so here we are again, LJ and I. Due to the efforts of a few well-meaning strangers, I found out that my LJ account was hacked a few days ago, and a bunch of Russian spam was plastered all over it.
Needless to say, I was not pleased. Regardless of the fact that I haven't written in this journal in several years, it's still mine, and I'm not cool with anyone else posting in it, much less anyone else trying to sell their scummy crap. Yes, I translated a few of the posts, and they weren't entirely unlike the stuff that gets diverted to your gmail Spam box.
And after painstakingly removing all of it, I plant my flag in my own journal, and claim it for mine again.
Only I wonder how much time I will have for it, even if I maintain these good intentions to post in it even as little as once a week. I'm writing professionally now, on a freelance basis, getting paid for it — and I'm already doing some pro bono
website work for a college buddy of mine who is organizing the Austin Drag Fest 2015
. If I had known how much work I was walking into with that one, I would have negotiated more than dinner and drinks!
Regardless, my journal is again mine. And yes, I did remember to change my password :)
|Why is it so difficult to get started writing?
Why do all the words get bound up in my head when I start to write about spirituality?
It's so clear in my head. So easy to think about. These are well-worn tracks for me. They've gotten that way over the last three years or so. In that time my relationship with Spirit -- what some might call God -- has strengthened and deepened. Although I do not hear its voice directly in my head, I know she is there. I know Spirit is there, regardless of what name I call it: God, Spirit, Yahweh, Jesus, Kwan Yin, Allah, Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Yet when I try to talk about it, the words don't come quite so easily as the knowing does.
I keep wondering whether I should force the words to come out somehow, or if I should fall back on my old pattern of no inspiration, no writing.
Time was when I would write like a mad demon: essays, poems, tracts, sometimes four a day, sometimes five, six, seven. And I did it because I was inspired to. I was moved to write, and the writing was good. Then it dried up. I'd be lucky to get two poems out in a year, and even those were forced.
I gave up on the whole thing. Perhaps it was not meant to be.
Ever since I rekindled my connection with Spirit, though, I have started to feel like writing again. I have started feeling that inspiration again. But it's got a different quality to it now. I seem to recall it being a fiery urgency. I'd act on it right then as I didn't want to lose it. Now it's a slow burn, a hot ember. You'd better write about this ... or else. If you don't I'll come back to bite you in the ass later.
And now I'm acting on that inspiration again. But that doesn't make the words come any easier. It's still a struggle. It doesn't yet flow like I want it to, like I imagine it should.
In time it will come.
okay -- although the initial response was positive, I got precisely zero response to the first installment of my memoirs. No response, positive or otherwise. Whereas that's perfeclty okay, I'm not yet on a roll and am unsure if I should continue.
Also, I recently started thinking about ways in which I could bring in some income to my family -- which desperately needs it; we have another kid under our roof for an indeterminate time (it's been two weeks already), and Gina's check is no longer enough by itself.
But the idea of me getting a joe-job, flipping burgers or whatever -- that leaves me cold. I'd love to make some income on my own. So posting my things to a blog, that sounds appealing to me, at least a little. So I think I'm going to save my memoirs for that, and I'll post here when I have them up there, once I've created a there for them to be on.
In the meantme, please enjoy this poem that I wrote recently.
she is gone
she is gone,
she is gone
just as I was beginning
to find her,
connecting the dots,
She is gone
the person shaped hole
in my heart
wails with the loss,
a keening lament of grief and loneliness.
was not enough --
but nor would twenty four more
on and on,
progressions spiraling to nothingness.
When I close my eyes
I can feel my mother's presence
in a way I have not before
perhaps this is what she wanted
to never hold me again,
to never hear my voice,
for always being with me
unbound to this world,
completely in spirit.
First off: I welcome any and all input on these entries. Better it to be constructive, but the offer is there.
When I started this memoir project about a year ago, I got 4-5 entries written, volumes of data collected ... and then I stalled out. I'd like to keep going now. I'd like to complete this project. I'd like to be the best bearer of light I can to others who have suffered like I have. And as of right now, this is the best way I know of doing that.
So here goes.
[ 001 ]
My life began with a bang -- when I was hit by the car.
I just had to get from one side of the street to the other. That’s all. From there to the library, and from there I would take the city bus home. But no -- on that day there were other plans for me, plans that I did not even know had been made.
