Blind Leap

I have a hard time writing regularly on this blog, and after thinking about why this is so, I came to a profound, yet somewhat painful conclusion -- I'm boring. Really! Now, this realization is not a damnation. I like to look at it more as an opportunity to change.

Let me start off by explaining what I mean when I say "boring." By using this word, I don't mean to imply that I have no personality or sense of humor. I'm not saying that I have no thoughts or feelings or ideas about the world. Because I have all of these things, and then some. When I say "boring," I mean that in my life, I'm not utilizing any of these characteristics. I have them, but I keep them to myself. And as a consequence, I really don't have a life. I feel as though I am constantly trying to create a life, a life that I would love to live, but in the process, am not actually living. I am constantly thinking and talking about what I wish to accomplish in the next stage of life. Every "now" is to get to a "then." Every goal is in process. Nothing is ever satisfactory. And I'm never content with today. I hide behind who I wish I was without ever making an attempt to become that. Is it fear? Fear of failure? Fear of judgement? Fear of pain? What is holding me back from enjoying my life right now?

If I were living life, and if I were truly happy with myself and where I was in the world right now, maybe I would have something to write about on this blog. But as things are right now, I would feel like somewhat of a hypocrite in writing plans, dreams, thoughts, or ideas and never having the courage to back those things up with action. If I'm going to write about traveling, I want to write from the cafe in Paris after having spent hours trying to figure out how to use the wireless internet. If I'm going to write about a social issue I'm concerned about, I want to be able to talk you into joining the fight alongside me. If I'm going to write about my mundane summer home in Roseburg, I want to actually have experiences to write about, experiences that include spending time with friends and family and enjoying what I have been so blessed to have.

Life isn't a planning stage. It's a playing field and you create your moves as you run down it. It's full of damaged friendships, words you can't take back, stupid mistakes, and broken hearts. But it's also full of beautiful friendships, magnificent soliquies, success, and ultimately, love. It all comes in a package deal. You have to be willing to close your eyes. And leap.

I suppose it's my time to leap. While it's easier to sit back and think that one day I will find myself, I'm missing out on everything in between, and possibly even preventing the discovery. I read a quote somewhere that said, "Life isn't about finding yourself. It's about creating yourself." Well, I'm ready to whip out the paint brushes and start painting my picture. Enough with the planning! My piece of art might never hang in the MET. The colors will probably be off and there will most likely be splatters of paint where there shouldn't be. But what really matters when all is said and done is that my painting exists. It will not be a white canvas waiting for the artist to make her move, and end up sitting in a closet collecting dust. It will be beautiful. And it will be mine.

JAT

To the only ones who read my blog...

The sun was shining through the dusty, bent blinds on an early April morning. The air was thick with hairspray residue and as is the case with every day at 682 N., a bottle of liquid plummer sat in a corner near the couch. And along with the clogged sink, the broken chair, and the bodily fluid-covered pillows sat Angela, rocking back and forth, her pants pulled up to her knees, revealing weeks worth of unshaven hair. Sprawled out on the floor in her sweatpants, Angela asked Katie, who was propped up in a chair made for children, "If you and I were both puppets, would you take a bath with me?" The silence could be cut with a knife as Katie articulated her response to such an...unusual question. After conjuring up an appropiate answer, Katie replied, "Yes." Immediately Angela let out a disgusted, "Ewwwwwwwww!" and burst into her contagious, joyous cackle.

Later that morning, Jessica was in the bathroom preparing to attend her religious services just like any faithful of saint would be doing on the day of the Sabbath. Singing hymns to herself and focusing her thoughts on those things most dear and sacred, she was suddently awakened from her meditative worship with joyous cackle, yet again. Sighing a knowing sigh, she swung open the door only to find Angela before her. Correction: Angela's breasts. Well, to be completely fair, they were not actually connected to Angela's body, but were, in fact, the chair. The chair? one might ask in puzzlement, scratching his head. Remember, this is the same house where liquid plummer sat in the corner by the couch. Yes, a chair. Under her white shirt adorned with the Virgin Mary - it is the Sabbath, after all - Angela had stuck a kitchen chair and was walking around as though she had the pointed breasts made so popular in the days of old. Couseling her to take the chair out from under her shirt, I shut the door and began to hum "I am a Child of God," a song that I had decided long ago to hum in times like these - along with the decision to never drink alcohol.

As the morning continued, the light became more vibrant and the dust on the blinds even more visible to the naked eye. One by one Katie and Angela left for their church meetings, both with the intent of pretending as though they were normal to those who would be unsuspecting of such earlier behavior. Did Angela shave her legs? Yes, she did. With the hair down the drain went the rocking back and forth and the puppets bathing together. With the hair down the drain went normality. And ironically, normaility at 682 N. is what most would consider pure insanity. In a twisted world lies rational thinking in the minds of those who understand it most. The liquid plummer is gone. It's been poured down the drain.
Along with the hair.