I’m sure moths can be beautiful. When, however, you wake up to one trying wage war against you, they seem more like a nightmare.
Now, I aim to live peacefully with all creatures. I even apologize to the ones I know that I am squashing as I make my way through the day. If I could stand still and hurt not even one, I would be a happy person. And perhaps it is silly of me, but I expect the freaking same from these creatures, too. Live and let live. Sleep and let sleep. All right?
Well, that hasn’t been the case for the past two nights with Mr. I-have-nothing-better-to-do-than-terrorize-you Moth. Seriously, I’ve resorted to hiding under the covers and leaving the light on…which seems to be a good deterrent. Any suggestions?
While strategizing to find the best way to live harmoniously with Mr. Moth, it dawned on me that I had learned another important lesson while living in Rome: insects have a right to exist, too. I always knew that, but in the US it seems like we spend a lot of time trying to keep our surroundings bug-free (which, of course, can be a very good thing).
If you are travelling to Rome and you do not have a good relationship with creepy and flying things, prepare yourself psychologically beforehand. Here, it’s not uncommon to see flies in bakeries (pitching on your soon-to-be-eaten pizza slice) or in restaurants. Seriously, it happens, especially in the warmer weather. And the attitude is….well., live and let live. 🙂
Strangely enough, I’ve never seen a cockroach (knock on virtual wood). Now, I’m off to negotiate with a moth.
I’m almost certain that many writers spend time thinking about how to write more, why they aren’t writing more, when they can write more, if they should write more, if they can write more. I’m no exception.
Lately, I’ve been writing, but not publicly. I have an awful tendency to stop writing because I believe I have nothing of interest/importance to state–usually, that translates into “I feel like crap about myself in the world.” I recognize that writing about true feelings/thoughts not filtered through psychobabble scares the living daylights out of me. Seriously.
It is a scary thing just to write “I feel…” and not add something about Freud or CBT or DBT immediately before or after it. What would it mean to simply state my feelings, my thoughts unfiltered, uninhibited in my own little virtual space? Who knows. This, however, is the starting point.
It’s a promise to myself. Every morning, I will write something, anything on this little blog of mine. It may interest you. It may bore you to tears. The point, however, is that I am writing what is honest/authentic/true for me. I hope you’ll continue to give me your support.
Also, I an starting a health journey daily vlog upon my return to the US. It will run from May 25-August 15, and will be tracking my progress with taking better care of my overall (but mostly physical) health, including diet, exercise, hair, skin, etc. I am really ready to commit to a healthy vegan and natural lifestyle, and I would like to document that process. So, wish me good fortune on that as well.
Sometimes it’s when we are about to experience enormous change that we truly recognize the direction in which we are heading.
Click. Click. Rome. Click. London. Click. Somerville. Click. Open in a New Window. Click. New York. Click. Click. Click. Milan. Click. Perth. Click. San Francisco. Click. Open in a New Window. Click. Click. Click. Click.
The faces blur into one word: No. They blur into an action: Click.
They blur into forgotten memory like many paintings seen only once. I try to assign human names to HotRod4U or CumCMe or BigTits2Day or DownNDirty or MuyCaliente or some similar thing in Italian.
I try to use my long dual-language profile to screen out unnecessary messages and sexmails, and even end it on a quasi-diatribe on exoticism. It’s been working. Sort of.
Click. Block. Hey. Block. Wassup? Block. Got Chocolate? Block. U Busy L8r? Block. Le donne nere… Block.
I’m blocking out the words that counter my usually empathetic mind as I scroll and click pass over a thousand men with their barely-covered genitalia on display. It’s not working.
I read Mark Manson and try to understand the male psyche. I decide it must suck balls to be male, even if they supposedly have everything. There’s not much they can do to express themselves. Men are should-burdened into thinking themselves to be robots, or worst still, sex machines.
Or worst still, pathetic.
It’s shocking what the internet unmasks about society: apparently, a bunch of sex-crazed, racist, narcissistic…wait, I just got a message. It’s amazing how excited you can become when someone treats you like a human being.
Click. Profile. Click. The Two of Us. Click. Unacceptable Answers. Scroll.
I’m not shocked. It’s just another day in online dating, about which I have come to understand a couple of things.
Until Next Time,
To My Readers & Followers:
My apologies for not having posted over the past 12 days. Let’s chalk it up to being overwhelmed and morphing into a proverbial hot mess. 😉 It happens, and probably even more so when you have FMS. Who knows?
Either way, I am back and getting myself and blog sorted out for the month of October. Of course, NaNoWriMo is on its way next month, in which I will participate, and I hope you will too.
Also, I did keep up with my ATR Challenge and Prayer/Meditation Challenge, both of which are still going strong!
Look out later on for a regular post from me. In the meanwhile, enjoy this video (with an adorable little girl doing some incredible dancing) I found lately by Japanese actor and musician Asahi Uchida. 🙂
Who doesn’t like creative writing contests with no entry fee…Enter one with me! What harm could it do? 🙂
Image Found: http://creativewritingatguelph.ca (University of Guelph, Creative Writing at Guelph)
Freelancewriting.com, a website dedicated to assisting writers in achieving their goals, has been in operation since 1997. The site provides writers with guidance through articles, video tutorials, reading recommendations, job listings, and contest information.