Plans that I didn't know that *I* had made, or rather that my soul had made on my behalf.
I was definitely in the crosswalk. I remember the intersection well. It was right by the store I was coming from. I didn’t know that the six o’clock Southern California sun would be in a driver’s eyes. I wasn’t thinking about there not being a light at that intersection; it was a crosswalk and that was good enough for me.
I flew thirty feet and landed on my head. I don’t remember what went through my head as I sailed through the air. In fact, I don’t remember any of that day in question. All I’m telling you are things that I’ve been told, things that make sense to me, things I would have done back then.
I’d always wanted to ride in a helicopter. I guess I should have been more specific -- what I really wanted was to be conscious for my ride in the helicopter. Maybe I should have also said that I didn’t want to be taken to Mission Viejo Regional Trauma Center. And from there, to Emergency. From there straight into surgery, where I died again. From there, into the Intensive Care Unit. And back to surgery. And dying again.
Wash, rinse, repeat. Four or five times. Yes, including the dying part. It was, as they say, rough going.
I was a stubborn cuss, though. As welcome as it might have been, I didn’t let myself pass on. My soul had a mission, a mission of which I was completely unaware.
[ thanks to: my own cojones, and the band God Is An Astronaut ]
Copyright (cc) 2010 John Onorato. Some rights reserved. by-nc-sa
I've gone through some interesting things in my life, and I want to give back. Somehow.
I've been thinking that one of the better things I could do for myself would be to write my memoirs. You know, being adopted, being head injured, struggling back from both of these things. Maybe separately, maybe together. They're intertwined, to a point. I just have trouble getting started.
I just read a blog post by this guy I stumbled across a week ago. I don't agree with him 100%, but he's got some sood stuff to say. Like here, he says that incremental action can get you to where you want to go, and also in that post he says that he's used his blog posts to write his books.
So I'm thinking of doing that here. I've already got readers (sort of); I don' thave to go set up a separate blog, and so on.
I've got a ton of essays and such written, and I think I'll start sharing them here.
Sounds good, yes?
Okay, now that I know I'm not merely peeing in the wind, I'll write a bit more. Like I said I would. More on that later.
Here's some random-ish thoughts to ease me back into the swing of things.
- I recently had a GREAT campout with the men's group I've been working with since last October 2010. There was a lot of boundary-pushing, stepping outside of comfort zones, theraputic work and physical. exertion. omg. I didn't know I could do half the things I did, but I would not have been able to do a quarter of it had I not had lots of help. Very shame inducing! But that's my Roman Catholic upbringing doing the talking, and fie on that.
- I've used that campout as a springboard to better health: I've been drinking lots more water, a little less tea, nearly no sodas, eating better, and so on. Day before yesterday I also started exercising more, which at this point entails walking around my home block -- briskly. I'm calling it my "morning run," which is technically not in the morning nor an actual run, but it's what my knees can take and it makes me feel good to call it that, so that's what I'm calling it. *nod*
- we are paying $RIDICULOUS amounts of money for prescription drugs. And not even fun ones, either.
- Any unschoolers out there? Hints. I needs them :)
- and finally, in the Perhaps-TMI-but-I-hope-a-nurse is-reading-this-so-they-can-comment department: with all the water I am drinking I am peeing LOTS more than normal. It's mostly clear, so I'm hydrated, but it seems to me that even here two weeks after I started, the output far exceeds the input. This bothers me a little.
Speaking of which, gotta go. Peace out.
Is anyone out there? Is anyone still monitoring this journal? I finally am starting to feel like writing again, and am wondering if it would be worth it tip post things on here.
I don't think I will have time to read as much as I used to. So whereas I might not do a vicious purge of my friends list, I am going to be quite selective on what I do read.
Anyway, just putting the feelers out there again.
Posted via LiveJournal app for Android.
I felt I should share this, and it wouldn't fit in a Facebook update. I didn't even write this; an 18th century US senator named George Graham Vest did.
The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only be may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.
Made me cry, it did, when I read it.
Jul. 14th, 2010 @ 03:30 am
- I'm at Capital Area Mental Health Center (2824 Real Street, by Miriam and Martin Luther King, Austin). 4sq.com/aQIU7D #
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Jul. 9th, 2010 @ 03:30 am
- question for head injury folks - do you go through cycles? I have several days where my brain works pretty well, then several bad days. #
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