Family vs. Freedom

There is a struggle that I am currently experiencing that I don't think many people experience in this country. I am not saying that I am the ONLY person going through this, but I have yet to meet anyone who is, or at least willing to discuss it. So I am discussing it now.

Most Americans over the age of 18 have, at one point or another, dealt with the decision to leave their parent's home and start their own lives. For some people, the transition is smooth and well supported. It might naturally come with the attendance of college or getting a job far from home. For others, the transition might be more strenuous. They might be pushed out of the house before their time, or perhaps they didn't plan for it well.... Then, there are people like me.

I have never left home. I never had that "1st apartment" or had to bunk up with a roommate that uses all of the toothpaste. I never lived in a dorm on campus, or moved in with a long term boyfriend. Hell... I never slept over a friend's house... Some of you might have fallen out of your chair by now. You might even have your arms in the air going " why... WHY?!". Well. I will tell you why. If I move out of my parent's home, I will be disowned... It's as simple as that. Good little girls don't leave until their married. It's the norm within my community and it's driving me crazy. I crave and yearn for my own place. I would happily take the smallest crappiest apartment if it meant that I could have the freedom to do as I pleased. Please, do take note that when I say "do as I please" I am  not referring to breaking lose and wreaking havoc on the planet. I am not some repressed rebellious teen. I don't want to have the freedom to go out and drink until I can't walk, or come home whenever I want. I want the freedom to have silence. I want the freedom to open my laptop and write without someone coming up behind me and staring over my shoulder, or asking me what I am doing, or asking me to do something else. I want the freedom to have my own personal space and to know that it is mine and that I have some kind of domain there. I want a small corner where it is peaceful and I don't have to wonder if I am going to be walking into a sea of tension or tears. I want the freedom to study or read when I feel that it is appropriate for me, not when other people think I should.

Unfortunately, I am not allowed to have those simple pleasures. My culture dictates that I have to stay with my parents until I am married. If I ever decided to break this tradition ( something which I am heavily considering) my family would disown me. I would lose all financial support from them. I would also lose all affiliation with them. They would no longer speak to me or acknowledge me. I would be dead to them. I love my family dearly. They are very important to me, but so is my freedom (along with my sanity). I am unsure of what I should do. On the one hand, I would love to keep my family, which is very integral in my life. On the other hand, I want to be my own person and have my own place so that I can start my life. I wish life could be a little easier.

Memoirs of the Lost

Who am I? What am I? I know my name, who my parents are, where I was born and where I have been. But does that tell me about myself? A doctor will tell you about your body, even though it is your own and you should know it best. She can tell you about your health, what this is and that is and what it is supposed to do. She can tell you your blood type, if you’re at risk for diabetes and the like. But does that tell me who or what I am? An academic could give me a whole host of ideas. They can define me by my appearance, I am a brunette woman. They can define me by my political views, I am “on the fence”. They can define me by the books I have read, I am a philosopher. But are these not simply categories in which they toss me into? Do these words, on the fence, brunette woman philosopher really define me? Surely in this vast and ever growing world there is another that can equally if not better fit into those terms. Is individuality a fallacy in the mind? Can there really only be one “me”? It is impossible to answer that question until I have answered the others. Who am I? What am I? Some would say, I am as I was born to be. Genetics and fate have made me into the person I am and has already formulated the person I am to become.  We see this often and even tragically in the fact that the majority, if not all of us, turn into some simulation of our parents and endless generations before us. Others would say that I am collection of experiences and events and that who I am is the personification of my interpretation of these experiences. But of course that begs the question, what makes me interpret the way that I do? Who is the say these people, these philosophers and analysts have any idea as to the way in which I operate? What am I? Well, the first word that comes to my mind is “complicated”. But that word is similar to the word unique, in that if everyone is complicated or unique, the definition ceases to exist because unique and complicated become the standard as opposed to a deviation from the standard. Would it be accurate to consider one’s self so fluid? So unstable? Perhaps so. Perhaps our fluidity is the cause of our perplexity.

So what do I know? Shall I be like Socrates and claim that I know nothing as he had claimed. Shall I die accepting that fact that all I know is not known but I was as close as I could be? Will I only know myself at the moment of death? If so, then my life is nothing more than a story once told. I can only know who I am and what I am at the moment that I cease to exist. That kind of reality is tragic and I can’t believe that the world would be so cruel. Perhaps that is youthful thinking.

