I am Catholic. I am also a pro-life feminist who fully supports every agenda in LGBT equality.
I've had to bite my tongue so many times in the past several years, especially this last week.
Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr have been full of opposing opinions and through them all, one thread has remained frighteningly clear -- the amount of closed-mindedness from both sides of the gay marriage issue is absolutely insane.
Let's tackle that first line in this post, piece by piece, shall we?
I almost wish I had been keeping track of how many posts I've seen in the past few days that have put down the entire notion of Catholicism (and Christianity - and even religion/the concept of god as a whole, but I'm going to focus on my belief system here). It's a truly comical number, especially coming from people who claim to be open and accepting. I have been brought up to know that believing in something bigger than yourself does not make you naive.
I have struggled with my faith more in the past several years than I had ever expected to as a kid. Sure, I grew up in a tight-knit family (that wasn't perfect, by any means) and my mom always ensured that I went to mass every Sunday. That's great and all but doesn't mean that I think I have had an easy path. I have fought with myself and the teachings that I studied in college. I have truly hated and resented the rules and politics of the church. Through that struggle, I could have taken two paths. I could have said "Eh, screw it," and walked away from everything. I've come VERY close to doing that, many times -- one time, in fact, while I was in the midst of a four-day retreat. Yeah, not the best time to have life-altering revelations about yourself.
For whatever reason that I truly cannot explain, something inside me has kept me going and, time after time, life proves to me that I am doing this life thing right. FOR MYSELF. I genuinely have no idea if what I have put my faith in is the "right" thing to believe in. I don't like the idea of one concept of god and a bigger reality being the only possible explanation. There's more than one way to approach every possible situation in life, so why should that be any different in whatever is out there that is bigger than us? What I've found as my comfort and my source of hope has worked for me, though, and I'm happy with that.
Let me again emphasize that what I believe in - rather traditional ideas of Catholicism - is what I have found for myself. Me. Not my friends. Not my country. I got into a pretty heated thing on Twitter over the fact that while America was founded with the idea of religious freedom in mind (my point in the argument), the ideas that our founding fathers had were generally pretty Christian (other person's point). Right. The people who founded our country did have some religious backgrounds. But they gave the people who live here the freedom to find what they believe in for themselves, with the security of no persecution.
I guess this is where my stance on the abortion issue can come in. This is something that I rarely talk about, even though I have been pretty active in the local and national pro-life scene. I do not think abortion itself is a religious issue. My small amount of work in journalism has given me good practice in being able to separate not only myself from issues, but also layers within issues. When I look at the research that has been done on BOTH sides of the topic (see that magic word? Yeah. It means that I'm not closed-minded and actually care about what everyone has to say. Some people really need to try that out sometimes), one thing always jumps out at me. I can't ignore it. That is a baby in there. It's a little tiny human person, that has the potential for so much.
I know that I put a lot of faith in people - more than is often due - but when you are truly an optimist, it's what you do. It's not a religious truth for me and it's not something to be debated politically. It's a person that should not have to die. I understand medical complications that some women face and pregnancy due to terrible circumstances. I get that. I have seen firsthand the heartbreaking decisions that women have had to go through.
But I believe women are a lot stronger than we receive credit for. The feminist umbrella that I identify myself as falling under rests in that. Women are wicked strong. We have to put up with insane emotional struggles while attempting to look like we have it all together and still somehow be sexy and funny and smart. For as much progress as we have made for our rights, we are still seen as the weaker, submissive gender.
Throw the "Exactly, that's why I'm pro-choice and it's my body, I can do what I want with it, that'll show them" argument at me. I've heard it more times than you can believe. But like I said... I believe in the goodness of people, first and foremost. I also have experienced, so many times, the weird simple fact that life works out. I would say that it works itself out, but, y'know, Catholic upbringing, there's something bigger than us, yadda yadda. I'm not saying it's easier to just go through with a pregnancy, at all. But struggles are a necessary part of life. They give you opportunities to grow as a person and in your faith and maybe someday, people will realize why they have gone through the things they have.
I really don't want this to become my "Why I'm pro-life" blog post, and I've already gone on for too long. But that whole issue has been bubbling just below the surface and it does have some part to play in this entirely ridiculous debate that has taken over the internet this week.
So, changing gears...
