Simple Words

This evening I'm thinking about words.

How there are so many words. Hundreds. Thousands. Yet, some people have such trouble saying what they are thinking and feeling, what they mean. I understand my vocabulary is extensive, that I use words in my each and every day others may not use, or even understand, for that matter. I am an epic communicator. It is with ease I will tell you what exactly is on my mind, but whether or not it makes sense is another matter completely. In truth, most of the thoughts running rampant through my head are so fleeting not even I can grab onto them long enough to understand them.

Still, all these words, this lush language and comprehensive communication, is so easily rendered pointless by simplicity. Sometimes I think about what I am saying, all these paragraphs I am creating in hopes of getting my point across, only to realize I might not need all this filler. Do I really need to articulate myself so thoroughly?

Can someone say this better? Quicker? Easier? With fewer words? Sure, I can pretty this sentence up, add delectable descriptors worthy of making lexicon lovers quiver in delight, but maybe that isn't a talent at all. Maybe a truly proficient wordsmith embraces 'less is more' and understands how valuable each word is, both in speech and writing. There is one thing to be a word lover, another to be a word whore.

Tonight I believe words are more powerful when used sparingly, like adjectives and exclamation points. Things don't have to be complex. In fact, they should be simple, so everyone can understand, so we all can enjoy. Sure, there is something to be said about the beautiful way in which words can be woven together (and the attractiveness of alliteration), but there is a sweetness in stark sentences. In their stripped down state, they can become so severe, leaving a sting you will always remember.

I am reminded of Dharma Bums, this little beatnik book, recommended to me by a long lost friend. And there is one sentence that stuck with. Needled my heart. Taunted my brain. And I cannot let it go.

One day I will find the right words and they will be simple. - Jack Kerouac.    

This is what is on my mind tonight. At times, I feel as though all these words I have written are all wrong and, when the right ones come, they will be modest. They will not be dressed in their finest clothes. They will be naked. Bare. And bold. And they will stick with someone else. They will needle  hearts and taunt brains. They will not be easily let go.

And then there is Robert Frost, who is clearly the master at the game of wordplay.

Stop Making Me Uncomfotable

Here's a funny little truth about me, emotional scenes in television shows and movies make me uncomfortable. Not 'oh, this is so bang on I'm squeamish about the truth ringing forth from the scene' and not even 'wow, this is so glaringly terrible and unrealistic I can't even look at the screen'. It's more of an 'I hate emotions' type of feeling. And I'm not even an emotionless drone sent here to crush feelings with my inhumanly strong hands. In reality, I have a vast array of emotions bubbling under this calm, put-together exterior. Once upon a time, I was all about rage, these days I keep company with love and sadness.

This whole crazy world can induce such melancholic feelings if you're paying attention.

But this post isn't about the good or bad in the world, the sunshine and storm clouds, it's about being uncomfortable with emotional outbursts on the big screen. You see, last weekend, we watched the latest Walking Dead episode, the one where Darryl Dixon cries over nothing, and it left me writhing in agony. Before I go any further, let me share with you these three universal Tee truths:

1. I love Norman Reedus and think he is a rather brilliant actor
2. Darryl Dixon is my most favourite character on Walking Dead
3. Emotions make me uncomfortable

Alright, now the Dixon Darlings, what I imagine the Mr. Reedus fan clubbers call themselves, won't tear my throat out when I say I could have done without that episode. Maybe it's because I love a man of mystery and didn't need to know anything more than the rough, badass exterior I'd grown to love. Or maybe it was because watching Darryl break apart, shed that hard as rock exterior, and let loose the raw man emotions he harboured only managed to leave a 'this is mighty awkward' impression on me. Oh, he's done it before, spilled those salty eye droplets, better known as tears, but at least he had a reason. His brother was a zombie and he needed to shoot him in order to stay alive. Talk about a tragic situation right there! Poor, poor Merle. But this time it was almost like Walking Dead was trying to do some character building, which I am not okay with! Just joking, I love character building, but Walking Dead doesn't do those sorts of dirty things. They prefer to keep their characters flat, except Rick, he's all kinds of colourful crazy.

Darryl Dixon's sensitive scene isn't the first flood of feelings that has put me on edge. It happens all the time.

Back in the day, my ex-used to call me cynical because every time there was a proclamation of love in a movie I'd scoff and roll my eyes. It's always the grand gestures that get me or the man breaking their strong, silent habits, all of a sudden going against every fibre of their being and getting verbose about how much they adore the woman who is ready to leave them. Yeah, because men always stand outside your doorway with cards proclaiming their love, or say things like 'you complete me'. Even now, my brow is pinched and I'm smirking wryly.

And don't get me wrong. It isn't just when men do it. You know that scene in Ten Things I Hate About You when Kat reads the poem she wrote about hating but not really hating Patrick? She's all crying and upset and I distinctly remember feeling as if I needed to escape the moment because watching it made me extremely distressed. Even worse, every single time Julia Roberts cries in every single movie. Steel Magnolias, My Best Friend's Wedding, Notting Hill, Pretty Woman, and on and on. I think it's her mouth and the watery misery welling in her Bambi eyes.

