Inertia

I enjoy writing. I wouldn't do it if I didn't.

I enjoy knowing that someone somewhere may be looking at and reading what I write. And in principle, that would seem to be enough to guarantee that I'll write with some regularity. And yet...

I just can't seem to get motivated to do it. Every evening when I finally have time to myself, time to think and write in peace, I balk at it. The excuses begin forming in my head even before the thought of writing has surfaced.

"I'm too tired..."
"I'm not in the mood to write..."
"I don't know what to write about..."
"I am just not feeling motivated..."
And the ultimate excuse, "I'll write tomorrow."

And then before I know it, a great weariness and inertia set in and I'm watching TV or reading or grudgingly working... Anything but writing.

And the irony of it is, most of the time, if I force myself to do it, I can manage to come up with something worth reading. An essay, a rant, a story, even a lone, beautifully crafted sentence. When I try, I can usually break through the barrier, but I don't try. Instead, I indulge in a sniff of self-pity and fob it off with whatever excuse happens to be handy.

Except for nights like tonight... Nights when I force myself and kick at the barrier and write. Write something. Write anything worth reading.

Changes... oh, so many changes.

Every day when I open my favorite websites, this blog is among them. I open it as a reminder to start writing again and every day I guiltily scoot past it, glancing at its browser tab and shifting my gaze to the next tab to avoid thinking about just how far behind I've fallen in updating it.

So much has changed in my life since my last post and so many changes are ahead in the near future. It's hard to fathom restarting the blog and trying to explain the sequence of events that led to where I am today. Of course, there's always the option of starting a new blog, and I will start a new one, but one to run in parallel with this one, not to replace it.

In trying to figure out how to restart my blog I have come up with a 'middle of the road' solution. I'm not going to go into a lengthy treatise about how and why I got to where I am today and I'm not going to just skip to today and pretend I've been here all along. Instead, I'll do a quick rundown of where I was when the last entry was written and where I am today. As for where I'll be in the future, that's a matter for future posts.

My last entry is from May 15th, 2008. At the time I was married and living the generally acknowledged yuppie paradise - husband, child, house, car, beloved cat, job, and money. My present and future by all accounts was something most people would kill for and probably had. And yet, I was unhappy and grasping at straws to find a reason to get up most mornings.

Today's entry is six months later, almost to the day... I'm in the middle of an exceptionally amicable divorce from my husband who is still my friend. I have moved out of the house and into a lovely condo, taking my books, my clothes and my cat. I still have my job (which I love) and my car (which I have a healthy respect for) and most mornings I wake up so deliriously happy that it feels as if I'm waking up into a dream.

I'm restarting my blog for a couple of reasons... One, because I expect and hope for a lot more changes in the months and years to come and this is one way for me to parse my thoughts. And two, because I'm starting another blog alongside this one and this is one way of introducing it. To see my new blog, look for the link on the right hand side in the section entitled "My other life".

Like I said, the two blogs will run somewhat in parallel which seems only fitting since my two lives run in parallel as well. Happy reading!

Bad habit

I have a bad habit...

Well, more than one, actually, but in this case, I'm talking about reading multiple books in parallel. Now, I know that there are plenty of other people who do the same thing but to my orderly, disciplined and somewhat masochistically obsessive compulsive mind this smacks of irreverent gluttony. I should be able to devote my full attention to just one book at a time, from start to finish, shouldn't I?

For some two years I had retreated almost entirely into the online world and have cut down my time with an actual book in hand. Don't misunderstand, I didn't stop reading, never that... It's just that my tastes took a detour and my reading became a lot more erratic, done in little snippets and bursts without any sort of a connecting thread.

I continued rereading my favorites but although I do get something out of every book I reread, most of the books I've been reading and rereading over the last couple of years (with few notable exceptions) have been what I would call "comfort food" books. Easy to swallow, easy to digest, gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling for a few hours or days and then just as easily forgotten.

