WWWC # 3

 

Challenged by Caryn

 

Pick a literary quote/reference that inspires you, and do the opposite with it. (I PICKED A SONG)

 

Where my heart will take me

“A good turn-out, don’t you think?” I’m not really surprised that he doesn’t respond, although his rigid expression makes me sigh.  “If you’re not going to smile at my jokes, can you at least pretend to look sad? I don’t think people will laugh at you if you cry” Frustrated at his lack of response, I turn away, and start wandering between the people.  What the hell is she doing here? Backstabbing bitch, I knew I should have made a guest list.  Sighing I just move on, I always found her drama exhausting, and being dead doesn’t change how I feel about her. 

A few colleagues shuffle past me, sniffling as they go. “Yeah, keep crying you lying sack of shit.  Everyone who knew me knows what I think of you and how much you hated me in return.” I’m so over this crap, where is the goddamned white light? Right now, I’ll settle for black smoke swallowing me.  Anything to get away from this ball bag of an event.

I could have sworn I insisted on a no church event? I hope there is no lying penguin getting up on that podium screaming at the poor defenceless mourners about my supreme faith and how much better off I am. I can see it now.  All the religious nutcases I have ever known, and who hated my open-mindedness and love of gay people will nod solemnly in agreement at how I was such a pillar of Christianity and all things pure and fanatical, and how I am so much better off where I am. Ha.  Faith?  Me? Imagine that.

Indeed, they send up a penguin.  Well fuck. I won’t listen to this shit. I move away to the back of the church, but the thousand megawatt speakers blare out my faithful worship of a god that I never thought much of, a love of people that I never felt and a dedication to the improvement of life for all mankind. I wonder if the people here even knew me.  At all.

I give up.  Leaning against the pillar in the back of the church, I resign myself to suffering through this crap. The promise of a video clip made by a friend of mine peaks my interest. At last, someone that actually knows what they are talking about.  The church goes quiet; just a few abandoned sniffles can be heard as the penguin scratches at a laptop, trying to get the cursed clip to play. Eventually, a picture of me standing somewhere against a thundercloud-darkened sky pops up on the big screen, and the sounds of “Where my heart will take me” starts up, and I actually burst out laughing. 

This is the funeral song I chose years and years ago, when my dewy fresh youth still believed in the romance of life and death.  It’s been a long road? You are not kidding.  It’s been one hell of a long road. Long time?! Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t think thirty years is very long at all thank you. I’ve got strength? No one is going to bend or break me? Who dreams up this crap? Did you even see my remains? Do you at least KNOW how I kicked the bucket? Yeah, I didn’t think so. 

The picture flips over to another one, and another.  All cheesy pics where I pose awkwardly for a camera, clearly as uncomfortable in my skin as the cheesy song playing is out of place with who I am.  I do have faith.  Faith that this bullshit is a never-ending abyss of darkness and torment.  God I wish I could still get drunk so I can delete this crap from my undead memory.  There is nothing after this crap called life, and here I am, proving the fucking point, aren’t I?  Just more crap.  The high-light of today? I am going to follow that bitch home and drive her crazy.

 

Wednesday Weirdo’s Writers Club Challenge 2

Unhoard my life? Challenged by Annelle to throw something out and give something away and then, write about it.

Reinvented

Joyously, I hold up the piece of soft, grey cloth.  I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! All right, I didn’t know, and that is why I am so happy. Last year, in my annual fit of spring cleaning, I decided that the time had finally come to say goodbye.

I bought the shirt as a polo neck when I was just fourteen years old, and wore it whenever it came out of the wash.  When the neckline became too tight, I just snipped it off and hand-stitched a new neckline.  This off course meant that my baby had to be demoted to a vest slash home shirt. As time kept marching on and the material inevitably thinned out even more, I was completely unable to wear it anywhere but to bed, but last year, I took the plunge, and threw it out.  Ah, but did I? Off course I did.  I have no idea how it snuck back into my closet, hiding behind my actual peejays, I’m just really grateful it found a way. I washed it and am back to wearing it, runs and holes be damned.