Maybe it's because I know they are acting. That it isn't real. It's all fake. And often the scenes are so contrived and ridiculous. Characters going completely against their nature to have these epic emotional episodes. Perhaps that's what makes me uncomfortable, except sometimes emotions in real life make me uncomfortable too. Though, I don't discount them, unless they are over something ridiculous, like a misplaced cellphone. I can totally sympathize with most people and truly am most empathetic for others.

I'm not even going to bother trying to figure it out. After all, it's just a funny little truth about me. Something I noticed and am sharing. I think I just have a bit of Spock in me.

Articulation

The other night I was leaving work with the Sidekick and I said, "Hey, it's still light outside."
To which he replied, "Yeah, it's getting ... light ... outside ... more."
The situation only became more amusing when he added, "Yep, if anyone ever needs anything articulated send them my way."

We shared a laugh over it.

But it's a funny thing this articulation. Not everyone is blessed with the ability to put thoughts, feelings or ideas into words. I know many people who feel the English language is daunting and discussions the bane of their existence. When confronted with a conversation, they balk, hesitate to engage, and feel put on the spot, fearful over looking stupid, unsure if their verbal weapons are lacking compared to the person they are speaking with. Personally, I think the art of conversation is not an easy thing to master. That being said, I have never spoken to anyone and come away thinking, "Jeez, that person was an idiot." Actually, that's not true, but it hasn't been because they are unable to articulate themselves or they don't have a very extensive vocabulary. No, it's usually because they are narrow-minded, sexist, racist homophobes, or belligerent butt-heads with no common sense and even less manners.

What you are saying is far more important than how you are saying. While I certainly don't feel people have to read the dictionary or thesaurus in order to convey their emotions and thoughts to others, I do feel the ability to speak coherently, organize your thoughts, and deliver them in a fluent and concise manner can only be an advantage when speaking or writing. It's is far more likely for others to understand what you are saying, where you are coming, and not misconstrue what is being said and why.

While the Sidekick and I certainly had a laugh about his statement about the days being lighter, he really is a man of few words. And though he may not be an overly communicative person, he insists that he makes count the few words he does share. Here's the thing. Mr. Sidekick is certainly capable of articulating himself, but he chooses not to. It just isn't the way he goes about doing things. One part shy, two parts stoic man-beast, and the rest laid-back-whatever-will-be-will-be, he simply has a different way of tackling life.

Some of us are internalizers. Others externalizers.

I can appreciate both sides of the spectrum, which is probably why Sidekick and I get along fairly well. I don't like talking about my feelings, but I am blessed with the ability to be able to do so if necessary. Once in awhile I do engage with others in person, but because of this little thing called blogging, I am able to write about the thoughts running rampant through my head. I have been putting words onto paper, both virtual and real, ever since I was a little girl.

In many ways, I am pleased I know how to take my unbridled thoughts and form them into sentences, paragraphs and novels. Maybe that's a gift. It's certainly something I am grateful for. Most people have a hard time summing up their feelings and conveying their thoughts to others, and even themselves. But there's an age old saying for that, isn't there?

Practice makes perfect. This applies to articulation and the art of conversation. I can't recount how many times I've seen people try to talk to others, only to clam up and scurry away, or clamp a lid down on what they think, because they don't know how to brooch the subject, and are uncertain how to make their point. If you desire the ability to be able speak to others, to tell people your thoughts, feelings, ideas and beliefs, then start practising. Engage with others in a conversation. Try writing everything down. Start a blog - it can even be anonymous. Look up synonyms. Read books. And don't be so bloody self conscious.

One day, I will be the Queen of Articulation. I shall have a sash and everything.

It doesn't matter if you excel at speaking and writing or not. The Sidekick may not be the most communicative fellow, but he can draw like a mother fucker. So, here I am able to write down the things I feel, create fluid prose, and engage in lengthy discussions over human emotions and rain dances in the nude, but I can't paint at all. Sketching shapes is a task for me. And I'm not even talking about a tetrahedron or hexagonal prism. Circles and triangles are most tricky!

There's a point here somewhere. Maybe it's that we are all different? Sure, let's go with that.

Feeling Like A Joke

I've been meaning to do this sooner, but the intersnacks have been dodgy.

The interesting thing about blogging for me is that it works as a diary, helping me sort through the mountains of ridiculous crap floating around in my head. When I don't have the option, things sort of pile up and, no matter how much I stew over it, I can't just let things go. There's this weird part of writing things down that helps me release them. Sure, I could simply sit down with a pen and paper and get to scribbling, but...

No, wait. That's exactly what I did. And to be honest, it really didn't work. You see, I've been having a terrible time sleeping, which is most likely related to the state of mind I've worked myself into. Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I thought it a good idea to scrawl down the free fall of thoughts in my head. Of course, it was three in the morning and they didn't exactly come out orderly and pretty.

