creativity, personal, philosophy

Yearnings

No amount of purchases will get rid of the hole in my heart. Even art supplies. It doesn’t work if you buy them and then don’t use them.

Right now I’m in bed, fighting off the last of a cold which hit me over Christmas. Well: I’ve been sick for the last week. Although I’m in the mood to be vulgar with this, it’s wordpress.com (not .org), so I won’t be: the worst part of this is that it hit me when I otherwise had the opportunity to see distant family. (Distant in regard to space, not in regard to relation.) It’s good to be back home and not in a hotel. With a kitchen and my art supplies and medications and plentiful books.

But still, I don’t have much of a life here. In regard to friendship, that is.

We’ve been considering moving out to Hawaii for years. But…it’s a really hard place to live. I think I can say that. For most of the time we were out there, being indoors was constantly like someone had just taken a hot shower and vented the hot, moist air inside. It was everywhere, except the places that were air-conditioned. My books wouldn’t survive. I’d have to find a way to put them under climate control, or leave them behind, or forget about them.

The latter is hard to think of, as someone who has trained to be a Librarian.

Tonight, I broke back into my Baochong oolong tea, though I was out of it (fatigued) enough that I thought it was Jasmine. So when it was a little savory, I was kind of like, “I don’t remember Jasmine tasting like that.” Because it’s Baochong. Oolong. Not Jasmine green. Silly dumpling.

And yes, having the water temperature 15° F above optimal, for that oolong, makes it taste burnt. I didn’t know water could burn tea, but I think I’ve found, it can.

So…right. I now have enough tea for like the next two years, but a bunch of it “expires” (does tea expire?) early next year. (My Tieguanyin [Iron Goddess oolong], I was told, was likely fine even though 2-4 years past expiration, I can’t remember anymore. The Jasmine Pearls from that batch were better than the fresher tea I got to replace it, which meant I had to make a run to the good tea store in order to get decent whole-leaf Jasmine green, as versus whatever was in the bulk aisle.)

Granted, I’ll have at least a season to get through it and see what it’s actually supposed to taste like, before it ferments further. But it’s a pretty sure thing that given where I got these from (in Hawaii), maybe that data about expiration was based on Hawaii climate. Like mid-70° F temperatures and high humidity at the end of December. (What is it like in July?)

It was unseasonably cold while we were there, though. High winds, and a storm (with lightning) coming through right on Christmas Day. I still had the window open until the rain got too…sideways, however.

When I was a kid, particularly M would buy stuff for us as a token of love. She wasn’t great at expressing it to us after we got older (though I can remember plenty of times when she picked me up and tried to soothe me when I cried as a really young child — like I don’t know how young, I wasn’t paying attention to my age at the time — but it had to be under six years old, because I remember it happening in my first apartment).

I’ve been doing some reading about Reader’s Advisory and the value and neurological process of reading the narratives of others, which is probably why I’m back here writing this, now. I mean, you know, I’ve realized that writing isn’t totally worthless. Which, again, is a surprising thought coming from someone who has trained to be a Librarian. But it was made pretty clear in my Creative Writing program that Creative Writing wasn’t something one did to make a living.

A lot of that history, though, it’s kind of messed-up from the point of view of an adult looking back on it. If I had to do it over again, I would have at least tried getting back into the Japanese Language and Literature program. But I really wasn’t thinking that far ahead, probably like most people around the age of 20. Actually, around the age of 20, I was just trying to survive.

I won’t go more deeply into that, here, but I will say that my worst enemy was myself, at the time. I didn’t think I would make it to 30; so getting into my young adult years, I realized that I didn’t have a career plan. That’s why I became a Librarian. Or trained for it, anyway. I still have some experience to accrue.

I’m also, now, getting to the point that “young” adult, as a description, is no longer accurate. I’m just an adult, and I’ve got adult problems, albeit Millennial adult problems. Like worrying about how long any of us will survive. What to do if and when my parents are no longer here to help me. Disputing the personal value of faith and belief and religion in the face of guaranteed death and fragmented communities. (For some reason, the term “bad faith” just came to mind — can’t remember who said it, though. Sartre?) And, though I’ve been watching myself for the last 25 years, trying to figure out who I am as versus who I think I am. Because the two don’t have to align.