The mind, a personality, character and the soul are the most confounding things. We each have them. We interpret them, but what drives that which drives us? What is driving these thoughts in my mind? What drives me to write them? What drives me to type and wonder and crave the answers to questions that I can barely form. I scream out like a newborn infant, crying for some reason even when I cannot say what that reason is. It is maddening. To know that something is eschew, not be able to communicate what that something is and then not be able to remedy it all because it is unknown. What perplexes me even further is that it seems to remain undiscussed. It is never mentioned, never talked about in supermarket isles or on the streets. We define ourselves on the shallowest of levels and find it satisfactory in the social arena. Who are you? I am Bob. I am an accountant. I have 2 children and a dog and a wife and… Truly? Is that who we are? Our titles? Our roles? Our names? Names I can understand. If we are truly individuals, as I hope we are, then we must have names. We must have a way to categorize ourselves. We must be able to stand up and say “ I am me, there is only one and you may address me as such”. But what is a name without any understanding behind it? I cannot stand up and say “ I am Cate and there is only one of me and you may address me as such” because I barely know who Cate is. At the current moment, Cate is female, brunette, a student, a sister, daughter, hungry, almost 24 years of age. I cannot simply be defined by such terms.

Unraveling

Good Evening. Did you ever feel like your world was unraveling around you? Like you’ve suddenly lost control of your life? It’s not that your life has to be horrible, or crashing down around you, but you’re not in control, as if it was happening detached from you. I feel like that sometimes and what bothers me the most is that I used to have such a wonderful grasp on my life. One short year ago I knew what I was doing, where I was going, what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be. The funny thing is, I am where I wanted to be and I am doing what I wanted to do, in some regard, but in others, I am completely off the mark. I planned to be furthering my education, which I am doing. I am doing all the right things in that department. I also planned to be engaged. Just a side note, when I say that, I mean that it was highly anticipated since I am in a long term relationship and whatnot, not that I wanted to be engaged per se. Man, did the ball get dropped here… It seemed that the further I pursued my education, the faster my relationship deteriorated. I found people on my campus, and I am so sorry to say this but, they were better than my partner. They were smarter, wittier and had more in common with me intellectually than my partner did. All conversation between my partner and I went from discussions about everything, to discussions about the boringness of our days and the fucking weather…. the weather… seriously. This was the person I was SO sure that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and I am bored. It’s gotten to the point that we barely call each other. We have nothing to talk about. How do I explain that to my partner? How do I look into their eyes and say “I’m sorry, you’re boring” or “ You’re not enough”. How am I supposed to destroy them like that, when the person that has really changed is me? I am the one who’s standards have risen above what they were. I am the one who is no longer satisfied. I am the unhappy one. Who’s to blame here? Hell if I know. Basically, my love life, as much as I hate talking about it, is falling to pieces. I don’t even know if I can honestly say that I love my partner. My partner is smart, charming, attractive and sweet, but they are not the smartest, nor the most charming, nor the sweetest. What do I do? Do I settle with the person that I have, knowing that there are others out there who I can have better relationships with, and thus seal my future with an eternity of “what ifs”? Or do I leave and destroy their hopes and dreams and potentially make the largest mistake of my life? My world seems to be unraveling around me and some people are being left behind. I don’t know how to save them, how to take them with me, or how to convince myself to make a decision.