Actually, they came out like some haphazard list of possible blog topics, most of which I've already touched on in previous posts and others I'm not sure if I'm strong (or stubborn) enough to write about. The most common theme throughout them is feeling lonely, and health of body and mind. To me, if you have a healthy mind, your body will follow suit, mostly because you'll be motivated to get up and out and actually do something. It's been raining here, and getting up has been a chore.

Anyway, one of the points I jotted down, the first one, has been stuck in my craw for days. It's the source of a lot of heartache. And so, I'm writing about it. Here. In hopes of being able to let it go after. The thing is, I tried confronting it before, but it doesn't seem to matter how much I deep breathe or stretch my mind and body, it's there, needling away at me. I even tried talking about it, but what good is that when you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

Here's a shocking point, it's hard for me to talk about things. Surprise. It's easy to assume I'm a great talker, because I blog and vlog, but that's simply not the case. There are only two people who I feel comfortable telling anything to. I fear anyone else will take it the wrong way, maybe personally, and then offer up advice that won't help. The thing everyone needs to learn is - advice usually isn't what the person talking wants...or needs.

Back to the point, and the issue that's helped derail me from the path I was quite content to be travelling on. I'm a joke. Maybe not to you, or anyone else, but to myself, which is the person who counts the most. Today, and for the last little while, I feel like everything I do or say is a joke. And not when I'm actually being funny, but the serious stuff. My writing. The relationships I have. What I do for others. My love for knitting. Respect for animals. Everything just feels like one big joke and I'm the punchline. And not a very good one. The kind people chuckle at uncomfortably.

It doesn't seem to matter how much effort I put out or time or love or dedication, I feel pathetic. As though I am a sad little attempt at living. Where nothing I do or say matters enough to be taken note of. It's as though I'm simply playing a role, and not doing a very good job.

To be completely up front with you, it's a craptastic way to feel. And, in the battle between common sense and unreasonable feelings, rational thinking never wins.

I've tried putting a mask on and saying, I'm fine and going about my day, but the hitch is, I'm analyzing every piece of my life and losing grasp of what it is I cherished. The longer I harbour this passenger, the more I become the fool, and the feelings of displacement grow stronger. Other not-so-awesome thoughts pop into my head at unfair times. Like feeling invisible. Unwanted. A piece of furniture that always gets in the way, takes up too much room and isn't very pretty to look at. Then, the loneliness seeps in. A silent messenger who comes in the middle of the night when I'm laying next to someone.

Then I start wondering, why I'm not getting what I want?

I know it isn't fair, to want someone else to make me feel better. To distract me. To help me through the tangled knots of my mind. To reassure me that I'm not so bad. To love me even when it's hard to love myself. To forgive my bad mood. To understand where I'm coming from. To see me for who I am, not who I want to be or think I am. To demand attention. To want to be held, kissed and hugged, simply because I'm not happy with the reflection in the mirror.

It isn't fair of me to project my own demons onto someone else.  

The hardest part is, I've been here before, and  it's frustrating because I don't know how I got here again. This girl isn't me. I'm not supposed to be resentful or bitter. This uncertainty doesn't look good on me. I thought I managed to free myself of the constraints of my past, but it's there, sneaking up when it finds a chink in my armour and delivering blow after blow. Apparently, this baggage isn't going anywhere.

I'm a child again. A sad, dysfunctional child wanting the approval and affection of the people I love. Who feels disappointed in herself for letting others down. For letting herself down. The little, ugly, chubby, messy girl with the ratty hair and ill-fitting jeans. She is at the centre of who I am. And the little bitch is strong, and demanding.

I guess this has been going on since Christmas. Ever since, I've felt as thought things have changed. Inside me and all around me. And there's truth in change. We stop doing things for reasons. I'm trying hard to work through those, but the glue and staples don't seem to be holding.

Usually, I pull away. Distance myself. Put up walls. Hide out until the storm passes, or at least ravages and ruins everything in its wake. It seems as though no matter how hard I try not to, I revert back to the girl who doesn't want to get hurt and only ends up hurting myself. The thing is, I'm trying, to talk, to explain, to have some sort of connection that feels real, but I doubt whether it's working. Maybe I'm looking for feed back. A nod. Blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a simple clearing of the throat.

Everything I've wrote on this blog in the past is truth. I know that in my heart, even if it is stubborn and angry right now. Love is the way. You have to be beautiful inside to be beautiful out. Happiness comes from within. It's the little things in life. But the funny thing is, no matter how much you know to be true, all it takes is a shift in weather to fog up your glasses and change the way you see the world.

I'm hoping for another change in weather soon, so I can go back to seeing myself and the world for what it truly is.

And now, a quote:

Perhaps I shouldn't have posted this. That's it, I'm writing about cake tomorrow.