I am not even sure anymore that I’m a creative person, or if that is something that characterized me as a psychologically vulnerable youth. I mean, I know I’m writing, here. It’s just that I keep accumulating the props of being a creative person, and then not using them. Then that perpetuates the hole in my heart that I try and refill with buying more stuff, when not-being-creative and buying paints and inks and pens for some ideal future destination where I use them (and then don’t), doesn’t heal me.

I actually am using the pens for writing; that is one spot of healing. At the same time, I can only use one, maximum two, pens at the same time, unless I get into some gymnastics; so how many pens does it take to fill that one hand for that one session?

Buying stuff is not working. Using stuff, might; but as I realized on our trip, I do have a bent towards paint and brushes and inks and pens. I’ve overlearned pencils, though pencils can be the base of other art; it’s just that pencils and drawing the same stuff all the time has gotten so rote as to be discouraging. I realized over the holiday that I really don’t like pencils, now. At least, not the ones with tiny points and HB graphite lead. I’ve done enough of that.

In addition — I’ve decided to let the Art and the Writing go their separate ways. There’s no reason why I should, or have to, or need to, force myself to make comic art. Right now it’s influenced a lot of my work…but if I look at it on its face, I’m a much better writer than I am an artist, and I deflate at the prospect of illustrating a book of my own work. How much drawing it is.

With that out of the way, I’m free to paint and make mandalas and study plants, all I want. Right now, the mandalas are pointing me in the direction of abstract art, of which I think I have an inkling. Particularly, looking at some of my portfolio pieces from 2016, I know I have it in me to do this — I see things I was afraid of acknowledging before, like the shapes of women — and I hope that by getting further into it I can discover more about where these things are coming from. Of course, that might possibly lead into the place where I figure out I’m lesbian even if I don’t consider myself a woman and don’t abhor some sweet technically-male things who sometimes (or often) wish they weren’t; but forget judgment, this is your soul talking.

Well, this is your soul raging, isn’t it?

I think it took watching a Dr. Who marathon and voicing that I thought Clara Oswald’s character was cute, to get me to share that I can be/am still attracted to women. (I have a close female relative who cannot stand Clara Oswald [“she’s too perky”]. But then, she also can’t tolerate “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic”. It’s too screechy for her.)

To each their own.

I still haven’t resolved how and if a person can be lesbian if they don’t identify as a woman. Then again…I think I’ve already resolved (in my head) that the category of “woman” is a social construction, a name for a concept generated by people which is not real on any ultimate level of truth.

Like I was thinking of saying before, not believing in “God” doesn’t mean you don’t believe in “Christians”. You can recognize that Christians exist without proving the ultimate reality of God. I mean, seriously: it’s obvious that Christians exist. The thing they define themselves in relation to, however; that’s not obviously existent, but to them, it’s part of their reality; inasmuch as a multi-tiered system of worlds, dependent on internal personal vibration or resonance, is part of mine.

I almost went there in my last counseling session, but I didn’t. The person I was talking with seemed to imply that being agender (akin to “atheist”, as I used it [I don’t think that’s usual]) meant being “gender-blind”, which is something that I definitely do not espouse. There can be men and women (who believe that they’re “real” men and “real” women) without gender ever being a solid universal or ultimate concept that lines up with reality. It just means that the definitions are personal and vary among people.

That also should mean, though, that maybe I shouldn’t lock myself out of groups based on my own personal gender definitions, when I know that those definitions only apply in my own head.

That also means, however, that it’s possible for me with qualifications to say that I’m a person who has the potential to love a woman (or someone who looks like one or is similar to one in some way). I just look like a woman, though. Just let me get too close to a woman in public, and I’ll automatically be slotted as lesbian; because most people still don’t know about the nuances of the LGBTQIA+ communities. Some may even take any apparent gender difference to be proof of a preference where it comes to who I love. Because why would there be a gender difference if it didn’t have to do with sex. Or something.

