What is A Weekend?

First, let's start off with the fact that I had one of the most amazing weekends in the history of weekends. To quote The Dowager Countess, What is a weekend? A variety of things, but this one was about discovery of the best kind.

The weekends give us a small chance to check out from the rest of our busy lives, or to rev up the usual routine. For the last several years my weekends have consisted of mundane tasks, then graduate school requirements, and the occasional fun or ambitious project. This is not one of those instances where I tell you a detailed break down of my weekend. Besides I cannot imagine that many people are THAT interested. It's not your business what I did even if you were interested; it's how I felt about what happened that is paramount.

Before I go too far though, I have to give another shout out to Lizz Schumer (entire blog link to the right) and her recent blog post The Luxury of Happenstance,  unbeknownst to her, this ideology was the very catalyst for my own weekend. I read her post on Sunday evening, and was just gleeful. I appreciate her thoughts and who she is.

Now back on track...

I am a planner, a bona fide I NEED to know what is happening and when, sort of planner. I hate last minute dates, I feel like I never look as good as I could've looked if I would've known a day or two sooner. I need to reserve or set up rides to and from the airport weeks in advance. I begin planning for a weekend where I'll be just over state lines WEEKS in advance. I need to budget, think, and be prepared for...whatever. Perhaps it's because I am anal about travel, but there is, I believe, a fear of getting all it wrong. There is this horrible feeling that I won't spend the time wisely, or that I won't have a good time, or that something awful might happen, or worse...that I'll desperately need something that I don't have with me. OH! The sheer unadulterated horror of it all. Whatever would I do?

Seriously...what would I do?

This got me thinking of the automatic, 'yes'...2 of the most important days in our lives, we don't plan, and we usually have no hand in them...when we are born, and when we die (I said USUALLY, not referencing those who choose to end it all) are automatic yeses. If these two days can happen, just by chance...then what is wrong with having an air of spontaneity? What am I afraid of? What if I just took a step back from my life long enough to let it happen? What happens when you spend a few days just saying, "yes" and letting life happen?

This weekend I went in, with no plan, no expectation; just a 'yes' to life on my lips...no more, no less (wait...and clean underwear, you really do need both, that I won't let go of). During this excursion into life, something rather simple was suggested, "You're a writer, I want coffee, let's go to a cafe", I said, "Yes". I too thought it was cliche, but 'yes' was on my lips, and clean underwear under my skirt. The walk was nice albeit a tad long, it allowed me to experience a few things that I might not have without it. The cold air, the way smells cut through it, the way the sun sets in between buildings and the colors they all form can make a brisk walk...anywhere something incredible and memorable.

One of my graduate school advisors, Ryan Boudinot, told me that in order for my characters to be real I had to assign them real experiences, real tasks. How could I do that when I have been so shut off from the world? I have to be real first, and I haven't been real. I spent a long time just existing, but hardly living. It stifled my thinking, stinted my creative brain. Saying yes to this weekend, yes to my life will give me more to write about, more to feel. Let me expand on that...

The image that I mentioned before...the sun setting. The close to each and every day has an entirely different look than the one before it and the one that will come after it. Try and duplicate the beauty of a sunset, either in paint, description, or memory...you can never do it proper justice. It is immeasurable beauty. Then again it is the human condition to challenge beauty...you may feel that the sunset in the mountains beats the one on beach, or that the sunset at the beach beats the one from glaciers of the arctic; for me, this time, the city beats all.

Unlike the breathtaking back drop of nature, the city has been created by human hands; much altered by business, construction, and destruction. In a city beauty is driven by corporation and economy; supply answering demand. When buildings are blueprinted, placed, and developed...I am sure that the architects and engineers take a general interest, or thought, in the direction a building should face. The beauty of the building, planned, possibly duplicated...the beauty of the sunset, never planned, never duplicated. The beauty of the sunset enhances the beauty of the city's buildings and after two chilly walks at dusk I can attest to this, unequivocally. At dusk the buildings merely become the blank canvas that the sun paints itself on.

Taking the same route to and from said coffee shop each evening allowed me to see the world through the same eyes in different ways. The sky was a pinky peach one day and a muted fire orange another. Some of the clouds did that puffy cotton ball thing one day while others did a streaking thin smattering of white and gray the next. The reflection of the sunset magnified. Mirrors of sunsets blasted across the city. One reflected then another, and another and so on, until the sunsets and the unplanned beauty for the show was done.

After the show, once the sunset was concluded, the buildings lit up for their own show. Humans challenging beauty. A mechanized plan in which the man made lights try to compete with our memories of the sunset, the sun light, and the stars. The buildings don't even come close. We've been mesmerized with man made light since electricity came to the World's Fair in the early 1900's; Tesla turned on a light and the world got hot and bothered right along with him.

          "Why so quiet?" That's what was asked of me.

          "Oh, just thinking about buildings, lights, sunsets, and Tesla."

          "You know about Tesla?"

          "Yes," I said. I said, yes.

I am no longer a writer…

       Since graduating with my MFA, I can’t write anymore. I can’t. For various reasons, I am not longer a writer. I am a reviser:

Not my image... I don't write.