Now, you might think this classifies me as a hoarder, and truth be told, I doubt I am.  I am simply an economic re-inventor that feels inanimate objects need love too. It’s the little things after all, that matters in life.  Little things like buttons, beads and ribbons, because an arty crafty like myself, can reinvent anything.

Yes, I do need to sort out my arts and crafts cupboard, but what would be the point if I know I won’t throw it out? So, instead of throwing it out, I reinvented things that really should go.  Glue gun, fabric strips and mismatched beads met elastic bands, old bra straps and random hairclips to create new and fun hair accessories, and whatever tiny pieces were left, met the bin. I have three new hair pieces for myself, three new hairpieces for my daughter, and am in the process of making these for every friend I have. So there, hoarder or re-inventor, you decide.

 

Blank pages and bottles of wine

As has been established, I am somewhat of an erratic writer.  Undisciplined, far too controlled by my emotions to ever really become an effective writer.  I review my work and some is really decent, but as soon as my emotions dip beyond a certain point, I write badly, or not at all. 

So the solution to this for me seems to be the Wednesday Weirdo’s Writers Club.  The club sprung forth from the desperate need of a few Capetonians feeling all left out from the meetings of the Tequila Thursday Writers club due to proximity. Thanks to the few determined members (we are only five people so far) we have met up three times, and done some challenges too.  I will post these challenges onto my blog whenever I can, or whenever it is even remotely appropriate.  Please be aware that these challenges can and will include absolutely any possible scenario, and should therefore always be read with a great dollop of open-mindedness, because really, anything goes. Here is another member and his contributions. Here’s to the crazy folk who inspires me *raises glass*

 

Taking the journey

Digging yourself out of a dark hole when you are really more afraid of getting out of it than staying inside it, is impossible, right? No, it’s not.  It really isn’t.  I can honestly say, my circumstances haven’t changed at all, life is still tough and challenging, but my view has changed.  This change wasn’t because of medication, friends, family or an inspiring tv show.  I just slowly changed. 

It wasn’t like I got up one day and decided I am going to be better.  I didn’t pray and have my prayers answered.  I just slowly realized that today is okay. I’m never going to be completely okay, but that’s cool too right? It’s not like you are really okay either.  Life has a tendency to break us down and build us up, and I guess that is normal.  So let’s ride this bicycle up and down the hill hmm?

 

Day 1 of attempt to overcome writer’s block

The sunlight, sharp and clear, bears down on the driest of earth in a blaze so painfully pure that it may as well have been an open flame. I try to avoid the blast by huddling into the small shadow left by a rather small Ficus, but the howling wind bites into every part of me, exposed and shaded. Nature does not discriminate.

 

And the personal review

Hi guys, welcome to my personal review of my blog, excluding all the numbers and apparent successes and failures.  I wish to thank my readers, all of you have contributed to these small successes, and sadly, the failures are all thanks to inconsistent posting :-/ Oh well, we are what we are, right?

So, instead of promising the world this time around and again failing to post what I need to, I will post what I can, when I can, and most importantly, whatever I want to… I actually just need a good kick in the pants… right, review:

I started this blog off with a bang, posting many, and varied, posts.  Most of them appeared rather poorly written, but as things progressed to the end of February and March, I seemed to get slightly better at expressing my thoughts as eloquently as I am able to, intermittently off course. Sadly there was this crazy moment in March where I believed that posting as my cat should be funny and interesting.  What a schmuck I am *shakes head* Well, thankfully the idea died rather quickly, and I decided to just move on from there.

April appeared to be a better writing month for me, one filled with consistently good posts, well written mostly, if not always brilliantly inspired, whereas May turned out to be rather uninteresting with just the one post.  It was a huge step for me nonetheless, confronting part of my past head on. June turned out to be a good one.  I liked most of my posts, and the content was much more interesting to read.  Turns out, the rest of the world thought so too!

July was my holiday, so off course, it was drier than the Sahara, and it all went downhill from there.  Reading some of my posts, and just remembering what they were about, has me realizing the importance of a journal.  I find it shocking how I didn’t realize my downward slope into depression was taking place so radically and noticeably.  This blog is by far the best resource for me; it helps me deal with me, it helps me deal with history, it allows so much to be said, and puts it all back into perspective for me.  Well, I’m going to go out and get some help, because clearly I was taken off the antidepressants WAY too soon.  My poor poor husband… He really must have the fortitude of a rock.

