To Articulate Life: Blunt Belligerence or Subtle Guerilla Warfare

When I was 10 I had dreams of being a glamorous author who lived in a renovated house that had once been abandoned to time. It was going to be littered with the paraphernalia of my creative and brilliant life. Scarves from India were going to be draped on all of my furniture and my teapot would always be full of aromatic teas from far away places. I would spend my life talking with trees and stones. Wiggling out the stories that they had been witness to, while they smiled silent and amused at the bug who pestered them so pointedly from their observation of sun and moss.

Now that I'm 2o, that dream rolls over sleepily in the back of my mind with all the other lives I've lived through the filter of daydreams. My goal of glamorous author has been passed up for other things that had more endurance in the race, but the remains are still there. The fight to articulate my thoughts is still raging within me.

So I struggle with the world and try to assign words to all of these outlandish things that happen to solitary me. Sometimes I strive for a sentence like a farmer using a machete to get through blackberries. The rest of the time I tip-toe around it looking for cracks in the wall that I can squeeze though and grasp something tangible and worthwhile.

And so I struggle. My fist around a pencil instead of a gun. The War of the Words. I did just blatantly do that, yes. Yes, I did.

Also A Tale of Nothing

Have you ever felt a burgeoning drive to write, but it's stuck in your heart and won't come out?

Welcome to my entire life. Especially now. For some reason my heart and brain say, "Write! Write! Write!" And my hands say, " ... ... ... Squibble bibble head bobble!"

The Past vs. What I'm Doing Now

Soooo, I was rereading some old journal entries and reliving some of my teenage years.

Then: I wanted to fight everything loudly yet underground with the help of fellow rebels. Things largely consisting of government control and injustices to the impoverished.

Now: I want to fight illiteracy and hunger.

Then: I wanted to live romantically abroad and eat olives on Italian verandas with my partners in rebellious crime.

Now: I want to EAT REAL FOOD in the yard of a small house with a couple of acres of yard complete with garden and chickens.

Question: What happened? I don't feel like I've lost anything except for some weird urge to be difficult. I still want to fight for change, but by helping and teaching. I still want my romantic veranda, but home is where I want it. Is this aging? I'm only twenty for good grief and holy romans sake!

Perhaps, living in the STUDIO APARTMENT OF SUCK has just caused me to realize how much I love my life and family back at the living place.

It has also occurred to me that being politically active is HARD. It turns out that not very many people really give a damn. So, you can't just ride along with an incited crowd and pull a lever and all the abortion clinics morph into soup kitchens. Go figure!

My political activism has been rather melted down to keeping informed about the latest debacle to happen to the education programs and trying to protest the stupidity of the latest one.

Forgive my extreme lame and boringness. I'm having issues typing with my fourteen year old self making scowly faces at me from the back of my mind. She's all dressed in black and carrying around gothic romances. She frightens me a little, but I want to hug her. Weird....