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I got in trouble at work for blogging, by that I mean that I got in deep doo doo for blogging at all . I do it on my own time and dime…on my own equipment. I DO NOT DO IT ON MY WORK TIME OR COMPUTER AT ALL. But still, someone ratted me out. It’s happened before, which is why I left blogger.
I will never befriend another co-worker on FB anymore. I plan on living as anonymous a life as I can online from now on, except for FB.
I can’t help but to write, I have a inner need for it. If I’m not in the middle of some literary project, I’m utterly lost, unhappy and distressed. As soon as I get started, I calm down. –Kaari Utrio
Yup. I feel you, Kaari Utrio.
But it’s fiction writing that drives me, not the self inflection sort that I’m supposed to do on the blog. It’s a pleasure to create characters that people not only relate to, but feel affection for. I pull the inspiration from everyone that I run into, filter them through the colander of my own mind, sprinkle a few quirks, give them a fault or two…and voila! A relatable character given life through words.
I’m thinking that I want to delve the world of horror. I would love to come up with an idea, a monster so terrifying it makes people pee their pants in utter fear. Now to come up with an innocous villain.
As you can see by my expertly drawn (on my good ol’ Paint program) stick figures, my social life has either blown up or I have finally blown my psychological gasket. Maybe both. People actually seem to like me, for some reason.
I’ve been called what I take to be good adjectives: “sweet” and the more puzzling term “angelic”. Did I sprout a halo and wings while I was asleep? Do I have some sort of weird, neurotic charm? I do seem able to make people laugh. Anyway, I marvel at being called something GOOD, with all the wistfulness that only someone with low self esteem can muster. And I like people, well, individuals anyhow, more and more.
It feels good, and intoxicating, to be referred to in a positive way. Seriously, I could get addicted to being treated like a human. It feels nice to be part of the human race.
Why do people take for granted those they love? Or are supposed to love? Get this done, get that done….no sex tonight, or for several months, for you. Some people treat their spouses, and I know of more than one couple like this, akin to indentured servants? (I, by the way, would love to have someone to love. Well…maybe I do, but…it’s complicated and it’s not something I want to get into at this point.)
What happened to the love and tender feelings? What happened to being able to emotionally connect to the one person you are supposed to love forever and ever? Yeah, I realize there are times when people float adrift, but people can come back together.
I personally blame our society for encouraging disposable everything. Items, like love, aren’t disposable.
When a relationship dies, it isn’t always all at once. It dies slowly, until nothing is left but a hollowness that won’t go away. It’s sad when a relationship dies, or moves on. It is a dissolution of souls that have met for a reason, and it hurts me to see good couples drift away.
Don’t let your love die. Please.
And if you are in the phase of the relationship where it seems you are doing nothing but work, it’s time to sit down and talk. Try, at least. But if there is nothing there, go. As much as I don’t want to see divorce, neither do I think people should remain trapped in a loveless marriage. If it’s truly dead and gone, nothing can bring love back.
Well. I got my new car on Thursday, and by Saturday…I KNEW that I had to take it on an extended trip.
So we (Saunya and I) went to the coast. Specifically, Fort Stevens. Mainly for the clean beaches and the oddly sad Battery Russell. For some reason, I’m drawn to that place. It’s very melancholy. Very hollow. Very photogenic.
Here they are:
(This would be Saunya.)
Yeah, we had loads of fun at the beach. I like going to Fort Stevens because it is so beautiful and not so much of a tourist trap as Seaside or Cannon Beach. 🙂
Ah! That’s how the beach is supposed to look. Pristine. Natural. Unpolluted.
I hate to say it, but the golden days of opportunity in America are over. We’re struggling to keep our jobs while corporations hoping to save a buck are shipping them overseas. I wish the dunderheads would realize they are costing themselves money by taking jobs out of our economy.
Too many people. Not enough resources. Corporations taking advantage of people and lining their coffers with others hard earned money, making the economic situation worse for everyone. But hey! They’re making profits, so who the f@#$ cares. Right?
Except those tiny little increases in prices add up. They make life harder. They make people have to choose how to invest their life and money–whether it be to try to save a nest egg for a retirement, or to feed their hatchlings that need to be fed and clothed in the present.
Life is just hard, and it will run you down if you let it. Yeah, I’m in a funk right now, but I’m trying to find some beauty in everything. That will usually do the trick for me. Usually. If not, then I kick myself in the ass and realize that there are many other people who have it worse off than I do, and stop being whiny.
I was a person, once. A wife, a mother, a daughter. I had dreams of a peaceful life, sharing it with the family I loved. I had hopes! I had bad times. Now I’m nothing but a memory, haunting the man whom I was glad to share my life–and even last moments–with. It is only my memory saving him from completely losing himself in the life that seems to have been chosen for him.
I am the thin barrier that prevents him from becoming the very monster that he has vowed to kill. Not that Frank is crazy, or in danger of going crazy. It is just too easy to lose yourself in the violence that is a remnant of our more animalistic days.
My name is Maria Castle, and this is my story. The only one that is in me to tell. It is the last echo of me that is still in Frank. I hope it saves him, one of these days.
April 21, 1976
Frank hadn’t slept well in weeks, and therefore, I suffered alongside him. Most nights were full of nightmares and muffled screams. I heard mumblings about the killing fields, and the blood that he waded through. I lay awake and cringed at the horrors he must have seen, and the pain he endured. His body shuddered and he lashed out, involuntarily.
The doctors nowadays would label him with having a bad case of post traumatic stress disorder, but there wasn’t much known about it back in 1976. People who came back from ‘Nam were treated like a dirty secret. Most had a hard time finding a job. Some committed suicide. Frank was one of the lucky ones who was hired as a Special Forces Instructor–which meant the USMC found him too valuable to let go, but not so valuable as to pay him what he deserved.
“Frank,” I said, in the quiet of the morning. We lay in bed with the cold light on our bodies. His eyes were black morasses of guilt, anger and a memory that he couldn’t forget or truly remember. I touched his arm and he shuddered. “I was thinking that perhaps that we should have fun as a family. I’ve noticed you’ve been so …distant lately, and you haven’t slept well.”
The children were the only bright spot in his life that gave him joy. Sometimes, when we made love, he would let his guard down and he’d smile…but even that, made him hurt deep in his soul. Like he thought that this life was too good to be true, and that it would all be ripped from him. How true that intuition was, so I would soon find out.
(TBC. I promised people I’d finish this soon, so I will.)