"And it came upon me wave on wave"

Sailed out last night on a ship of fools; dreams took me where I needed to fall and the earth pulled me in and kept me warm and I felt comforted.
I had another dream about my friends, but since people seem shocked if I mention a few words out of context, I won't go into detail. It was a good dream. We were all wide open and there were no scars or broken parts and if there were it was all just kiln tears. Like when he touches the scars on my ankles or the scar under my arm or the ones on my stomach and calls them kiln tears; perfect accidents that would otherwise mar the surface and make the piece ugly or deformed but instead add to an indescribable almost sad beauty.
The night he came home we cuddled and talked and he held me very close and whispered things I hadn't realized I'd needed to hear. I cried when he touched the scar under my arm because it hurt and he thought I hurt inside because of what that scar signified. The life I almost never had. Testament to breaths I couldn't draw on my own. Of the fight and the right to live and become who I am.
He likened me to a sculpture being eternally worked on. The Unfinished Piece. My artist slipping with his chisel but choosing to keep the imperfections, so his masterpiece could have character, could have something powerfully unique in the world. My father's most detailed sculpture, my mother's most colorful painting, given over to my lover to continue polishing and coaxing. Michelangelo did not so much carve David as bring David out of stone. What lies beneath the surface will always be there. It just needs to be brought out a little at a time, day by day and year by year, and every chip and scar and scratch is a second of life and memory and in this world there are no broken pieces, only missing parts of a whole that can be found if we look hard enough in the right places.

"And it came upon me wave on wave"

Sailed out last night on a ship of fools; dreams took me where I needed to fall and the earth pulled me in and kept me warm and I felt comforted.
I had another dream about my friends, but since people seem shocked if I mention a few words out of context, I won't go into detail. It was a good dream. We were all wide open and there were no scars or broken parts and if there were it was all just kiln tears. Like when he touches the scars on my ankles or the scar under my arm or the ones on my stomach and calls them kiln tears; perfect accidents that would otherwise mar the surface and make the piece ugly or deformed but instead add to an indescribable almost sad beauty.
The night he came home we cuddled and talked and he held me very close and whispered things I hadn't realized I'd needed to hear. I cried when he touched the scar under my arm because it hurt and he thought I hurt inside because of what that scar signified. The life I almost never had. Testament to breaths I couldn't draw on my own. Of the fight and the right to live and become who I am.
He likened me to a sculpture being eternally worked on. The Unfinished Piece. My artist slipping with his chisel but choosing to keep the imperfections, so his masterpiece could have character, could have something powerfully unique in the world. My father's most detailed sculpture, my mother's most colorful painting, given over to my lover to continue polishing and coaxing. Michelangelo did not so much carve David as bring David out of stone. What lies beneath the surface will always be there. It just needs to be brought out a little at a time, day by day and year by year, and every chip and scar and scratch is a second of life and memory and in this world there are no broken pieces, only missing parts of a whole that can be found if we look hard enough in the right places.

Inside the fear?

I'm a little angry with myself. I wish for no disillusions. I tell myself every day that my talent hasn't dwindled at all, and there are forever scenes and moments floating behind my skull wanting needing to be in the book, to be in this scene, in that scene.
In college I wrote and wrote because I gave myself all the opportunities. I'm trying now. I need to finish this so badly. And I will. Maybe I just need to change perspective. This book is part of me, and there is obviously something I need to fix in me, a dammed river or...I don't know. I don't know what's wrong yet. I love this book. I need this book. These characters cry at night in my head because I'm scared to make them move. And what makes matters worse is that I'm afraid to speak now. I think I'm afraid of what might happen ... either failure or success. I refuse to fail, I'd rather be in hell. But success is bigger and more frightning because it's so solid and true and there, and I know gods I know I will become something big as a writer and why does that frighten me?