In that restless time I've gone back to reading just one book at a time which could sometimes stretch into weeks. When I'm engaged, I swallow pages as quickly as I spit out words. To have a three hundred page book stretch into a couple of weeks seemed such a bloody waste of time but without motivation, reading became a passive and sluggish exercise.

I'm not sure what served as a turning point. Perhaps it was a couple of books I read recently that didn't fall into that "comfort food" category. Perhaps the fact that when I get home these days I don't immediately rush to plug in my laptop. Or it could be that a few recent discussions I've participated in and people I've met pointed out, ever so subtly, that my mind has been stagnating.

Whatever the impetus, I'm reading again. And just as a reluctant dieter will cram in a triple chocolate brownie on the sly, awash in guilt and promising to do better the next day, so am I cramming in books and buying more, all the while promising myself that I'll read them slowly, that I'll savor them and really and truly read every word. Ok, who am I kidding?

And now I'm reading...

Story of O by Pauline Reage, because even reading it for the fifth time, I cannot get over the beauty of the language and the savagery of the descriptions. And because I keep hoping that this time I'll find, hidden deep in the flowing torrent of words, the key I've been looking for.

Tara Road by Maeve Binchy, because I have a long standing love hate relationship with this book. It's no darker than her other books but it has a poignant sadness to it than I don't feel when I read most of her other works and I will only reread Tara Road when I need to reassure myself that life isn't supposed to be fair.

The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox - this is a new book and I've just started reading it. I'm literally on the first page and already I can tell that whatever the content, the language and the setting will keep me going.

Warlock by Oakley Hall - this is another new book and also one I've just started reading. It is a book I was told to read and I've started it before but after a few pages, life interfered and I never picked it up again. I'm restarting it now and this time I will finish it.

What an odd collection it is! And for anyone who wonders how I don't confuse time periods and characters and story lines... if you're like me and you've indulged in this sort of gluttony, then you know that going from book to book is like walking in and out of separate, sumptuously appointed rooms in the same house; each distinct and complete in its furnishings but unmistakably unique. You can't combine or mistake one for the other, it just isn't possible.

And if you've never done it, take my word for it or pick up two books at once and try it for yourself. Happy reading...

Books and tears (cont.)

I finished the book...

I was wrong, I wasn't sorry it was over. I wasn't sorry it was time to put it down.

But most importantly, I am not sorry I picked it up.

And after a few months, I'll pick it up again.

Books and tears

I'm reading a book right now...

I've put it down to write this and when I'm finished with this blog entry, I'll pick it up again.

I'm reading a book right now and I hate it.

I hate it for making fear and sadness and grief and guilt well up inside me and overwhelm everything I would otherwise be feeling.

I hate it for casting a dark shadow on a day that should have been one of rest and recalibration and has now instead become a jangling and restless counting of minutes and pages.

I hate it for the tears that have been streaming unchecked and uncontrollable down my face for the last hour as I've been reading it.

And I hate myself for picking it up. For lying when I told myself that I'll just read a few pages and then put it back on the shelf. For swallowing each bitter chapter, choking on the words and emotions and still greedily reaching for more. For knowing all the while what it will do to me and being unable to put it down.

It's sitting right next to me, waiting to be picked up, mocking me by the innocuousness of its almost cozy cover. Of course I'll pick it up... and I'll hate putting it down when it's over.

Bad days

Every few weeks I wake up in the morning and I know, without any doubt, that this will be a bad day.

There are no precursors, nothing to foreshadow its imminent appearance or help me find ways of warding it off. It comes and I'm just as powerless to stop it as I am to make it walk off faster than it chooses.

The helplessness of it infuriates me and each time it leaves me I resolve that next time I won't let it take hold. I swear to myself that I'll fight it. That I'll push it away before it can settle in and gnaw at my insides with its restless fury.

And then the next time comes and the sinking feeling in my chest when I wake up and take the first breath of the day tells me that it's too late. It's already here. Already settled and waiting for me. Whether I acknowledge it or not is irrelevant. I can lie to myself, close my eyes and pretend I don't see it, but sooner or later, I'll feel it and taste it and smell it. It has all the time in the world and it'll wait there, mocking me with its patience until I admit its presence and then all pretense is lost.

