Alright. I’m sitting here typing because the two alternatives that have occurred to me, are to sleep, or to rearrange things. I’ve put all my craft books back on their original shelf, where they barely fit. There’s other stuff happening related to school and work that has been taking up mental space (applying for higher-status and higher-paying jobs I’m still overqualified for because the jobs I am qualified for are taking their time in getting back to me [or not]; plus graduation gear arriving; plus the Convocation video I opted-out of because online is forever), but it’s over for now.
I also was able to get back to beadwork, finally, but I now have that nagging, “I could be doing something better with my time,” thought, that I think grad school has driven into me. I’m thinking that this means it may be time to try and get some thoughts out. Writing is rarely a waste of time, for me, except when I run on longer than I need to…
Today I got to help make ohagi, which for the uninitiated is smashy sweet rice balls (I got to play the smasher) with sweet bean paste on the outside. They’re drying in the refrigerator right now…the bean paste (anko) was more like bean jam, so it didn’t stick very well. The rice balls are really nice, though. When I chew them I can make snapping noises — they’re that sticky. :)
Heheh, TMI. But it was worth it to help make the ohagi, because I got to do it with family. Hopefully, the anko will keep the rice fresher than would have happened if we had made daifuku mochi, which is a ball of anko covered in smooth rice dough (there are a couple of ways to make it, the easiest of which is by using mochiko, or rice flour, and sugar). Fresh daifuku are rarely good for more than two days, and after the first day in the refrigerator, they’re basically a loss because they dry out and lose their nice chewy texture. Ohagi are inside-out, though, so the beans will dry before the rice (and maybe make a protective shell, heh).
Anyhow…yeah, the creativity part. I’ve recently been dealing with not feeling very creative. By that I mean that I make things and I don’t appreciate them, because I expect more out of myself. I’m slower and less productive than I want to be, but I’m also really precise, and have trouble valuing what I make.
I’m not sure if this is a creativity issue or an expectation issue. I don’t know what I expect of myself. Except, maybe, that I’d have a better-paying job and know more than I do and not be so restrained, artistically. Or that I be actively reading and writing, or something.
I could be having an identity crisis right now, due to the fact that I’ve realized that being a prolific writer in my youth stemmed from a couple of sources which were not entirely healthy. Even now, I realize that I could talk about them online…it’s just that posting something online means in practicality that records of it are going to be around basically forever (or until someone outlaws third-party caching of, and making available, other peoples’ intellectual property on the Internet, which is likely not going to happen in a global system).
So…it’s less risky to talk to people about this in real-time and real-life. The thing is, I actually am being migrated out of the services that helped me deal with this, in the past, and I don’t have a large network of IRL people who would understand. What I’m talking about deals with hypergraphia, the compulsive drive to write; and the fact that in my youth I used the written word to live a life (or lives) I didn’t see the possibility of outwardly realizing.
While things are different now…after all, I’m not a child or teen anymore…I’ve learned through decades of exposure online that my inner thoughts aren’t exactly quotidian. When I was younger and writing for myself, it was a relatively safe space to explore my identity. But it’s different when other people can see that writing, and trace it back to an original author.
It’s fairly likely that my writing was symptomatic of deeper issues. The choice I can see before me is to 1) write like no one’s watching and possibly reap rewards (and punishments) for it, or 2) hold some topics and thoughts back, cause no change, and lose the reason to write. That essentially means I stop trying to make change and go along with everyone else, out of not wanting to be bothered with the responsibility or effects of my content.
What’s going on here, I believe, is that the area of my brain responsible for good judgment, is more active now than it used to be. I question what I put out into the universe more, now, than I did before — and stop myself from doing so, more often than I used to. I realize that some people actually aren’t creative enough to come up with some of the more horrific situations I can fathom. So if I don’t voice them, I just hope they never stumble onto those possibilities.
That’s one variable. The other, tied in with it, is the fact that writing what I actually want to write, will effectively stigmatize me. Of course, then I would likely get support from other people going through the same issues…but there is personal benefit to not letting people in on what they won’t (or don’t, or can’t) understand.
Being who I am, I know that there are a great number of reasons people can come up with as an excuse to direct violence at me. The thing is, keeping quiet about those reasons doesn’t stop the violence; in the absence of proof, violent people will make up reasons and excuses for their own hate and project them onto their victims, whether those reasons and excuses are true or not (they usually have less to do with the other person, and more to do with their proponent). What I’m learning, though, is that other peoples’ emotions aren’t under my control; thus other peoples’ emotions aren’t my responsibility, and nor are their actions (I can’t control those, either).
I’m also learning that I should pretty much live this life like it’s the only one I’ll get, because none of the other ones are guaranteed. I mean, I’ve gotten to the point where I question if it’s possible for a spirit to be consumed by another, and hence the afterlife even is not free of death, and we have layers of hells and heavens…but that’s something I’d be more likely to have talked about, around a decade ago, among people I knew who could actually understand it.
So while I know it’s pretty much useless to hide stigmatizing aspects of myself (those which I can, anyway)…it’s still tough, because I know that voicing them can negatively impact my ability to survive in this life. This is a major reason why I went into Librarianship in the first place: this arena is more tolerant than I believe most are, of differences and diversity. Which…you know, seems like a light thing, after all I’ve been talking about.
I’ve also been told that I deserve to have a voice. And if I can get my bravery up, perhaps I will have a voice, moreso than now.