be changing for the blog. I'm not sure yet. I'm thinking that pen and paper might be the best route for personal pieces. |
| Everyone can take a break from stopping by. I'm going to be taking a temporary vacation from my blog. Take care all, and hope things are working well for you! |
| A friend of mine said: "Take a chance." Over the weekend I've thought a lot about it. I took a risk, put my hand out and grabbed it. Held onto it. Struggled, tumbled, and fell. I'm happy that I took that chance. Yet, what a possible cost for such a chance. In my happiness it has confused some, hurt others, and gave others hope for my happiness. I don't regret what happened. To be honest it was the best thing that has happened to me in years. In an instant so many months worth of horror were erased. The slate made clean. My ex, Marne, took so much away from me. All things I let her take. Self-esteem, personal strength, and I gained weight in my depression. I felt like I was a monster after what I had done through neglect, or had done upon me by her's. My heart was ripped and torn, left in the bottom of a barrel to hopefully find its way out. In a couple of hours life changed. I changed. I was whole again. I was more than whole. I haven't felt so capable in all my life. As of right now, there is nothing more than that moment. We talked about this, talked about a possible future. Talked about a lot of things. Even though things seem like nothing is going to happen between us two: it doesn't matter. Am I sad about it? Sure. But she didn't take anything from me. She filled that hole, and left it filled. She didn't rip it out and then take something with her. I apologize for those that might have disappointed. I don't, however, feel any shame for it. I just feel happy. I feel more like myself. There you go L.E. My general "girl" post. Hee hee |
| Think thi is the longest I've went in a long time between blog posts! This weekend was a mix of the happiest I've ever been and also possibly one of the saddest. Friday night I struggled to get to sleep, but found myself incapable. So, I ended up meeting with someone. We sat around and drank 'till about 2:30 and then things got a little........crazy. We enjoyed Saturday together. Went out with a couple of friends. But...things are complicated. Always are. An 'ex' she is still having to live with has left things just as they were last week: friends. It was great though. Like a matchhead burning bright, if only for a moment. I never thought she liked me beyond a friend. In that evening she helped to heal so many of the wrongs that have taken place in the past year with my other relationships. I don't feel like a monster anymore. I just wish I could fall into her arms for only a moment once more. |
| I was up till about 2:30 last night finishing the editing on my piece. Today at 11:30 AM it was dropped into the Maroon Literary Magazine Mailbox. There was a stack of other pieces in the box also. Let's hope for the best. The mid-term sucked. Very, very hard. I'm not sure I'll get a good grade on it. Ugh. I'm gonna relax for a bit. |
| So today I've finished the piece I think will round out my bit on childhood for the "Submit Your Body to Marooned" contest. It's due this Friday, so I have tonight and tomorrow to polish it to a shine. I was sitting outside of my English 200 room before class writing it, listening to my iPod. I could feel the emotion on my face as I wrote it, and every time I looked up from the page some of the girl's from my class were giving me a look like: "What is he writing that is making him so sad" or "Maybe we should ask him to leave any weapons at the door". It was hard, yet easy all at the same time to write the piece. These little snippets have been one of the easiest to write in the sense that I can sit down and easily write it from start to finish. Yet, it is incredibly painful to write because I have to try and place myself back into that period of time. These pieces, although milestones in my own mind, occured almost every day of the week. Sometimes there would be breaks in the insanity. Life wasn't too bad until I was 13. Yet, from 13 till about 17 life was a living Hell. I think it was because at 13 I became fully aware of all that was going on, what it meant, what it was doing to us all, and realiziing just how helpless I was to escape it at the time. A part of me actually fear releasing these pieces. What if they get published? What does that mean for my parents? Granted, it helps me heal, and at the same time they DID do these things. Yet, I know my parents are not bad people. They just made mistakes. My mother, for all her faults, was the first female Paramedic in Chicago. She was also the first female Paramedic of the Year. She had to be let go on disability after an unruly patient caused her to slip on the stairs, the patients weight being two or three of me, causing three to four of the discs in her back to shatter. The discs, unfortunately, were not the only thing to shatter within my mother that day. My father is still a Fire Fighter, and works with the Air National Guard. He is a Senior Master Sergeant, head boom operator, navigator, and also one of the Chief Medical Officers. My dad is defined by his work, even if he buries himself in it. I have a picture of my dad when he was a Fire Fighter in Chicago umpteen years ago. It's him on an extension ladder like you might find at Home Depot, but he is crawling on all fours across it as it spans the rooftop of a building something like fourty stories up trying to get to a trapped family. A part of me wants to be so angry at them. To sit and spend every ounce of my being trying to get it published so I can be like, "Ha! How do you like that?" Yet, there is an equal part of me that says, "The past is past. It's not going to make any of those memories go away." Oh well. Write more stuff later. |
| So, yeah. This is what I get for being friends with an erotica writer. Eventually I would get wrangled into writing it myself. She was wanting to write a piece on the male perspective of things, but was having a hard time finding the motivation, so I say, "Hey, if you do that then I'll write an erotica piece." Well, guess what was in my mailbox today? So, prepare to see Shawn like you've never seen him before. A sick, dirty little pervert. I'm going to make the baby Jesus cry. |
| Well, I got mid-term number one out of the way. It wasn't too bad.I had to write an in-class essay about the role of men in three feminist works. The works asked to compare and contrast were "The Astronomer's Wife", "The Yellow Wallpaper", and "Yellow Woman". Ugh, just when I thought the day was going well I had to come home to find that I went WAY over my cell phone minute limit and I'm getting quite the bill. Don't they understand it's my one shining thread to humanity?! Oi. Well, that just means I'll be sitting pretty at home. Anyways, gonna keep this short for the moment, I will write a bit more later. I will leave you guys with an interesting poem though with a bit of commentary at the end of it. Wilfred Owen [1893-1918] Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstacy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in timel But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Summed up, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" means it is "Sweat and honorable to die for one's country". The man that wrote this was an enlisted soldier during World War 1. He wrote it it in a ditch. 7 days before peace was declared he was shot and killed attacking a stationary machine gun position. |
| Sleep? What's that? Hee hee. I'm at that phase of being tired where I just giggle at odd words. Roads. Hee hee I was going to make some post trying to sound intelligent and all knowing, but umm...I'm not, so whateva. I haven't posted much since Friday night. I apologize. Anyways. Going to bed. Fo sho. Talk to you after midterms tomorrow. |
| I'm awake! I'm awake! Ugh! Make the bad men stop! I'm not sure if I have ever linked L.E. Monster, and if I haven't, I apologize L.E.! I shall rectify any previous offenses now, however:
You know the drill. Go there. Now. The man fears sharks as much as I do and therefore warrants a look. Anyways, more later. Just thought I would plug his blog! |
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