Certainly, there are many sites that offer as much or more to writers. Freelancewriting.com, however, makes a point of sharing creative writing contests (book/fiction/nonfiction/poetry) which only have no entry fee.
In essence, Freelancewriting.com has done the proverbial work of finding the needle in the haystack. So, many thanks to them for having done that work! It is a time-consuming task searching through hundreds of contests to find the ones that do not even try to break the bank.
So what are some contests that they have listed?
Click on the name of the contest for details.
(Deadline | Contest Name…
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It’s one of those hazy Roman September mornings: the kind that isn’t so hot that you feel like your only option is to remain indoors, fixed permanently in your bed or under your shower. Still, it is the kind that makes you a bit lazy about getting up or even bothering with finding mental clarity.
Rome, on these kinds of days, becomes a centrifugal blend of noises: the distinct songs of cicadas, the cobblestone scraping of straw brooms, the random knock of a hammer, the friendly greetings of neighbours, the midday ring of the church bells and the frustrated blares of traffic. It’s that kind of morning.
Leaves stand still, birds have gone incognito, laundry dries on clotheslines, and there isn’t a soul in sight–even if voices can be heard in between the sadness of moving sirens.
I’ve woken–sort of–to this kind of day: depleted of energy and bogged down in thoughts.
Go through the routine: meditate, stretch (on bed, too tired to stand), effectively putz around room and find: necessary papers, missing perfume bottle, a collection of hairpins, and worn out fortunes from the local Japanese/Chinese restaurant that has yet to reopen since the start of summer and is “Chiuso per Ferie,” feel pleased that the room has been swept, books have been stacked, and mind has woken just a bit more.
I take a look at my computer: glance at Facebook, post something personal and then professional; think about email and decide to avoid it for now; visit school/work blog and then personal, and find myself at this moment of…
Thank you to my new followers for taking a chance on supporting my blog. Thank you to my old followers for your continued support. Thank you to my visitors for acknowledging my presence.
All of you have made this hazy day much less hazy–
You let me know that I continue to take the right steps on my path.
Until Next Time,
Interested in the Gratitude Journal in the image above?
Visit Rosetta Thurman’s Happy Black Woman for more details.
ATR Challenge Day 10: Getting up & Getting Grateful! Thanks! 😀
(Of course, I am still behind, but here is my entry for today! The formatting is far from correct, but I am having a bit of difficulty with WP today. Poem is still a work in progress…)
There’s only one park bench
when you turn that corner
from that train station,
reading ROMA OSTIA LIDO,
announcing first where you are—
where you might be;
when you turn your back
on that displaced pyramid
of scaffolding, half-cleaned,
butted up against that
cemetery filled with those
people who didn’t belong—
at least to the Vatican;
when you can see a bookstand,
covered by used books and rags,
all bounded up by ropes, propped
up by planks of wood to form
a makeshift table—it’s guarded
by an old man and his would-be
customers or companions;
when can you smell a wall of graffiti,
stained by urine, new and old,
smell cigarettes strewn to create
a mosaic with leftover vomit
from the night before the night
before the night before that,
and smell the people passing by
who never glance even one eye
at either bench or stand—
it’s always like that.
Once the lights of night become
only stars, you learn to fear its dark
corners, unless you’re a tourist or
young or careless or drunk or
drugged or any combination
that might make you feel safe
when it’s late in the city, or perhaps
you’ve already learned that lesson—
perhaps you’re in the midst of it?
No one sits or lays on that bench—
except that man with the scraggly hair,
sadly wild eyes, tattered clothing,
swollen feet, darken face but not Black,
smelling of yesterday and the day before that,
smelling of all that’s missing: a home, family,
friends—still, he’s got his cigarettes, half-smoked
by strangers, collected in a cup mixed in
with coins and no lighter.
Doli agreed with me about the pleasure,
though twisted, to be found in action-less love,
through the act of loving, not taking measure,
not caring why or how it came to be, of
not knowing when or where it will go, loving
simply because there is no other choice but
to love, disregarding old boundaries, trusting
the depth of time to heal any old wounds, cut
through the bitterness that hardens our hearts
every time we love and then lose ourselves
in that loving, that careless tossing of parts,
that ultimate destruction of self that delves
too deeply within us, rooting us to
the bitterness of having said “I love you.”
(Scongelare means to figuratively unfreeze, or literally defrost)
I’ve decided to return to actively practicing a lovingkindness meditation as I recognize that I had allowed feelings of fear, anger, and sadness to overwhelm me and veer me away from my path.
I allowed these feelings to rack my body with pain, my heart with dis-ease, my mind with worry, and my soul with turmoil.
It is truly hard to move forward while walking backwards.
If we keep our view always to that which is behind us, or always to that which we have around us, or always to that which we have ahead of us…I am not sure that we can truly be able to live mindfully or peaceable.
Instead I believe that mindfulness and peaceability comes from reminding ourselves of the following:
We may look behind to remind ourselves of the lessons we have learned. We may look around us to understand where those lessons have brought us. We may look ahead to understand what lessons we must choose to learn to arrive where we choose to be.
In essence, there is no need to despair neither our past, our present, or our future if we each remember that…
Who or what I am.
Who or what I will be.
Who or what I was recently.
All of these…controlled by me.
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