In the same way as everyone has to be a “man” or “woman”, everyone has to be “gay” or “straight”. And some people’s ideas of gender boil down to, “like me,” or, “not like me,” which…is worse.

In my reality, though…I find it hard to deal with being in a community where no one else has seriously questioned their gender. I don’t know what it’s like to, “fit in.” Without trying. The closest I’ve come is gender-nonbinary community, but even there, it’s fairly obvious that…well, we’re not obvious. I’m not obvious. And I don’t have any obligation to be.

My reality is much messier than any definition could hold, but you know what that means? It means I’m being authentic to myself. The issue is, then, regulating a channel through which I can contact and interact with the outside world, and I’m not sure how to do that without compromising my identity.

personal, philosophy, psychology, self care, spirituality

Reclusiveness?

Today, I didn’t go to work. It was intentional. Unfortunately, the vast majority of today was spent asleep. That…may have been a good thing, if I’m looking at keeping up my immunity. However, it did feel like time wasted (especially as I was called at least three times yesterday and this morning, to pick up an additional position).

I’m getting better at laying out my future Substitute positions. Last night I figured out when and where I’d work for the next two weeks, though I expect to be called in for more. As it stands, though, I can predict the minimum amount I’ll be paid — at least, unless I get sick. I’m starting to get concerned about the latter. I have a hint of throat irritation, though in the scheme of things, it’s nothing. What it means is that I need to continue to eat, drink water (especially), and rest. Some Zinc and Vitamin C probably wouldn’t hurt, either.

Over the past week, the weather has changed from Fall to Winter, rather dramatically. Of course, it isn’t quite Winter, yet: though I have always said that it would make sense for the solstice to mark the midpoint of Winter, rather than the beginning. But I can’t really change the Gregorian Calendar by myself.

Last night, I did lay out a number of things to do today, but to be honest, most of what I’ve been doing is eating and sleeping. I’m pretty sure it’s because it’s what I’ve needed to do…considering that one of us is already sick. There are a lot of things I could be reading: in particular, I bought a number of books on Reader’s Advisory which would help me out with work. I am concerned, though, about my vision, particularly when I’m looking at digital displays (e-books): if I read for too long, my vision blurs and doubles, and I can’t really get it to un-blur. I usually end up sleeping it off. It’s a bit disconcerting.

There is that 20-20-20 rule, where every 20 minutes you focus on something 20 feet away for 20 seconds, but in an interior environment, I do have to get up and find something that far away — like looking down a hallway. Generally, where I read, I don’t have anything that’s actually 20 feet away for me to focus on. It’s also extremely easy for me to lose track of time while I’m reading. 20-20-20 is easy when I’m reading something I don’t want to be reading, as it breaks up my reading time into short bursts. But when I’m actually absorbed; when the writing is actually good; it can be a bit difficult.

But if it will make it so that I can read for more than a couple of hours at a time, it will be worth it.

I’ve been intending to write in here over the past several days, but it has been a bit of a challenge, as I’ve also been questioning the use of sharing my inner thoughts with others. The difference between the way I feel now and the way I’ve felt before likely has to do with the fact that I’m more socially engaged on a daily basis.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I have had a tendency to not have a lot of real-life friends. However, with the new job, I’m dealing with people almost constantly, including co-workers, patrons, and more distant colleagues. When I’m not at work, I have my family. It’s alleviated some of the need to be social.

On top of that, there are some upshots to communicating in ways that aren’t…you know, publicly recorded.

What I have been doing is writing by hand, but I’ve also been watching my blog languish. It’s just one of those things where, if I don’t see myself putting out some form of generativity or creativity, I get…well, a little sad. Since I’ve been blogging for over a decade at this point, I have a tendency to look online for evidence of my own existence.

The major issue I’m dealing with is anonymity, the lack of it; or possibly entering into a phase of my life where discretion matters. Either this, or I’m just experienced enough now to do things differently than I did as a youth. I knew the time at which I would know better, was coming. I’m just not sure now, at what time it’s going to actually fully kick in.

