Pardon the Dust

Pardon the dust. I’m underway with some renovations on the interior of Self. It wouldn’t be noticeable I imagine, so it’s not at all likely anyone would notice. In fact, I’m guessing no one will. But that’s the problem. No one notices. There seems to be a disconnect with the way I view my dreams, desires, etc., and the daily results I experience. As in, I have this grand vision of what my life should be, and I work toward it, yet I have this near out-of-body experience with what actually is.

So I’ve been trying to figure out why. Why do I feel what I am doing should be more observed and appreciated than it is? I’m not a bad person, per se, so I feel karma isn’t the answer. I’m not perfect, of course. I make mistakes. Many many. But that isn’t cause for the results, I wouldn’t think. Everyone makes mistakes, after all. Doesn’t hold back those who succeed, or are at the least noticed for what they do.

I’m forced to accept the only possibility I can find logic within: I am Clark Kent. I’m invisible, for the most part. A kind-hearted person you notice, but don’t think much of as a hero. Nobody looks at Clark and says, “Now there’s a guy who’s going somewhere. Let’s pay attention to him.” No. That’s the whole point. And even Clark makes stupid mistakes, like giving up his powers for no discernible reason whatsoever.

That’s who I am. Clark Kent after giving up my powers. Invisible and meek. Fun stuff. People pay attention to a point, then move on and forget I was there at all.

Why would they do that? Because they’re looking for Superman. They’re looking for heroes. They’re looking to be wowed, impressed, carried onward into hope and victory. Strong personalities, active voices, people who offer them results they want.

This guy:

You might argue that’s the same guy. Still Clark, right? But who will they remember? The meek guy who got beat up, or the guy who stood up to the bad guy and defeated him with flair and strength?

I’m not likely to go beat on some worthless schmo for the sake of attention, so that’s out. Hell, I still catch flies and release them when I can, rather than squishing them into oblivion for invading my space. But I’ve encountered my share of bullies. And they’ve won. Sure, I’ll bitch about it, but after the five seconds in which people listen and agree, they move on. Nobody wants to listen to someone complain about being a victim. They want Superman. Action. Decisive action.

When I was eight, I had a birthday party. It was the first one I had organized, first time I had invited kids from school to my home. There was cake, balloons, games planned, a beautiful day in a park. Nobody showed up. I didn’t try to have another party after that. Now, I could say that it molded my perception at that point, convinced me nobody would ever show up for anything I planned ever; but that would be Clarking without power. Something I am proficient in. Complaining after the fact, then withdrawing. Truth is, that party was just another bully, and it beat me. It beat me and I didn’t fight back.

I’ve often stated, of myself, that I engage in the fight, get knocked down, yet always get up to fight again. What strikes me, in this whole Clarking vs. Supermanning duel of perception is not that I keep getting up. That should be a given. I mean, you don’t get up, the fight’s over. As we’re talking about life here, then life is over. So you get up. Of course. You fight, to one degree or another, to defend your right to existence. Expectations, though. That’s what I’ve come to see. I expect to get knocked down again. I expect to stand up again. I expect to fight again. I expect this to repeat, endlessly. That’s just Clarking your way through. Superman (or if you must, Clark Kent with his powers) doesn’t enter a fight expecting to hold his ground or be defeated. He expects to win. He expects good to triumph. He expects to move on to another fight and kick its ass as well.

So I’m renovating. Interior design is not my strong suit, though I work on it constantly. I’m hoping to make this one stick. It’d be nice to do so. Perhaps then people will notice me. They’ll read my work because they can’t imagine not reading it. They’ll read it because they want to, because they could’t wait to, because they want to know what story I tell next. I’m actually quite good at this whole writing thing. It’s taken a lot of work to become so. But if I continue to toss it about like Clark’s weak punches, nobody will care. It’ll be kind of sad, actually.

I’ve learned to write well because I want people to read it, when what I need to do is to write well because I expect people will be reading it.

Writing, Broadleaf Writers, my current job, relationships, everything.

I have to learn to be Superman.

Being invisible sucks.

The Immutable Lifing of Life

Nine months, twenty-five days, and some hours I’m too lazy to count. That’s how long it’s been since I last wrote here. I guess that qualifies as an appropriate gestation period of silence. Oddly enough, birthed unto the world, that silence now screams, betraying the calm that was my earnest effort to ignore it forevermore.

It’s not my fault. I just didn’t want to do it.

In part, I admit, because life has been … well, it’s been lifing pretty hard. That’s not to say that its myriad pokes and prods have left but puncture wounds and headaches. No, it’s pushed, encouraged, picked me up in moments of stress and told me it would all be okay, then kicking my ass because I looked like I needed it. Still, the lingering lifieness of life has left my writing focused to work I wish to get published rather than words that summarize my current state of mind. The need for those words to be structured properly, for the story to be conveyed with ease, perfect flow, characters worth remembering, everything that makes a book what you hoped it would be, has far outweighed the need to blog. In essence, I mean to say that I want to be damn good at it.

So there’s that.

Ugh. I just saw this picture. The webbernuts seems to exist solely to see how many different ways it can make people cry.

SO MUCH LOVE.

SO MUCH LOVE.

What’s interesting, and eternally frustrating to me, is that much of the lifingness of life these past months has to do with matters of a personal nature. I won’t talk about that on social media, or certainly not here. Which sucks because I’ve always viewed my blog as a therapist of sorts. One that offers no feedback, true, but one that patiently waits out my rants and thoughts and worries and fears and more thoughts and more fears and more worries and sad. So, the few times I’ve wanted to write about it, I’ve arrived to find the door closed, the Inner-me offering a finger waggle then pointing me away. And so I trudge off, hands in my pockets, lip pouted, mumbling about something inane that Inner-me just ignores because it’s inane.

And there you go. It all makes sense now, doesn’t it?

There’s no real point to this. If you’re reading, I apologize. Thanks for stopping by. Leave a quarter on the counter on your way out, if you would. I just wanted to write … something. This is certainly something. Pride. Beaming. Smiles everyone. Welcome to Fantasy Island.

I actually do have something to announce. I just can’t do that now. Basically, I have the news, I just lack the trumpet. I mean, I don’t know how to play  a trumpet, per se, but I can make noise with one. Which is a lot like writing. Making noise. I can make noise. I’ve also been working on a new book, with additional side projects, while continuing to push The Storyteller and the Shadowheart of Ahriman (which has endured more blood cleansing than a dialysis patient, but is somehow better off for it). Maybe for the sake of having someone read something I’ve written or am writing–which is a more difficult task than I could have imagined–I’ll just start posting bits on here. Maybe you can read a whole book out of it. For free. Why not? I wrote it for it to be read. Sure, I’d like millions of people to be enjoying it, but the simpleton mathematician in my head seems to think one is greater than zero, so okay then. If for no other reason than to keep him from mathing, I’ll do that. I hate math.

This is the only certifiable math I’ve done in a good many years:

The Simpson are no longer funny, because math.

The Simpson are no longer funny, because math.

Chew on that. Just don’t expect it to make sense.