Living with the past

Watched/fast-forwarded through The Huntsman: Winter's War. Wow, 17% on Rotten Tomatoes seems about right. While the movie was actually about a bunch of incredibly strong & conflicted women, the male-only title should have given me my first clue that a gaggle of dudes wrote, directed, and produced it. Sigh. Why do I keep torturing myself with these Hollywood flicks? This adult version of Frozen, without the fun songs and much more stabby, even had the same message: "Let it go."
I've been thinking about the past and how it affects us lately, with the one-year anniversary of my father's passing this past week. The past is too important to just "let it go," and I would much rather learn how to process my emotions better rather than try to leave anything behind. I can still grow and advance and improve without cutting away the aspects of my past that made me who I am. I would rather work hard at overcoming any negative influences and say, "Look at what I achieved, to get beyond that negativity and undervaluing of my past, I'm the gosh darn hero of my own life." It's about choices: I work every day on choosing to rise above the negative influences of my past, instead of letting them turn me into an ice queen who steals children, like in the movie I panned at the beginning of this post. If I just let it go, how could I gauge how far I've come?
Rant over. 😊❤

Most boring title ever

At this point, the blog is a journal. I haven't journaled for years. Feels kinda good. When I was a kid, I would buy a diary every year, or get gifted one at Xmas, and I would commit to writing a little every day. I found some of those old diaries once, and noticed only a few days of writing in each. Plans, plans, so many plans. I prefer using Blogger. It waits for me patiently, doesn't take up space, I always know where it is, and doesn't kill any trees for paper.
Most adverbs are garbage.
Language notes: I corrected my own conversational speech yesterday morning, editing an adverb. That self-editing action got a giggle from my fellow chatter. Is there a label for the two parties involved in a conversation? English is limited in many ways. How can that be, with one million words and counting?
And it wouldn't be a blog post without a scribbled line or two of poetry ...
Too many feels
A poem
I feel sad for you
All the time
Do you want me to?
Later, I scrub the guilt off,
Like washing crusty dishes
left by lazy roommates.
One atom of shame remains;
my expectations feed the disgrace fungus, and it multiplies, until it's ripe and spores of more guilt fly.
The end.
Phew, that was a weird one.
P.S. Today is the one-year anniversary of my father's passing. Heavy heart.

Not gonna do it

Stuff my mother told me to do as a kid that I can't bare to waste time on now:
Dust livingroom weekly
Shave legs
Sweep the front steps
Cook for other people constantly
Wear makeup
Tbh almost all household chores, lol.
Not gonna do it.
This rant reminds me I wanted to write a post about the way people describe time and our use of it: spend time, save time, take time, don't have the time, make time. Such capitalist language.
More on that later.

Anxiety brain

Yesterday's trip to Toronto went so well, and I had a lovely time visiting with wonderful women in the scholarly publishing field.
The journey there and back on the GO bus was fine.
I don't think I said anything inappropriate, and I even got a few chuckles during lunch.
A successful day.
As my logical brain knew it would be: it's not the first time I've traveled to Toronto, of course. So why was my anxiety brain giving me such grief for three days leading up to this Biz Lunch Adventure? It sure isn't logical, as G said.
I wish I could turn it off sometimes. I have not yet come to a place where I can embrace my anxiety brain as part of me that needs love too. My love. I want to love all of me. Maybe someday.

Toad on the deck

After dog-walk this morning, I was startled to find a large toad on the back deck. He eyed me with distrust and disdain, but remained on the deck while I hunted for my phone to take a photo of his glorious amphibianness. He declined the photo op by hopping under the deck the moment I trained my camera on him. I realized that I could have spent some quality time with him instead of trying to get a photo. Moment lost. I'll recall that option next time.
Urban nature.

Toad
A poem
Toad, whom I met this morning on my deck,
Please don't meet the same pancake fate as your fellow amphibian did last week on our roadway.
Thank you, your human admirer.

Art as therapy

Writing poetry acts as therapy for many people, I'm certain. Processing emotions, bringing your own stories to the page, what a powerful tool for mental health that type of writing can be. Would that writing poetry appealed to more people in need of an outlet. I see poetry getting more popular lately, but I fear the rush to the extreme that consumes our culture already infects that arm of publishing with celebrity culture. I wish writing and publishing one's own poetry and stories were as normal and accessible for everyone as buying groceries or riding a city bus. We are all always about the stories: humans need stories to survive and thrive. Almost every moment of every day includes a story of some sort: the snippets we tell ourselves to build our world as we negotiate society, the details we share with friends to construct our social identity, the sweet pap of commercial storytellers that fill our spare moments with tv, movies, novels, and so many other stories that we receive and give daily in order to survive.
Meander
A poem
A wander in the city offers stories for the supping
The people share their tales
Whether I want them to or not
Quaff the joy, the fear, the delight, the angst
I take it all in and form their story in my own way, write the urban, write the people, write the life.

Holiday Monday

Contemplating a nap this afternoon. Gotta love a holiday Monday when the SO is away and I can do whatever I please. All I have to do to enter the nap zone is start reading the novel I started this past weekend. That's not a comment on the novel, more a comment on the overtired state of my brain.
My latest addiction on social media is Google Maps. A photo I posted on Google Maps has received more than 5,000 views: how did that happen? It's a nice cloud photo, highlighting the brutalism architecture of the McMaster Children's Hospital: https://goo.gl/maps/PfBZmf2R9hK2. On Google Maps, I'm most excited about being able to support local businesses by writing positive reviews and posting pictures, especially of the tasty food at the many amazing restos in Hamilton. I really hope that every person who looks at my food photos on Google Maps -- more than 4,000 views of one chili dog photo (!) -- will support these local restaurants and other businesses too. I really want them to succeed.
The dog is settling down: a good time to nap.
Laters!

Sunday

Definitely one of those slow days. The doggo sat on my feet all afternoon: didn't feel like doing much anyway. I turned on the dishwasher: that seemed like an accomplishment.
Another poem
Lethargy
That ache at the base of my skull
When I want to feel ambition
Today is not that day
Lay your head down and rest
Tomorrow is soon enough.

Today

How little sleep can I get on a regular basis and still function? Will have to spend my weekend catching up, repaying my sleep debt.
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My brain
A poem

Sorrow darkens the edges of my brain.
Like a sponge, my grey matter absorbs whatever moist slime lurks nearby. It thirsts for more of the carcinogenic emotions,
self-destructive
self-vindictive
self-malignant.
You don't know my brain.
The me inside my brain wants
love
light
joy
peace.
My brain seeks disaster.
This is a story.
Poems are fiction.
Don't worry about me.

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I better turn off auto-suggest if I want to write more poems on my phone.
That was fun.
Thirty days, thirty poems?😀