Mothers

Hi. I would just like to announce in advanced that this is be a venting post. Generally I don’t like to vent online. I find writing relaxing in the “forcing out the rest of the world" kind of way, not the " pouring out emotion onto paper" kind of way. But this is going to be the latter. On another note, mothers are one of the toughest, most loving and strongest people on the planet and I have the highest respect for them. My mother is also a good mother. She has done her best..... but.... this woman has instilled a deep hatred for my body within me. Here is a fact, I am not fat. My mother is the only person that thinks so, including my grandmother who happens to hate all signs of fat. Every time I am drinking a soda within my house, or there is a soda in my car, I have to get a shake of the head, or a disappointed look from my mother, as if none of my other accomplishments amount to anything. Went to college, continuing my education, good job, no criminal record, don’t drink much, they don’t know I smoke..... BUT OHHHH NOOOO.. THE PEPSI!!! THE PEPSI!! OH THE AGONY!!! Every day, my mother attempts to motivate me to work out by first asking me to go walking with her, because it seems to be less insulting if she includes herself in the activity. She likes to say things like " we both could afford to lose some weight" or "lets motivate each other!"... It’s painful. She is like a bitter camp counselor. On top of that, she also LOVES to comment about every single woman on TV and talk about how skinny she is, or how good she looks now that she has lost weight. Also, every article of clothing which simply hangs on person without revealing any hint of the shape of the midriff has suddenly become "flattering" and anything else that might hint at there being hips or a little fat is suddenly "ugly, unattractive and 'not for me'".  Every romantic relationship I had always had an obstacle when it came to my weight. My lovers, try and try again, could never convince me that I was attractive in the slightest. I cannot accept compliments or any argument contrary to what my mother has instilled within me. I loathe mirrors, spanx, clothing and bathroom scales. The funny thing is, I would have no problem losing the weight. I don’t have a problem with my weight, but I see no problem with losing a few pounds and being a little healthier... but the fact that it would make my mother so happy just breaks my heart. I lost weight once, and I was pretty happy... but then my mother began to overly praise me and kiss my ass and talk about how proud she was of me.... now that I gained the weight again.... no more pride. So thanks mom.... I look forward to paying my student loans and therapy bills....

Preview of Celerity

Good Evening. I apologize in advance that I have not written anything here for some time. I have been debating with myself as to whether or not I should post some of the pages from my work-in-progress novel which I am writing called " Celerity".  After much deliberation and concern, I decided for it. It is only 5 pages, not enough that I will want to destroy the entire book if someone doesn't like it. Remember, I am still editing and adding and subtracting here and there. This is NOT a final draft by any means. I would be willing to post more if anyone is interested.

Celerity ( in progress)

The rain trickled down the diner window while the thunder gently hummed overhead. Cars raced by on the nearby freeway. Blurs of color and flashes of light came through the aging glass. It had been a typical day. Although most adventures don’t start with a typical day, this one does. It was peaceful indoors, which was a large improvement from the outdoors. The rain made me sad. The birds, washed away by the storm, had no songs to sing for me. I had no melodies to listen to as I worked… just the constant and sporadic beating of the water against the glass. I had been on my feet for hours, but then again, it was something that I had been long accustomed to. The sun was setting… not that you could know it from the damned rain. I always loved the sunshine, and I would still, if I could remember it. But that, of course, comes later.

The routine cycling of customers was about to begin. I always found it entertaining to see the shift in people’s faces as my night time customers began to appear, especially if they were new guests. My regulars didn’t mind so much, but they still carried a sense of fear and confusion around these hours. Could I really blame them? When I was asked about them, I would shrug as if It say “well, it happens”. Some of my night time customers had eccentric styles of dress, which didn’t help. Some kept up with the times and trends. Then there were ones which refused to leave their favorite fashion decade or era. It wouldn’t be uncommon for me to find a vampire or two in tights, or a corset. Others could be considered trend setters. They were the vampires whom stood out from everyone and everything else. These were the ones with their own personal tailors and very vast imaginations. Combined with a large ego, these people were a force of nature in the fashion world, blending colors so horrific you wondered if they owned a mirror.

 I began to put most of the food away and brought out the large containers with deep red liquid inside. The smell of the blood filled my nostrils as it warmed up, making some of the other customers nauseous. It was the norm. I just hoped the smell of their food would be stronger. I looked up at the facing wall and saw the very soft shade of purple which hung over the sky. Silently, I began counting. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi… 59 Mississippi, and then the small silver bell rang as Jack walked into my small restaurant. It was like clockwork. 1 minute after sunset, always smiling… always thirsty. He was old enough that there could still be some color in the sky and he wouldn’t burn enough for it to bother him. I poured him a glass and gently threw it down the counter, smiling as he caught it.

“Evening Jo”

“Hey Jack”

“Looking as lovely as ever” He said as I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

“You know I got my B.A in BS, right?”

