Today, I had a rather innocent and ill-informed student inspect an atlas on the wall (one with only the boundaries of countries but no printed names), point to Vietnam, and say, "I think that's South Koran."

He meant Korea.

I asked him if he was 100% sure and he said, "Well, no, because I thought Korea was near the Middle East."

"No," I said, pointing to Africa, "It's closer to East America, although Middle-Earth is between them."

"Oh! I should have known that."

"And across the ocean is the United States," I said, pointing to Greenland. "And Canada," I said, pointing to Canada. The student screwed up his face in confusion (was something finally getting through?), and I added: "the map's upside down."

We had fun, I corrected the mistakes, and we moved on.

Later, someone made a disgusted snort at the mention of The Human Centipede (I didn't bring it up, they did). My student, perceiving a mean remark, protested. "Hey, human centipedes are cute, too! All bugs are, even if you don't like how they look."

We (that is, the class) quickly surmised that he didn't know what we were referring to, and so we stalled at a certain crossroads. We wanted to end his ignorance on the subject, to enlighten the little fellow, but we didn't want to corrupt his innocence. The human centipede is a concept contrary to decency and goodness. It embroils oppression and futility and the depravity of man's imagination into a singular, iconic combustion.

Instead, we tiptoed.

"We're not talking about a bug, exactly."

"It's a way... for people to get together."

"It's like a team building exercise."

"It's not a sexual thing," someone assured him.

"Is it hard to do?" he asked.

"Not if you have the right attitude."

"But it's exhausting."

"Is there also a human caterpillar?" he asked.

"No, no, no."

A human caterpillar made me think of a human cocoon, and I shuddered at the image of a wet sack of living, struggling flesh. For a moment I envied the know-nothings and little-minds, only to realize that really, the degrees of difference between myself and this student were relatively minor, only I'd been shielded from the world's true evils by Rated R movies and comic books, cloistered in a school that looked like a prison, secreted into a suburb with invisible but tangible walls, as ignorant of greater powers and principalities as a centipede, its face turned ever-downward in its small, contained clamor.

Hungering to stuff my empty mind jar

craving wild copious infusions

of

     illusions,

          delusions,

               fusions

translucent thoughts profusion

soul food bereft, no salvation

random thoughts filtered effusion

shake the inside out of confusion

bottomless sieve of disillusion

candle flame vacillation

fingered fantasy of reflection

fighting words insurrection

begging to taste vanilla sensation

streams of original conclusion

creative genius in sparks of explosion

sampling tray of word exploration

salty sweat taste of fresh ideations.

heart racing 

fingers scrolling 

googling answers 

writing endings 

process logic 

nerves tingling 

ears ringing 

brain bursting 

racing thoughts 

pins and needles tiptoed on my lips 

tears streaming

stitching the quilt 

tieing the thread lose 

nibbling on insanity 

entertaining theories 

coloring in the lines

sketching the ending 

trying to foretell the future 

paranoia wave that washes my face 

flashbacks 

car crash into the present 

the battle between real or fake 

higher standards 

push down by the force of society 

running in circles 

ideas trapped in thoughts 

screaming inside 

and dying slowly 

signals blurred 

pages burned from this chapter of life

acting on impulse 

drawing conclusions 

breaking the pen 

allow logic 

to override 

the heart 

because the heart treacherous 

but so is the brain 

anxiety arisen 

best response 

bite my lip 

till it bleeds blood 

and swallow my tongue 

and let life write itself

"You are only as good as the last thing you've written." Yes, people liked what you wrote today, but what about tomorrow? Will you have an idea? Will other people like it? Do you care? Will you even be able to put something up for others to read?

That statement haunts me each and every day. I struggle with self-esteem, and I pour so much of myself into my work that a negative reaction - or what's worse, a tepid reaction - can feel devastating at the time. I spend a while kicking the wall every time I get a negative response, or especially extensive corrections on a manuscript, but when I finally calm down and take a good, hard look at what other people have said about the piece, I usually find that most of what they said has at least some merit and it bears my consideration.