 

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,500 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 25 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

 

Medieval Stocks Part 2

Write a motivational letter and you could win this...

A follow up on this blog:
http://hereirayne.wordpress.com/2011/02/20/medieval-stocks/

Out of all the blogs that I have ever posted, this blog is consistently the highest hitting post I have ever had.  This is why I decided, instead of just getting rid of the stocks (which I only use on Halloween anyway, or storing it indefinitely for that purpose alone, I am going to give you the option of bidding (with words) for it.  You can bid simply by writing the best motivational letter of what you will use it for.  That’s it folks.  No money (other than courier costs off course, if applicable) will be needed.

The best motivation, off course, wins the stocks. I will post the letter to my blog so all can see the fairness I can exude *wink* BTW… closing to submit letters are… 15 January 2012

Contact me on this email for your chance at the stocks: hereirayne@rocketmail.com

xxx

 

Who I am & the Letter

I have been silent for the simple reason that for a while, it felt as if my whole world fell apart.  After working up the courage to confide to a good friend, patting myself on the back for my outstanding bravery for this huge accomplishment, and then being kicked in the face for my efforts when the friend declared, in dripping venom, that I should not be offering advice when my life sucks, so I should just rather shut up and sit in a corner.

Those were off course not her exact words, but you get the gist.  Well, I felt her words as if she physically hit me and I felt out of breath for days. I cried on and off for 3 weeks before the anger kicked in.  Sadly, during the three weeks of mourning, an idiotic colleague, whom I don’t care enough about to dislike or like, tells me that she believes that I can handle it when she tells me that she never liked me.  Random much?

 We’ve been working together for years, we get on fine, have never had problems, she just didn’t really EXIST for me, if you know what I mean? She was there, and she was nice, but she wasn’t really THERE.  I barely know her. So wtf? Right? What on Earth did I do to her to deserve her enmity? And if, the 40% of the world that I KNOW dislikes me, and the 50% of the world that I believe couldn’t care enough to dislike or like me also apparently dislikes me, and the 10% of the world that are my friends and despise me enough to betray and humiliate me publicly, what the hell am I still doing here?

Well, that is exactly how I felt when I wrote this letter.  I didn’t want to publish it, but then decided I would.  Because, you know, this is where I was during my silence.  I have recently learned that despite the fact that the rest of humanity can’t reconcile who I am with how pathetically fake and useless they are as a species, I am ok with it.  I am interested in ancient Egypt, I love sci-fi, I love fantasy, I write, I paint badly; I can’t play a musical instrument, well, I can play… I just do it very very badly.  I listen to Elvis and to Dropkick Murphy’s and think Justin Bieber is lame, I like reading and generally hate the movies of the books afterward because they (pardon the French folks) FUCK IT UP. I cry at weddings (but only when the bride walks down the aisle) and find the wedding service dull and pretentious.  I am polite to everyone, whether I like you or not, because I dislike rudeness.

I sing loudly and the world shakes because my voice is that bad.  I believe strongly, have strange and random beliefs that I never push down on others, I can’t be converted to your faith, but respect you all the same.  I like all these parts of me.  This is who I am, and if I do not conform to what you perceive I should be, well, sorry, I’d rather be me than whatever you’re supposed to be. 

So hate me, I don’t care, I will still just not care enough about you to hate or love you. That is who I am. If you don’t like it, well, there’s simply nothing I can do about that.  I have always found my peace in writing, reading and following my dreams.  I’ve never needed you or whatever your current idea of perfection is.  I am 10 kg overweight, but you know, after living my entire life as skin and bone, I finally like my body, if you want to be a stick figure or a whale, I generally don’t care. Yes, I’m almost chubby.  AT LAST. So leave me the fuck alone.  If you hate my taste in music, don’t hang around where you can listen to it.  If you hate my writing, don’t read it.  If you think my dress sense is whacked, yeah well, it is kinda, but I like it, so there. I don’t like make up much, but you know what, I don’t need to paint myself to be who I am.  Sometimes I’ll throw on some green eyeshadow and green highlights in my hair, other times I’ll hang out in my PJ’s the whole day.