1. I can’t even get through a fucking facebook post to a friend without reading it twice, revising it three times and having to click that damn pencil icon to edit it AGAIN after it was posted. Nothing is ever finished…nothing and it bugs me. I used to write blog posts off the cuff. NOW off the cuff is a week of writing and editing around teaching, my day job, and a fear that my scholarly friends won’t like it…BULL SHIT
2. Everyone is a damn critic. NOT that they aren’t right…but it seems to me that as soon as you get a MFA and get serious about it, you start sharing your work (well before that, but follow me here). And suddenly everyone has something to say about some part of something which was once something you liked but NOW…NOW you hate it because it’ll never be good enough…EVER.
   
3. There are no deadlines and thus no time. Before I said, “Nope, I can’t do that because I am way too busy with school”. I had deadlines, books to read, papers to write…I was actively writing and doing so daily because I had to. Now, if I have a moment in the day I try to get something down, but who the fuck is it for now?! Me…yes I know…it always was for me. But so what? This brings me to #4…
   
4. Not knowing what do with what I do revise (remember I am NOT a writer anymore) What the hell will I do with thousands of poems, hundreds of pages of finished manuscripts, and screenplays? What will happen to pages and pages of my revised words if I don’t get them out there? I need the time to submit, and in many cases, the money. So what will come of them?  I will do nothing with them and I’ll be found under them. It’s the literary equivalent to the cat lady. I can’t have cats…I’m allergic.
   
5. Writers (they can call themselves that) make up reasons not to write. Family, jobs, I’m tired… oh and my favorite cop out…I need a break. From what?!?!?! Writers sit on their damn asses all day contemplating thoughts and making their work feel to make others feel or some such bull shit. I don’t want to feel anything, I’ve felt enough.
   
6. People assume that you can write their…whatever.  I can’t tell you how many people have said, both when I was in school and especially now that I have gotten out of school…”Oh good, now that you’re done you can help me with my memoir”. Grr…piss off. Why don’t you go to school for a few years and pay several thousand dollars to learn that you know NOTHING but how to revise and THEN see if YOU want help anyone do anything? Yea. Piss. Off.
   
7. I’d rather drink coffee in a dark coffee house and write, err revise as well. There’s something so sexy about being that scholarly and mysterious…isn’t there?…but you know what? IT ISN’T LIKE THAT. First off it’s too fucking loud next to the cappuccino machine and the barrister keeps talking and that shit is distracting. Secondly, you can never find an outlet to plug in the PC, MAC or iWhatTheHEllEver you’re typing on. Third…it’s too damn dark in there AND you cannot sit by the window… it is as cold as an ice cube’s ass in the winter and hotter than it is under a fat man’s man-boob in the summer. Lastly, the drinks are expensive and you can’t just sit there all day and NOT do it, you have to buy SOMETHING…but once again you can’t because you’re a writer! Writers have no money, so none of this is possible. (and if you can afford it then you have enough to build your own studio, go write there you lucky bastard)
   
8. Once you’re a writer people ask you dumb ass shit. People keep asking to see what you write, or asking you what you write about. When you explain, they don’t get it ANYWAY or they talk endlessly about how they could never do THAT…WELL I CAN’T EITHER!! Especially since you’re bothering my ass with your dumb shit questions! It’s easier to say it’s currently being revised. A work in progress if you will.
   
9. Revisers go on sabbatical. I want a vacation where I’m paid to consider work and actually make headway with it. I prefer that to being a whiny ass writer who is content to belly ache about their shit and how there is no time for it to get done.
10. Writers talk about their work all the time. I’m not sure I want to discuss my work with anyone, whether they have a MFA or not…I don’t care…know why…opinions are like assholes. THAT’S WHY! Don't believe me? Click the 'next blog' link up there...go on...click it.

*looks around*







Wow... I forgot I had a blog. It's been way too long since I attempted this.



I won't bother the one follower I think I have with a life update, but I will talk about something that is on my mind.



As I signed into the blog just now I was very calmly sipping from my cup of coffee. I posted a facebook status some months ago where I mentioned that coffee travel mugs were basically sippy cups for adults.



Let's think about it...there is something about sipping your drink of choice out of your treasured mug. Something warm and comforting about that particular mug. It's habit and relaxation, it's joy and normalcy, and it holds the perfect amount of that soothing liquid for you. It is liquid happiness.



And with regards to the mug, it doesn't matter how it is shaped, how old the mug is, and in some cases whether it is clean or not. Don't make that face, I have seen you, yes you with that dirty mug. It's still stained from yesterday's coffee, and last week's incicdent with the creamer in the office break room that you still swear had nothing to do with you. You're thinking that sipping your coffee as you read this crazily written, unedited post.



Some how coffee, I use coffee not only because of my addiction, but because it is what is typically in the travel mugs of us professional people, some how coffee has that smell to it that says welcome to a new day. A day where nothing has gone wrong, yet. This is not to say that coffee makes everything ok, but typically when sipping your cup ah joe, nothing goes wrong.



All I am saying is the kiddies have their juice and I have my coffee and I am pretty pleased with that.



Now...I remember why I forgot I had a blog...facebook, and mafia wars...







*sips coffee, looks around*