Critics wound me when they don't understand what I'm trying to say, people who don't know me well, like someone on a mailing list or message forum. Kind critics who are not too kind. I don't want to worry over whether or not things I write confuse or upset people. I don't want to think about will they like my book how much will it hurt when I'm rejected a dozen times again I don't want to think about am I doing a bad thing by telling myself all these things that are just cutting deeper each time.
Even here in this journal, I feel as if I'm walking on eggshells because I always write whatever is in my head and I've already gotten emails from strangers, yes strange names who stumble on my journal, religious zealots or people who just think I'm stupid or weak -- one email was even nasty and made me nearly cry. Why wouldn't people like my writing? Should it really matter to me? I must write what I want, how I want. I don't want to hurt over someone else's slap in my face, people who don't even know me. I've already deleted those emails. I don't know those people, and I don't care who they are or why they decided to hurt me. I know my friends care about me and even if they call me silly strange or stupid it is okay, because I can remedy my mistakes with them, because we know each other. A wound from a stranger is worse.

I need to learn to care about myself more often. That also extends to this book. It's bleeding. It's cold and hurt and I need to take care of it and bring it back to life. And I will. I already have a few scenes playing out in my head that would be perfect for following up the last scene I wrote.

So it'll be fine. I'll make myself proud, and that matters most I think.

Inside the fear?

I'm a little angry with myself. I wish for no disillusions. I tell myself every day that my talent hasn't dwindled at all, and there are forever scenes and moments floating behind my skull wanting needing to be in the book, to be in this scene, in that scene.
In college I wrote and wrote because I gave myself all the opportunities. I'm trying now. I need to finish this so badly. And I will. Maybe I just need to change perspective. This book is part of me, and there is obviously something I need to fix in me, a dammed river or...I don't know. I don't know what's wrong yet. I love this book. I need this book. These characters cry at night in my head because I'm scared to make them move. And what makes matters worse is that I'm afraid to speak now. I think I'm afraid of what might happen ... either failure or success. I refuse to fail, I'd rather be in hell. But success is bigger and more frightning because it's so solid and true and there, and I know gods I know I will become something big as a writer and why does that frighten me?

Critics wound me when they don't understand what I'm trying to say, people who don't know me well, like someone on a mailing list or message forum. Kind critics who are not too kind. I don't want to worry over whether or not things I write confuse or upset people. I don't want to think about will they like my book how much will it hurt when I'm rejected a dozen times again I don't want to think about am I doing a bad thing by telling myself all these things that are just cutting deeper each time.
Even here in this journal, I feel as if I'm walking on eggshells because I always write whatever is in my head and I've already gotten emails from strangers, yes strange names who stumble on my journal, religious zealots or people who just think I'm stupid or weak -- one email was even nasty and made me nearly cry. Why wouldn't people like my writing? Should it really matter to me? I must write what I want, how I want. I don't want to hurt over someone else's slap in my face, people who don't even know me. I've already deleted those emails. I don't know those people, and I don't care who they are or why they decided to hurt me. I know my friends care about me and even if they call me silly strange or stupid it is okay, because I can remedy my mistakes with them, because we know each other. A wound from a stranger is worse.

I need to learn to care about myself more often. That also extends to this book. It's bleeding. It's cold and hurt and I need to take care of it and bring it back to life. And I will. I already have a few scenes playing out in my head that would be perfect for following up the last scene I wrote.

So it'll be fine. I'll make myself proud, and that matters most I think.

We are family. I think.

Just heard from Mom. No word from the state courts front. No news is...good news, I guess. Mom still wants to take Nicole, for a couple months, just to soften the blow. Naturally, Nicole has no idea why she is being taken from her parents. I mean, how do you explain to a seven-year-old that "Mommy and Daddy have been doing stupid things and making themselves sick so you need to go away for a while so they can learn to grow up"? Nicole, considering her genetics, is already screwed.
I'm sorry to say it. But pretty much all the women in our family are, well, nuts. Christina is Theresa's daughter. Theresa was Cameron's daughter. Cameron had a lot of problems. Dad married her when he was barely old enough to drink and there were times when he had to restrain her physically from hurting herself and him. Theresa was the ultimate wild child. Christina's antics don't surprise me. And Dan...he's an alcoholic. My poor Nicole won't have it easy. I just hope she'll be okay.
But the Capello women, too, have their own issues. I don't wonder about myself anymore. Thank gods I also have my mother's genetics, even though her family isn't exactly a cakewalk either. My grandparents were terrifying.
I guess nobody really has the perfect family.
I think this is why we tend to choose ours.
But sometimes that family can get just as pissed at us, so I've decided to apologize now for whatever neuroses I shall inflict later on.