Writers learn by doing, and we especially learn from feedback. And learning is a continuous practice. We are always thinking about the next piece and the next one and the piece after that. The day we stop learning is the day we cease to practice our craft well. Yes, I still struggle with self-esteem about my writing, and, yes, I will continue to kick the wall. But if I am only as good as the last thing I've written, I will work as hard as I can to make that a kick-ass piece and a double kick-ass for the one after that.

Here's to the writing life!!

#questioning #challenging #amwriting #writingthoughts

I have been a victim of my own doing, for overthinking the thoughts of my own thoughts.  I can't believe I thought, what I thought on what I was thinking for it is most definitely, the most twisting thing, I can think of.

Because what if my original thought, wasn't my thought, so now I am stuck on thinking about someone else's thought and now how do I know that this analysis isn't the work of someone else's thoughts??

And Why the hell am I wasting so much time on thinking about why i am thinking about someone else's messy thoughts?  Mine are clearly enough for me to handle without interjecting the thoughts of some other ass-hat...

All I want is a nice bottle of Shiraz with some decent cheeses and grapes and well, OK the Shiraz and the charcuterie board with meats and cheeses and grapes and some bread and then I am fine, right?  Right...all I want is the Shiraz, the Charcuterie board, some french bread and cheese spread and then time to think...think about thinking as I am getting smashed on my awesome Shiraz...where did the day go, it's pillow time.

I waited today, for your call

A word from you would've been great

Maybe I'm not as important

As you made me seem

But still I wait

I think it's me

It's probably you

Or is it actually me?

Yeah, it's me

I think I think too much about you

When I need to be focusing on me

You're taking up too much room in my brain

But that's not your fault it's mine

And it's making me insane

I know I'm a handful

I know I'm a pain

But I've been there for you

When you were the same

So thanks for nothing

Yet Thanks for everything

You've shown me time and again

That we'll never be more than just friends

So keep your hearts

Your X's and O's

Keep your words- they are empty

I don't want the last rose

Thinking. It's funny thing, isn't it? I think, then I type it here. Or maybe I type it here, then think. Editing? Only afterwards, not during. Well, when I begin thinking, it's like a train. One thing leads to the next, and eventually my thoughts end up somewhere, and I wonder how they got there. Like riding the bus in the mornings. I sit for 20 minutes and listen to music, and suddenly, I'm at my destination. It feels as though the ride goes too quickly. Like life, I suppose. If you think about it, you have 100 years, or, most likely, less, to make a difference in this world. And then you're gone. It's a peculiar thing to think about. Death. When you won't be able to do anything anymore. No eating, writing, reading. Or maybe there is. That's why death scares humanity. We don't know and we probably won't be able to figure out what death is like. And that scares us. The unknown. Like the only depths of the ocean, where we can't see, and don't know what is below. Inky depths. Like the night sky right now. Well, it has become later than I expected. And somehow this post went from thinking about thinking to how dark it is outside. This is what happens when I think.

Turbulance. I lost my control. I wanted to be weighed down forever. I was alright with the burn. I was alright with the morning coming too soon. I was alright with it all. I didn't care that I had no time. I didn't care that everything just evaporated. I didn't care that there was nothing else anymore. I was completely, and utterly alright with every inch of the inconsistence. I was completely, and utterly alright with the incoherence. I was alright with the limits, and the escape plans. I was alright with the star filled skies, and the seemingly twisted turnpike. I didn't care that the end was always up ahead, or that it was always.. always right behind as well. I didn't care that the sun went down just as I got up. It didn't matter. It never fucking mattered. I chased it. I chased it because, I knew what I was chasing. It might've been bad. But I was alright with it. 

I was alright with falling in love.

What I have to offer to the world, I don't have; stories of times I've never experienced and people I've never met. I have nothing tangible to sell, only words written in invisible ink. And only I have the light in which they can be read. 

I know only one audience and that is myself. Yet I question just how well I know myself at times. If I can barely finish this sentence, what makes me think I can get another to finish reading it? Better yet, how can I get them to begin? 

Words are better ingested with a chorus and a bassline. And stories get their limelight, streamed, in the comfort of viewers' homes, even phones. How do I compete?- If I too invest in these... alternative art forms...

I am a consumer of knowledge, but even I give in to the stale, mindless entertainment that has been popularized. I guess what I'm asking is... is it worth it?