Time Is Ticking

I joined a weekly writing group on Flickr and this is one of my entries.

I decided to write today about something in my life that defines me. I know, you're thinking I'm going to write about my camera and how I have defined my world view with the images that have sprung forth from its many pixels. While the camera has been an essential part of my life, it isn't what defines me.

Time defines me. I don't know when it began. I have always been addicted to the clock, watching each second tick. I was once given a watch as a gift with the following sentiment attached. "If you think of me every time you look at your watch, I'll be on your mind all day." It was a running joke in my younger days. I would always know the time. Why did I feel compelled to constantly watch the clock? Maybe it was that first watch I was given as a child or maybe it was counting off the minutes on the old percolator for Mom. I couldn't even enjoy a movie without keeping an eye on the time. Life was literally ticking by while I was preoccupied with watching the infernal clock. I couldn't even tell you why, it was a compulsion.

As those minutes became years, I read countless books on how to find the ultimate fulfillment all the while, keeping track of each second. I read about being in the moment but how could I be in the moment? I was still watching the clock. My focus was always split between what I was doing and keeping one eye always on the clock. While I know it's important to keep appointments and know the time, I'm talking about something more. I am always prompt, usually early. Even now, that is not a problem. I remained convinced the answer somehow could be handed to me in a book, as if by reading somebody else's journey, I would arrive at the same place, no work involved, just reading (and watching the clock).

It has taken years. At some point, I realized the moments in my life that I felt most connected and at peace with both myself and the universe, were those moments where I let go of the time. Yes, it was that simple. Those moments I forgot to check the watch. Those moments that swept me up in their moment. Those moments weren't always grand adventures. Plenty of those moments were spent watching the clock. Nope, it was as simple as taking a walk and really walking. The camera did aid me in some of those moments but it could still be a crutch to keep me from truly being in the moment. The camera can become a shield to hide behind.

As I continue my battle with Time. I made a decision to take off the watch. I no longer wear a watch, ever. Those who know me well could attest to the strangeness of this behavior. I felt undressed as if the universe were suddenly watching me. Maybe it was, to see if somehow, I would become unbalanced and take a spectacular fall. I didn't fall. Our bodies have an inner time clock that when in sync with the universe, keeps us balanced. I eat when I'm hungry, I sleep when I'm tired and drink when I'm thirsty and not because some clock, ticking away, told me it was time. *

Six months later, I no longer look at my wrist for the time. That's not to say I'm perfect. My cell phone is perfectly capable of keeping time for me. But I have committed myself to being more in the moment instead of outside, watching as it moves along to the next moment. My self discovery is mine. Your mileage will no doubt vary. I didn't take any grand adventures eating my way across a country but it is my little path around the neighborhood and the confines of my mind.

*The author wishes to confess to eating when she's not hungry but because that piece of chocolate beckoned her. She also doesn't sleep when she's tired, although she would like to. Perhaps it's the copious amounts of caffeine she consumes during the course of a day making her nights long.

*Now playing: Sit and Wonder by The Verve - Forth

Writing A Story-2

 

The best memories I have have childhood are summer related. Riding my bike, with the wind in my hair, pretending to be anywhere but where I was. On my skateboard, I was Farrah Fawcett. My sister even tried to cut my hair into Farrah's flipped style. That didn't quite work out so well for my hair. Even in summer, I was a loner. I collected grasshopper's to feed a praying mantis. I read books and more books. The library, my favorite summer destination. Times were more innocent, or at least they seemed that way. I would ride my bike the many blocks to the library and read anything and everything. Mostly, the kids in the neighborhood thought me weird. I was weird. I was different. I felt more than the average person. And I was quiet. Even now, I am quiet. I don't like the sound of my own voice, perhaps. Or maybe it's that I was never given a voice of my own.

I remember, overhearing a conversation between my mother and my sister talking about me and the gist of the conversation: I was crazy and perhaps needed to see somebody. That frightened me. My only experiences with mental hospitals and psychiatrists were found in books and not necessarily good. Nothing ever happened from that conversation. You see, Mom had a fear of mental illness of her own.

Mom suffered from depression. As a kid, she would often stay in her bedroom all day while Dad worked. Dinner was left up to whatever I could scrounge. By this time, my sister was off with her friends so it was just me and my little brother. Music and books were always my salvation. Ooo Child, things are going to be better. Unfortunately, this was before music became truly portable and I would blast my tunes. Rarely were they heavy metal, nasty music. Nope, more about escape and fantasy.

