Funny thing happened on my way to run errands on Sunday: I checked the mailbox. Given that I rely on snail mail for very little, in that I manage all financials online, I'm not the world's most fastidious mailbox visitor. On this day, however, after I pulled up out of my too-steep hill of a driveway, I swung the car around, stopped, and hopped out to empty the mailbox.
The one single thing that stuck out among the sixteen pieces of spam was an envelope hand-addressed to me, with a return address that I recognized as being that of a friend in the Southwestern US.
What a surprise this envelope contained. Totally unexpected, completely unwarranted, utter out of the blue-ness... and it hit me. Hard. Right upside the head. This should have been the other way around. I should have sent her a thoughtful how-do-you-do, and I was completely gobsmacked, touched, agog that she would be thinking of me and not focusing every bit of energy on taking care of herself and her boycub. She's dealing with her own life, loss, trials, tribulations... and yet she stopped to take the time to do something nice for me.
And, you know, I've been wallowing. There, I said it. I've been sniveling and snorfling and generally being a whiny little bitch, and it was high time that I grabbed hold of my proverbial bootstraps and hauled my big ass back up.
This sort of thing my mother calls a "God shot"; I've taken to calling this particular event a "Goddess shot".
Thank you, friend. I don't know if you knew what you were doing when you popped that envelope in the mail, but when it arrived, it made all the difference in the world for me and for my outlook. My children, husband, job, friends... are benefiting from my renewed focus and better mood. I'm still wallowing, but nowhere near as deeply.
Thank you. Thank you.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
To Be Continued
Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.
Note that I do not nod to the creative process, nor the feelings of The Artist, here. The emotion generated by The Artist and the emotion generated by The Voyeur are two entirely discrete sensations, and it is those of the latter which have been on my mind.
The Voyeur. The powerful, lustful, ever-cunning Voyeur.
Pleasant or unpleasant, it doesn't matter to The Voyeur; one set of emotion is just as desirable as the next when we're talking about creative response - any emotion at all is a distinct check in the column of 'win'.
Distinct as they are, each their own association and yet still often each other's, this 'pleasant' and that 'unpleasant'... the distinction is of no mind to The Voyeur. The only jones that must be fed is the howling lust for some kind of emotion, as The Voyeur bores all too easily. The lack of caring at all, the void where desperation for evocation exists will, if ignored, eventually lead to distinct disgust. Nothing offends The Voyeur so effectively as boredom. Still, the end result? This distinct disgust? Emotion. Therefore effective... yet the path to that end is worthless, as The Voyeur's disgust is shameful when it is not earned.
I've digressed.
Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.
When my own Voyeur read Matt's writings on U2's The Joshua Tree, the lump in my throat insisted that I pay attention, reminding of that time of innocence. And fear. And pressure. A familiar, the lump wasn't new and unknown and revolting; no. It was interesting and provocative. It made me feel. I discovered that this album, which I have never owned, has a very concrete association with time and events nearly twenty years dead.
They were strange days, those. Strange days indeed...
Note that I do not nod to the creative process, nor the feelings of The Artist, here. The emotion generated by The Artist and the emotion generated by The Voyeur are two entirely discrete sensations, and it is those of the latter which have been on my mind.
The Voyeur. The powerful, lustful, ever-cunning Voyeur.
Pleasant or unpleasant, it doesn't matter to The Voyeur; one set of emotion is just as desirable as the next when we're talking about creative response - any emotion at all is a distinct check in the column of 'win'.
Distinct as they are, each their own association and yet still often each other's, this 'pleasant' and that 'unpleasant'... the distinction is of no mind to The Voyeur. The only jones that must be fed is the howling lust for some kind of emotion, as The Voyeur bores all too easily. The lack of caring at all, the void where desperation for evocation exists will, if ignored, eventually lead to distinct disgust. Nothing offends The Voyeur so effectively as boredom. Still, the end result? This distinct disgust? Emotion. Therefore effective... yet the path to that end is worthless, as The Voyeur's disgust is shameful when it is not earned.
I've digressed.
Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.
When my own Voyeur read Matt's writings on U2's The Joshua Tree, the lump in my throat insisted that I pay attention, reminding of that time of innocence. And fear. And pressure. A familiar, the lump wasn't new and unknown and revolting; no. It was interesting and provocative. It made me feel. I discovered that this album, which I have never owned, has a very concrete association with time and events nearly twenty years dead.
They were strange days, those. Strange days indeed...
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