Think back to the last time you've stubbed your toe against the wooden leg of that old sofa you've sworn so many times before to move. That first quarter of an instant when the toe has already made the connection with the hard wood but before the sickening vertigo of pain has come. The tiny, blissful moment when your brain crazily wonders, "will it really hurt? but maybe it won't? could it be...?" and then the moment is gone, the pain sinks its fangs in and you double over, feeling at once betrayed and justified. And angry... so very, very angry to have been disappointed yet again.

And then, if you're anything like me, there's also fury at yourself - for not moving the sofa as you planned, for not being more careful as you walked, for not doing a myriad of things that in the aftermath occur to you as possible ways of having prevented what you're now experiencing.

And so it is with me and the bad days. Overtime the fury has lessened and now it varies from almost dispassionate musings to plaintive whimpers - all centered around the pointless quest for a solution to prevent the next bout while at the same time struggling to get through the current one.

And it gets worse. Of course it does, why shouldn't it? Unlike with stubbing your toe where the pain is as bad in the first moment as it'll get and then it starts getting better and better until you can unclench your teeth, breathe again, maybe release the curses you've swallowed and maybe resolve once again to move that sofa... Unlike that, my bad days spiral out of control slowly, taunting me with promises of worse to come.

The peak usually doesn't come until hours later when I'm all wound up and tense and least capable of handling it. Sometimes, it's a series of smaller peaks, each one soothing me with false promises of being the last one. Having been fooled too many times, I now greet each peak with wary suspicion, always peering after it, trying to see what isn't there.

And then, without any warning, it's over. There's a surge of my usual energy, a bright burst of optimism, a resolution that I won't let it happen again, a desire to lie to myself and tell myself that it's over for good this time. And life goes on.

For those of you who are still wondering... Yes, today is one of those days.

Losing control v. giving it to another...

Perhaps fate or some higher power is telling me to stop testing my luck...

This winter, so far, I've had at least three absolutely horrific drives home - snow, ice, fog - take your pick. And each time that I've come through it and breathed a sigh of relief I couldn't help but wonder why (and sometimes how) I got through it.

The most recent one was last night - roads coated with sheets of black ice, on top of it a fresh powder of snow, a dark night, anti-lock brakes useless, hilly road, followed by a highway, and a lot of people on the road who seem to have turned off their brain the moment they turned on the ignition.

After a few minutes behind the wheel and the first time I had to brake, I realized that I lost all control over my car. There was a car in front of me which I was rapidly approaching and there was absolutely nothing I could do except try to swerve out of the way and maneuver between it (a van) and the sidewalk to my right. Of course, swerving sharply is just a recipe for disaster all in itself. But I did turn the wheel and I could feel the car sliding, wheels locking and the car trying to desperately kick in the anti-lock brakes and failing.

We slid through the space between the sidewalk and the van (and don't ask me how, I have no idea), and kept on going, continuing to turn right even though the light was red. Thankfully there were no cars coming from the left, but even if there had been, there was nothing I could do to stop at that point. The wheels regained traction once we got onto the cross street and the nightmare continued for another hour until I finally got home.

During the entire ride, I remember talking out loud, trying to convince myself that I'm all right, that everything will be fine, that I'll make it home and all will be well. I'm all for self-delusion and I'm fairly good with words, but it wasn't working. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, my breath failing and my eyes filling with tears each time I pressed on the brake and the car shuddered, unable to obey the commands it's used to. We were in each other's hands and both entirely helpless. Not a good feeling...

Which brings me back to the topic of the post.

As I was going to bed, I was thinking about the distinction between losing control and giving it to someone else. For someone like me who's used to either having control or fighting to get it, to suddenly find myself in a situation where I'm powerless is frightening enough. But although the end result is the same - you have no control over your body, your actions, sometimes even your speech - the way you get there does make a big difference.