There is, that is, the question of what to do when you know that actions can elicit consequences, positive, negative, or neutral. As a youth, a person has the excuse of not knowing better. As an adult, one actually knows that they should know better, because they’ve made enough mistakes as a youth. And it helps when we can leave those mistakes behind.

In an era when we’re all free to publicly surveil ourselves and each other, however, I don’t know to what extent that is possible. Nor do I actually know to what extent it ever will be possible again, in my own lifetime.

So the thing about writing…is that it displays some of the innermost parts of one’s own sense of self, and experience of life, to others. Of course, some of this is by choice; a lot of it is unconscious. But it seems that to participate in public life, it’s required to show others a bit of who one is. While it is granted that in my later years of experience, this has been more positive than not — the earlier years were fairly nasty.

As a child, I learned that the more others knew about my own identity, the more accurately they could target attacks directed at me. So I learned sometime as a pre-teen to hold back information and promulgate disinformation, so that when they attacked me, they were (from my perspective) attacking someone else. They didn’t really know who I was, and that made it clear.

I haven’t had to do that for a while. The major difficulty here is not knowing who you are, because you’re too busy throwing people off your trail to practice being yourself. It wasn’t until around my 35th year that I began to get a good grasp on who I actually was. That, in turn, required a lot of unraveling social constructs, learning about people different from myself, and realizing that one of my most salient identities was not a positive, culturally preexisting statement, but a negation of multiple other identities. Despite that, it also includes elements of what I am not: I don’t force myself to conform wholly to being or not being one thing, because those “things” ultimately don’t exist. I have the choice to believe in them or not; I choose not to.

And then, there is the point that pretty much no matter what happens, this is the life I’ve got now, maybe the only one I’ll ever get; and that I really shouldn’t have shame about who I have been or who I am. It’s a work-in-progress. There’s also the point that it isn’t like anyone else is perfect, either. It’s kind of a “human condition” sort of thing.

Earlier tonight, I started to get into more depth on what I’m referencing…but those thoughts aren’t fully formed yet, and I know from past experience that maybe I should wait and think on them, and in three to five years, they’ll be fully formed and available for discourse. Until then, my discussions are speculation, because my thoughts and experience are relatively incomplete.

As a note to my future self, though: these thoughts are including the possibility of being agender/asexual (thus why I have spent so much time on the Internet without my body or sound with me, to code my gender) and having an atheist tendency (though I do have my own, “spiritual,” or at least, “contemplative,” bent; my beliefs have been challenged recently by the specter of our species destroying all life on this planet). I don’t think I would go nihilist, but there is the question right now of what is happening in this country and globally, that brings into question the value (particularly, pragmatic) of “faith” as versus the vulnerabilities that are inborn in faith.

But that’s another question. And I don’t have it in me to answer it, right now.

philosophy, spirituality

Frustrations at the magyikal rock shop

Yeah. So you know I did go back to the rock shop today. Kinda embarrassed to meet the same salesperson as helped me last time. While there I touched a lot of stuff, looked over a lot of crystals, with no time limit. Of course, both M and D got tired and went to sit in the car while I made my selections.

This…I don’t know exactly why I do this. Actually, I do. I have a little Raven in me and get attracted to little sparklies that are supposed to be magic. I’ve also decided that if I’m going to be investing in things to make me feel like I have something, I should make sure it isn’t just colored glass. (Synthetic materials have different energetic profiles than actual stones, at least according to what I can feel.)

I did come away with a number of little colored stones. Unfortunately, one of these was Stibnite. At least, I think so. Stibnite, I found upon later research, is the same thing as Antimony Trisulfide. The primary ore of the metalloid Antimony. Antimony is toxic.

[[EDIT, 8-20-2019: I have since remembered the actual name of this material, and looked it up online. The material is “Shungite,” a carbon-bearing stone, not “Stibnite,” an antimony-bearing stone. Many apologies to the people who run this store! See more details in today’s post. I am leaving the rest of this post as-is to be honest about my folly.]]