GAY PEOPLE ARE JUST REGULAR PEOPLE. There is nothing weird or wrong with their genetic makeup. I genuinely do not understand how there are still people in today's world who think otherwise.
That being said. What the HELL is the church's problem with gay families? My favorite argument to combat this is that is truly impossible for a gay couple to have a child they do not want. You show me one gay couple that is attempting to adopt a child and facing loophole after loophole, and I will show you twenty straight parents who resent their children and the changes they brought to their lives. There is not one child in a gay household who is not wanted there.
The issue that has come up in the past few days is bigger than that, though. It also goes back to some of the other points I've already attempted to make.
The USA is not a Catholic country. And marriage is not a Catholic concept. Yes, in Jesus' time, there was a shift in what marriage meant to people who were a part of the church, but people had been joining together for centuries before that, in every possible culture. Why are so many people using the Catholic church's view on gay marriage as the be-all and end-all for the debate? You don't have to get married in the Catholic church if you don't want to, so don't try and make every possible couple get married in one. Trying to sweep every pairing under the church's umbrella and weed out the non-nuclear families is insane.
That's why we are so lucky to be Americans. We live somewhere that ensures that, no matter what we believe, we can believe it. Why are so many Catholics so butthurt, then, that our politicians are attempting to ensure that equality for all sexual orientations? In nearly any other country in the world, we could be shot, simply for walking into church. It's a freedom that I know we take for granted and there is absolutely no reason why we should attempt to take any amount of freedom from ANYONE else.
The people asking for marriage equality are not asking the Catholic church for anything. They are asking the government to recognize their unions with the same respect that straight couples get. I understand that, in many cases, it can be argued that the people against gay marriage are simply expressing their same right to their own opinions... but it's bigger than that. The basic rights of a person to have their love recognized by their community should not be up for debate. It's fine to not agree, personally, with something. But a right like love should not be thwarted by religion.
Look, I get that I am not your perfect Catholic person and that because of the way our society looks at things, that's what people see and think about me first. But I am doing the best I can for myself, while being aware of the people around me and their needs. It's how I'm able to sleep at night and that's really all I can wish for myself.
I also don't know if this post means anything to anyone besides me, or if it is just a genuine mess of words that you may have skimmed or angrily read. I don't care. Everyone has been expressing their right to freedom of speech in the past few days, and it was time for me to do the same.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
This isn't a creepy blog post about Steve Martin (except it totally is)
When I was a super headstrong 8 or 9 year old, I remember spending the better part of a summer afternoon trying to reason with my dad. The battle this time? Could I please, PRETTY PLEASE be allowed to walk the three blocks up to the local playground without adult supervision? All of my friends were doing it and besides, I knew the last thing my dad wanted to do was stop cheering on the Indians to accompany me. He wasn't having it, though. In an attempt to distract me from my argument, he yelled "LOOK OUT! I'M GETTING... HAPPY FEET!!!" and proceeded to stomp around the kitchen like a lunatic. Unfortunately, his impression worked and I forgot that going to the playground alone was a pressing issue.
King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.
My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?
When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.
It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.
When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.
The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.
That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.
I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.
Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.
It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.
I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.
At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.
I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.
I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.
My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.
King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.
My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?
When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.
It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.
When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.
The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.
That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.
I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.
Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.
It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.
I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.
At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.
I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.
I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.
My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
I poem-ed? Minimally?
The snowy sky
yellows
as the sun
fades,
as though to steal
the light
and selfishly
pour it into snow.
A yellow grin
full of sparkling
snow-white teeth -
the drifts
that dot the landscape.
I don't know if this is anything or not, but it just popped into my head as I sat here, looking outside, and I'm trying to embrace ANY sort of inspiration I find since I am attempting to knock out this writers' block that has stayed with me for over two years now. Thoughts?
yellows
as the sun
fades,
as though to steal
the light
and selfishly
pour it into snow.
A yellow grin
full of sparkling
snow-white teeth -
the drifts
that dot the landscape.
I don't know if this is anything or not, but it just popped into my head as I sat here, looking outside, and I'm trying to embrace ANY sort of inspiration I find since I am attempting to knock out this writers' block that has stayed with me for over two years now. Thoughts?
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Someday, I won't write "Someday, I'll write" posts here. This isn't that day.