Losing control when you didn't want to is demoralizing. It makes you feel helpless and scared and depressed. It can feel hopeless. And without an immediate way of regaining it, it's tempting to just give up and stop trying. Unintended loss of control is holding a delicate porcelain teacup in your hand and then watching in horror as it slips out of your fingers and shatters on the marble slabs beneath your feet.

And then there is handing control over to someone else. It's holding that same porcelain teacup and placing it in the open hands of someone you trust to cherish and protect it as you do. It's knowing that the person you're giving it to will hold it for you and will return it to you when it's time.

Giving up control is not a loss at all. Giving it to the right person can be an experience of immense freedom, release, and joy. It can feel like taking off layers and layers of heavy clothes, feeling the lightening with each removal. It's the first breath of fresh air you take when you step outside on a beautiful spring day. It's opening a fist that's been clenched for so long you've forgotten it can be opened and finding that letting go doesn't mean you'll fall.

Not if the right person is holding the porcelain teacup.

On service v. submission

Recently I listened to a discussion about whether service and submission are the same thing. To those of you reading who are not familiar with what I'm talking about, the context here is the Dominance/submission aspect of bdsm.

It was interesting to hear how other submissives viewed the role of service in their submission. Some have said that yes, for them submission is service and vice versa, while others felt as I do that service and submission are different although they can go hand in hand.

I didn't participate in the discussion, preferring to just listen to what the others were saying. At the same time my own thoughts were scurrying about although I think the realization of what was bothering me hit me almost as soon as the question was asked. Subconsciously (for myself) I had been equating service and submission but the moment I had to actually verbalize it, I knew right away that for me service and submission are completely different.

Not only that but when I think about serving, I think of it as almost entirely self-serving. I love it. I get a whoosh of pleasure from performing a service, however large or small and the question then is, if it's a self-serving, not to say selfish, act at the core, regardless of whom else it ends up benefiting, is it really submission?

I had thought that I was a submissive, but if service alone is not submitting and if all I've been doing is giving service, then am I really a submissive? What is submission worth when it's something you give willingly rather than something you have to struggle with giving?

And I suppose one could ask, why does everything have to be a struggle? Why can't you be happy that something comes easily to you? Why does it have to be difficult? Well, the truth is, it doesn't, but then it isn't worth quite as much, is it?

It's certainly not worth as much to me if it's something I do easily. Thinking back to when I was a student... It's something like taking a very easy class and getting an A in it or taking an advanced class and working your heart out to do well and getting the same A. Which is more valuable? They are both As but you know that what you did to earn the former is not nearly as much as you did to earn the latter. And yes, both may add the same to your GPA but they are not the same.

So, if service and submission are not the same, and if serving is not submitting, then what is submission? I think I know the answer but I'm not sure I can reconcile with it. Perhaps something to think about for the next post.

Anonymous apologies...

I came across this site (JoeApology.com) that allows you to post an apology anonymously...

The moment I saw it appear on my gmail RSS feed, I thought, "wow, what a cool idea" but then, right on the heels of that initial reaction came another, more true to my personality, one.

And that was, "what a cowardly and self-indulging way of apologizing".

An apology is not supposed to be easy or public or self-gratifying. That's not an apology, that's a show. An apology is something you offer to the person whom you're wronged, not something you post for the world to see and approve and pat you on the back for. That's not an apology, that's attention grabbing drama.

I'm not quite sure why it's irritating me as much as it does. Perhaps because I'm terrible at apologizing myself. Perhaps because it's so painful for me to know that I've wronged someone and should now apologize. Perhaps it's because I think that an apology should be heartfelt and personal and directed at making the person you're apologizing to feel better and not yourself. If you feel better having apologized, that's great but it's an added bonus. The goal of an apology is making amends to the other not to yourself.

Public apology is not an apology... it may be an acknowledgment of fault, it may be a covert way of saying that you know what you did was wrong, it may even be a way of reaching out to the person you've wronged, but whatever else it is, it's not an apology.