Of course, there was a book at that store talking about how Stibnite (if I’m recalling correctly) was mostly carbon, and how to make potions using it (which I assume would be consumed internally; though I didn’t read that far into it, honestly).

I am wondering about the publisher of that book, now, or if there was an ulterior motive to selling it other than driving sales of Stibnite (most of which comes from China, I found on my Web searches). Of course, I’m also wondering if I really saw what I remember seeing, because that was utterly false and dangerous information. It’s also causing me to wonder whether that shop is on the level ethically; or whether the people running it just don’t know what they’re doing, or anything about chemistry or basic research.

And I wish I didn’t have to say that, but looking up “Stibnite toxicity” on Google — at least with my search history (your search history on Google alters your future search results, unfortunately) — comes up with a ton of sites on the first search, saying how highly toxic it is.

Yeah, so given that I was rubbing it on my fingers like graphite (because I thought, at the time, that it was like graphite — and it has a Mohs hardness of 2)…I’m not too cool with that, right now.

The bright spot is having a bunch of other crystals which are beautiful and which I may be able to use in the future, where it comes to meditation. I think. It’s been so long since I’ve done this that I can’t exactly remember how to properly use them.

My project had been envisioned to broadcast energy of healing and strength, roughly. Kind of like a metta meditation, but not Buddhist. Negative emotions are pretty much inevitable; falling victim to them, isn’t. In my mind, life can’t all be Heaven all the time, but we can keep it from becoming Hell.

I am having a little bit of solipsism driving me, as well: the idea that there’s a reason I’m looking out through this particular experience at this particular time — and is it because I’m supposed to do something?

Letting go of organized religion, that is, and not forcing myself to pretend to believe what a group believes, has left me with a sense of the positivity of my own resting space.

Life is a mystery…and even more mysterious when I stop trying to force obviously untrue explanations on it. I have not, however, gone to the point of disbelieving any non-naturalistic explanation, as that requires me to abstain from the possibility of affirming an explanation which might be plausible. (Just because some spiritual explanations are implausible, that doesn’t mean all are.)

I have more to say, but my medications are kicking in, and I’m not going to be able to think on this level for much longer.

As a note to myself, though: that light-colored blue stone (not gem quality) is rough Aquamarine. I know I’ll forget this if I don’t say that. The tiny green stone is a green Garnet — probably Grossular or Demantoid, though something called “Uvarovite” I remember from my book, which can be green. The “massive” (not by size, but manner of formation) blue-green stone in black matrix that looks like Turquoise, is Emerald; and the dark pink stone is Rhodochrosite. Everything else, I should be able to identify easily.

I should also mention that I did go to a bookstore today, and am somewhat surprised at all the dark magic books. Seriously? Coming from a life experience where I had to deal with dark emotions for a fairly long time, I can see it as a developmental step on the way to positivity…but in my case, it wasn’t a place to stay. It’s hard to believe in yourself, that is, when you think or know you’re wrong or lost. What I did read was not…something I could tolerate for long, or something I would go back to.

Of course, “dark” may basically mean, “not Llewellyn brand”, but I haven’t been deep enough into that particular scene, to know.

painting, philosophy, psychology

Getting sick of English language

I’m not sure if it’s the effect of having had to read so much technical and academic writing (actually, it likely is), but I’m beginning to have a sort of dread toward reading in English. It’s also possible that my current vision is…well, I know it isn’t good, and that isn’t helping. I’ve just ordered a couple of pairs of new glasses, but still: my current prescription is the same as the last.

I’m not entirely assured that it’s accurate, particularly as it was done by a student, after a night where I stayed up much too late, devouring a couple of eBooks. So…I’m not entirely certain what was up with my eyes, that day. (My previous prescription was stronger than what the student would have given me, so she deferred to the prior prescription.)