If you’ve never liked me anyway, I have nothing to lose by being who I want to be, and everything to gain.  I like me. I like chubby crazy wild and whacky me, and this letter… this letter is the last time that you will ever kick me while I’m down, bringing my existence as a person into question when I really should have made peace with that a long time ago. 

Dear Mother.

It should please you greatly to hear that your hard work has paid off.  I’m as wrecked a human being as you could ever hope to find.  I’m not half the mother myself that I ever hoped to be, and yet, I’m far better than you yourself ever were.

I’m married to an amazing man who is mostly kind and brilliantly funny, and incredibly attractive to boot, but can still not find acceptance from him for my clumsy nature and irrepressible enthusiasm. He is far too reserved a man to ever live with someone half as wild as me.  Yet he perseveres, and I’m left humbled and a little ashamed for not attempting to curb my outrageousness.  Truth be told though, my wild nature is an attempt to prevent myself from ever turning into a stuck up snob like you.  I’d rather sing at the top of my voice in the pouring rain than sit behind a canvas because it is expected of me.  I tried that, and I have no artistic talent, remember? I’m the family Picasso.  We all remember well how little you thought of that painter.  No, Van Gogh was everything, if only I had a smidgeon of his greatness.

An inability to trust my fellow man has left me with few to none friendships, and the few I have is generally built on reserved behavior and perfect poise. The fun and outrageous crowd I love to surround myself with are actually far too frivolous to truly understand the precarious balance I live upon; the knife’s edge of sanity. Either I am outrageous and wild, or dignified and solicitous. Truly, I have no idea where I belong.  I question daily my motivation for my silly joy of life, my reckless and wild crazy love of loud and boisterous music and dancing, when I have in equal measure this incredible sense of propriety. I no longer know. 

It would further please you to hear that the one instance that I trusted a friend with a personal problem, I was betrayed and humiliated publicly, my sorrow thrown into the face of those closest to me and my value as a human being, friend and advisor completely debased, with none to raise a word of honor or defense. I have finally learnt the hardest lesson of all, the one you were trying so hard to force into my psyche.  I am not worthy of friends.  I am not worthy of love and above all, should never have existed.  I believe you now.  I will never make the same mistake again.  I am a failure at motherhood, a failure at being a wife and a failure at being a friend. Worthless and unwanted.  Now that I have acknowledged your infinite power over my existence, I would very much like for your ghost to stop haunting me, stop dogging my steps, and stop whispering your demotivating dribble. I truly, finally, irrevocably, believe.

 

The world of “Blog”

For a long time, my voice has been silent, and with no real good reason.  First I was drawn into the World of Warcraft, and after an addicting 3 weeks of playing the game through every spare moment, my sanity seemed to return slightly, just to find myself lost in the world of Stargate.  After a marathon of watching every SG1 episode and the heartbreak that went with the end of Season 10, my sanity finally seemed to return – tentatively off course.

I am shocked to discover that my blog, devoid of my madness, did not improve, did not post new and exciting topics daily and in fact, did absolutely nothing in my absence!

 I was kind of hoping that removing my bad influence meant that it would simply write itself and improve drastically if I’ve been removed from it, but alas, it turns out the world isn’t quite ready for an artificial me, and a ghost writer is for successful, famous people.

All right, I admit, I forgot about the existence of the world of “Blog”, but you can’t rightly blame me. I existed in a wonderful world of fiction for a few weeks! So, as punishment for my severe and appalling neglect of Here I Rayne, I decided to commit to the following:

NaNoWriMo (I registered today and am going to have to do the flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-thing) Because my book still requires far too much research to continue working on it, so I’ll have to randomly think up something else (which should be easy for someone as whack as me, right?).  I will never in a million years be able to do 1500 words a day, especially as rusty as I am after this long, long silence, but I want to aim for 500 words a day, and if I do more, I can reward myself with bacon *thought of 10 Kg overweight already pops into my head* All right, no bacon. It was worth a shot. *Sigh*

Very well, 1500 words a day, and one blog a week.  After successfully concluding this project for November, I’m allowed one plate of bacon and eggs. Right?

Does this blog count as blog 1 of four for November 2011?