I would very much like to get back to where I was, as a writer, three years ago. In 2010, I was writing for nearly all of my courses - creatively, academically and for the school paper. I miss that. I miss sitting down with the computer I had at the time (a hand-me-down Mac that had a hard drive smaller than my current phone's) and watching the ideas in my head become page after page in Word.
The past three years have seen so many changes in my life, and now that I'm in a much more comfortable place, I sincerely hope I will be able to break out of the severe writers' block that waltzed in pretty much the day I received my diploma.
This post is due very much to the fact that I just got rid of the computer that I had since 2001. It was the second computer I ever had (the first being an ancient Mac that had all these games that I don't think existed after 1992) and it served me well through high school and college... except for those times when it crashed and I had to re-install everything (30+ times, I've counted), or when the original monitor (that was about 15 inches deep) decided to invert every color, or when the mouse stopped working unless you slammed it on the desk, or...
Okay, okay, the computer sucked. Kelly and Teresa can attest to that - I apologize for all those slumber parties where they were forced to endure its testy ways just to IM people. Plus, the mess of wires that were required for the 12-year-old technology were caked in dust and resided just in front of the heater vent in this room. Let's be real here, I'm surprised that my room hasn't blown up because of that damn mass of electronics.
But that computer, heap of junk as it became, saw me through my most formative years. I wasn't the ~popular kid~ in 8th grade or high school, so I spent the majority of my free time parked in this very spot, screwing around on DiaryLand and LiveJournal and Moulin Rouge message boards (...was my lack of popularity my fault?!). I wrote all the angst-ridden emails I could from that bad boy, and when I finally came to my senses in college, I translated that angst into really awesome term papers, poems and news stories.
And then I graduated.
And everything came screeching to a halt.
I honestly can't tell you how many times I left the cursor blinking in Word for hours on end because for as much as I wanted to write another poem or blog, not one bit of inspiration struck. I think I've gotten out a grand total of two poems in three years, and there aren't even 20 posts on this blog yet. I know I know. Quality, not quantity in writing. But to not even get out shitty work? That makes me sad.
I'm getting a new computer this month - that's what prompted me to throw away the old desktop, once and for all. I'm finally back at my desk since my little laptop finally has a home there. I'm also busier than I have been in a long time, but that's where I thrive. Here's hoping the changes that life has thrown at me will lend themselves to a creative rebirth!
The past three years have seen so many changes in my life, and now that I'm in a much more comfortable place, I sincerely hope I will be able to break out of the severe writers' block that waltzed in pretty much the day I received my diploma.
This post is due very much to the fact that I just got rid of the computer that I had since 2001. It was the second computer I ever had (the first being an ancient Mac that had all these games that I don't think existed after 1992) and it served me well through high school and college... except for those times when it crashed and I had to re-install everything (30+ times, I've counted), or when the original monitor (that was about 15 inches deep) decided to invert every color, or when the mouse stopped working unless you slammed it on the desk, or...
Okay, okay, the computer sucked. Kelly and Teresa can attest to that - I apologize for all those slumber parties where they were forced to endure its testy ways just to IM people. Plus, the mess of wires that were required for the 12-year-old technology were caked in dust and resided just in front of the heater vent in this room. Let's be real here, I'm surprised that my room hasn't blown up because of that damn mass of electronics.
But that computer, heap of junk as it became, saw me through my most formative years. I wasn't the ~popular kid~ in 8th grade or high school, so I spent the majority of my free time parked in this very spot, screwing around on DiaryLand and LiveJournal and Moulin Rouge message boards (...was my lack of popularity my fault?!). I wrote all the angst-ridden emails I could from that bad boy, and when I finally came to my senses in college, I translated that angst into really awesome term papers, poems and news stories.
And then I graduated.
And everything came screeching to a halt.
I honestly can't tell you how many times I left the cursor blinking in Word for hours on end because for as much as I wanted to write another poem or blog, not one bit of inspiration struck. I think I've gotten out a grand total of two poems in three years, and there aren't even 20 posts on this blog yet. I know I know. Quality, not quantity in writing. But to not even get out shitty work? That makes me sad.
I'm getting a new computer this month - that's what prompted me to throw away the old desktop, once and for all. I'm finally back at my desk since my little laptop finally has a home there. I'm also busier than I have been in a long time, but that's where I thrive. Here's hoping the changes that life has thrown at me will lend themselves to a creative rebirth!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)