We are family. I think.

Just heard from Mom. No word from the state courts front. No news is...good news, I guess. Mom still wants to take Nicole, for a couple months, just to soften the blow. Naturally, Nicole has no idea why she is being taken from her parents. I mean, how do you explain to a seven-year-old that "Mommy and Daddy have been doing stupid things and making themselves sick so you need to go away for a while so they can learn to grow up"? Nicole, considering her genetics, is already screwed.
I'm sorry to say it. But pretty much all the women in our family are, well, nuts. Christina is Theresa's daughter. Theresa was Cameron's daughter. Cameron had a lot of problems. Dad married her when he was barely old enough to drink and there were times when he had to restrain her physically from hurting herself and him. Theresa was the ultimate wild child. Christina's antics don't surprise me. And Dan...he's an alcoholic. My poor Nicole won't have it easy. I just hope she'll be okay.
But the Capello women, too, have their own issues. I don't wonder about myself anymore. Thank gods I also have my mother's genetics, even though her family isn't exactly a cakewalk either. My grandparents were terrifying.
I guess nobody really has the perfect family.
I think this is why we tend to choose ours.
But sometimes that family can get just as pissed at us, so I've decided to apologize now for whatever neuroses I shall inflict later on.

Bruises hurt worse on the inside...

Literally.

At work yesterday, I smacked my left hipbone against the corner of a desk hard enough to cause pain and limping, but no physical evidence save for heat on the skin. Today, I whacked my head on the underside of a bookshelf while moving up and down on a stepstool replacing several rows of books.

So, ow.

Going to take a hot shower. Waiting for my boyfriend to come home. The space bar on this laptop snapped off and now it keeps sticking. Adam says he's planning on getting me a new laptop later anyway. There is also a plan to take the giant fish tank at the foot of the bed, take it downstairs, and replace it with the big computer desk that's been down in the family room for months. Libby got that desk so Adam and I could have a workspace, so might as well finally put it to use, especially now that there is such concern that I'm not able write as well as I could be doing. I told Mom about the desk move, and her respect for my boyfriend got even higher. Called him "such a considerate person." Well, he is.

So is the rest of my chosen family, but those are just details.

Pain-relieving shower soon. Then bed. Under the electric blanket. In my new teal colored nightie. Oh! The three chocolate mice Adam bought for me are still in the fridge downstairs! Yum.

Bruises hurt worse on the inside...

Literally.

At work yesterday, I smacked my left hipbone against the corner of a desk hard enough to cause pain and limping, but no physical evidence save for heat on the skin. Today, I whacked my head on the underside of a bookshelf while moving up and down on a stepstool replacing several rows of books.

So, ow.

Going to take a hot shower. Waiting for my boyfriend to come home. The space bar on this laptop snapped off and now it keeps sticking. Adam says he's planning on getting me a new laptop later anyway. There is also a plan to take the giant fish tank at the foot of the bed, take it downstairs, and replace it with the big computer desk that's been down in the family room for months. Libby got that desk so Adam and I could have a workspace, so might as well finally put it to use, especially now that there is such concern that I'm not able write as well as I could be doing. I told Mom about the desk move, and her respect for my boyfriend got even higher. Called him "such a considerate person." Well, he is.

So is the rest of my chosen family, but those are just details.

Pain-relieving shower soon. Then bed. Under the electric blanket. In my new teal colored nightie. Oh! The three chocolate mice Adam bought for me are still in the fridge downstairs! Yum.