Anyhow…it will be nice, once I’m able to read things for pleasure, again — without my eyes burning. The glasses I’m using now have anti-blue-light coating but no tint outdoors, after years of having gone with Transitions lenses…which normally have a slight tint, even indoors. It’s kind of tough to have no sunglasses which one can see through, let alone drive in…

Right now, for pleasure reading, I’ve got some stuff lined up on why evil exists (seen through a lens of biology — which is much less triggering than reading about failures of certain political projects), and the apparent human tendency to be delusional.

The annoying point is that the person leveling the claims to the latter only relates it back to religious faith, claiming that irrationality is religion’s fault. No, religion is an outgrowth of inherent human irrationality. On top of that, irrationality isn’t always a bad thing — I say as someone who has lived much of their life studying the Humanities: religion, philosophy, language, culture. (But I have to say that, or else my life so far has been wasted, you see.)

I’ve also had to deal with delusions, before. This is to the extent that I can now recognize the basis of it, in the normal human population. The biggest issue I can see as regards the danger of faith, relates to a kind of slippery-slope fallacy, which leads me to the question: If we are able and willing to believe one thing without proof (or in the face of vastly inherent improbability, keeping in mind that life existing is also apparently inherently vastly improbable), how many other things will we also accept as reality, without proof?

And for that matter, what counts as proof? When you’re a writer, the supposed magic behind the writing and organization of a work — I mean, writing and literacy does still kind of seem like magic to me, largely because I still don’t understand how learning works — it’s still a little far to claim that anything expressed in writing is of necessity, holy, because of the form of its transmission.

At the point of having reached the question of where we draw the line as to claims we accept as real without verification, I’m led to question the motivations behind the claims. I think in a normal debate, though, we would be worried only with the claims, not the motivation of the person making the claims. The question of qui bono is there, and that’s a good thing, but I’m thinking…it may be too limited for my purposes, which is to figure out the motivation behind claims and actions, instead of taking those claims and actions at face value (as though they came from a machine, or other logical source).

Although…that kind of gets into the question of why anyone writes, or says, anything; why we create meaning around ourselves in the world, even when we know that we’re only doing it because not to do it means facing the reality of what, before the advent of our being able to wipe out the majority of life on the planet, had been our temporality, insignificance, ignorance (we are so ignorant!), and fear, in the eyes of a hypothetical Nature. (Though, to look at it from a naturalistic perspective, we and this planet may still be insignificant; a sad loss, should we wipe ourselves [and our potential] out, but not one that has, to our knowledge, so far impacted other planetary life. Even if we had, our reach would be, of necessity, limited.)

The problem with assuming the source, here, to be logical: to assume that also means to recognize that sometimes it intentionally displays deception, with a potential for hostility that a machine (at this time) doesn’t have. When that part of the story is uncovered, it may feel safer to believe that the source is simply out-of-control and insane: an insane person (someone who is legally incapable of telling right from wrong) wouldn’t recognize what they were doing. They wouldn’t intentionally be evil.

But I don’t really know what to think about this, anymore. I used to not think that evil was a thing. Then, you know, I lived a little — or came out of my denial a little — and some of the things I’ve witnessed kind of fit under that heading.

Before anyone guesses, yes, I have attempted to psychologically analyze my own writing, before. It’s a major part of why I initially stopped writing. :) (I am assuming that “psychological analysis” means something different and more generic than “psychoanalysis,” which was largely the realm of Freud and Jung, in the late 19th, into the 20th century.) It’s possible to be way too close to your own work to be able to work out why you said what, when; and then it is also possible to be so judgmental towards yourself that you think you know why, and that you need to stop that mess from coming out of you before you make the world an even worse place to live.

But, I think, everyone’s a mess, initially; and I don’t think anyone is really wholly exempt from being (or becoming) a mess. I guess that’s why lovingkindness exists, though I’ve never been too good at that. (I mean, seriously. Just…)

In any case, I started this off thinking that I really need to get back to painting. I am not sure of my motivations, except for the fact that so much of my life has had to do with language, recently, that I really just want to deal again with shape and color. (I’m not sure if “form” fits in there, seriously.) I just need to get back to my colors, and my brushes, and properly not worry about people claiming that I “saved” my painting with the addition of gouache. Just…no.