By the time I reached my teenaged years, I would dread going home, never knowing what to expect but knowing that somehow, happy sounds weren't welcome. I would walk the long walk from the bus stop and mentally prepare myself, bring myself down to a level that would not upset the balance. It didn't always work. My dreams often took me to places I didn't want and those memories would linger. Sometimes, I could not contain myself and would speak out against injustices or take the side of a person that was not able to defend themselves. Always, there are two sides to every story. Tensions existed between my mother and me. I saw too much, too deeply. I felt too much. I wanted to help, I wanted to run away. Even when I was 10, I wanted to run away. I know, doesn't everybody? But I had elaborate plans in place and dreams that propelled me. I stayed until I was 18.

**15 minutes more writing.

Not So Continuing Saga

I have attempted to revisit my story and thinking that the dream segment might be too much. Writing a continuing story isn't easy and it doesn't help that I have been visited with a serious sinus headache. If I weren't sharing my unvarnished writings, I would most likely cross off the bit about dreaming. I haven't decided if I want this to be science fiction or a woman's coming to terms with life or a combination. If it is science fiction, how much of the story will be of the dreams she's confronted with and what happens when the dream is a future dream about a loved one? Can she change the future and prevent the dream or is the dream destined to play out while she watches on in helpless frustration? How would that affect her future relationships and what does she have to share with her gathering of friends?

Just some thoughts on my creative writing project. My sinuses are really hurting today. They woke me up an hour ago. I took some generic Claritin and Excedrin in hopes of kicking it in the butt but so far, the headache is kicking me. I wonder, if perhaps the headache can be worked into the story? I will be revisiting the story as my mind grapples with the plot line. Advancing a plot line beyond a short story is totally foreign to me.

More, Maybe

As I try and go back into my memories, I realize that my childhood seems to be gone. I remember generalities and few good things but there is an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and despair.

My name is Joe. Just Joe. I was named for the black liquid my mother so loved. My birth compared to the thick, sludge at the bottom of a pot of diner coffee, left too long. I was late. The labor long and hard but when placed in my mother's arms, the warmth spread just like the adrenaline rush that caffeine creates as it spreads through the body. I wish I could remember those feelings. Life has a way of changing people and my mother was no exception.

Life as a girl with a boy's name wasn't always easy. I've always been a bit of loner and an observer. I'm not the type of person that walks into a room, briefly looks around and can remember each detail of the wallpaper, sofa patterns and lampshades. I tend to see the people beyond the superficial smiles plastered on their faces so the public never knows of their inner turmoil. I also dream. Sometimes, I dream so intensely and feel the pain of another as if it is happening to me. I've struggled with understanding my dreams and why they happen and have learned to accept that maybe I'm just there to witness the end of life, even in all its pain and misery. Offer a bit of comfort to the dying.

*creative writing.

A newly created category. When you see this tag, realize you are reading unedited writing. Writing that I literally composed at the keyboard and hit publish with little thought as to the fluidity or even grammar of the words. I'm just experimenting with stretching my mind and exploring characters and worlds both known and unknown. I'm not hoping to write a novel and will most likely grow bored with this little project.

The Story Continues

As I sit, studying the faces of these beautiful women I call friend, I am awestruck at their generosity and wisdom. Wisdom born of a lifetime of living. I am a person who prefers to remain in the background, studying those around me. I've read so many so-called self help books. Seen shows proclaiming a magic number, when you turn 50, suddenly life becomes perfect. You achieve all this understanding and wisdom. It reminds me of childhood. When I turn 10, things will be better. Sixteen, I can drive. Life is grand. Eighteen, I can leave home and never look back. Twenty-one, I can go to some fancy nightclub and order a Cosmos, pretending to be as sophisticated as the women on TV and in the movies. Life tells me that it's not that simple. A number is just another year older. There is nothing magical about turning 50, despite what so many will claim. One thing turning another year older does bring into perspective, the life lived does catch up with you in unexpected and sometimes even wonderful ways.

To tell my story, I must look back even as that 18 year old me fears looking back. The me that I have become must look inward. Face the demons that have chased me through adulthood.

 

This time, the gathering is to support me for I have.....*

Good Food

And good drink, shared with good friends. Reflecting on the years that I have lived, and there have been many, the best moments were spent with friends whom I love enjoying a good meal. Those moments may not have always been celebrating good times. Many of those meals were shared while one or the other of us were experiencing deep, personal loss. This time, the gathering is to support me for I have.....*

*A bit of fiction as I attempt to stretch my creative writing. I've never been good at creative writing. I have so much admiration for writers. Those wonderful people who come up with a story with a beginning, middle and ending. Those people who can actually create believable characters.

PS. Not from the writing prompt but from the photo, which often serves as a prompt for me.