            Jack made that terrible joke almost every night. He took his normal seat, the second one from the door, effortlessly sliding onto the clay red leather. He was waiting for Erika, his sister. She was beautiful, just like him. Her black hair was consistently up in a silky braided pony-tail. It was a rare treat to see her wear it up in a bun, and even rarer to see it down. Her eyes were a blazing green and every time our eyes met, I wondered what she saw. Could she see within me? Read my soul? That was the power in her eyes. Jack was different. He was also tall with onyx hair and gorgeous green eyes. But his eyes were much more aggressive and demanding. Jack could convince anyone to do anything simply by staring down at them long enough. The two of them used to hypnotize me, but then again, they all did at one point.

More people were coming in and more drinks were being poured. I moved around to the tables as quickly as my feet would allow. My place was small, but sufficient. It had a small bar, with 6 red barstools. I had roughly 20 tables along the walls. Everything was pretty plain, I must admit. The walls were white. I can’t remember the official paint color. I am sure it was something ridiculous like eggshell, or dove’s feather, or piano keys. Basically, it was some version of white. Of course it was perfectly painted. Each inch of the each wall had exactly the same amount of paint as the others. Vampire work. Machines couldn’t match the precision.

 The tables were made of wood and the floor was a checkered tile, much like a 60’s diner. It had large windows that brought in a wonderful and breathtaking view of the… freeway. The diner was just off the freeway, all by itself. The freeway exit was probably one of the least used pieces of asphalt on the stretch. People only stopped here if they knew where they were going, or if they had no idea where they were. It was one of the places that you never noticed unless you ended up there.

I had my regular morning commuters. There were several groups of people, all different types. There was the group of older men. The ones that were raised in the era of pinching women’s asses as they passed. They would sit around at 5 am, talking about the glory days, sharing stories, and complaining about how bad everything is, and great everything was. They were always trying to coax me into a debate or into a relationship with one of their charming, handsome redneck sons. I had to decline, for many reasons. One of which is that I am so turned on by a full set of teeth and an IQ higher than negative five.

There were other groups too. There were the men and women that came in at 6 am. The ones with a briefcase attached to their hips. Their eyes glued to a document of some sort. It could be a legal memorandum or a business letter. My personal favorite was the individual reading a newspaper diligently, appearing to be studying the business section, when really, it’s the gossip pages. The women were less embarrassed about it than the men were. They would be so wrapped up in the latest gossip about some nasty divorce that they don’t see me coming to refill their coffee. Then, when it’s too late, they quickly turn back the page and frantically look for a place to start reading. You can almost see the hair on their neck stand up on end from the embarrassment. I must admit that I would sometimes plan my rounds to achieve ultimate embarrassment. I would wait patiently and watch them for a sign of complete disconnection to the outside world. I could narrow it down to a few simple tells. Wide eyes were always a dead give away. Then there were the lip pressers, and of course, the lip bitters. If I spotted any one of those signs, I grabbed my coffee pot. Once, I had a customer who was so startled by my presence that he spilt his French toast into his lap.

 These people were the ones that could hardly manage a conversation unless the room was filled with leather seats made of cherry wood oak. They would come in, motion a one, sit down by themselves, mumble something about coffee and eggs, or coffee and toast, then mutter a thanks somewhere between the table and the door. Not my favorite people. Very social beings, of course. But they seemed to like the quiet of this place. I guess it was better than some drive-thru with an overly cheerful ‘barista’. There were others too. For example the bikers that came in ever second Saturday morning on the way to their little conventions. Then they always came back in on Sunday night for dinner. Whether it was due to their actually toughness, or their need to maintain the image, these men never blinked when the vampires came around for their breakfasts.

The only two people that worked in my little diner were I and another girl named Rashelle. She was a gem. She was once a favored pet of a vampire that used to live here. Jack’s maker considered it horrendous and had the vampire banished for his abusive nature. Shortly after her master was exiled, I gave her the job. It helped her take her mind off of all the commotion. It was difficult for me to find good help, especially someone who could deal with feeding the very creatures which fed on us. Rashelle knew all too well about the kind that we lived amongst. But it worked out, in the end. It was my little corner of the world. Rather isolated, I must say. The only thing nearby was a motel, and a large mountain surrounded by trees. Lots and lots of trees. Well, that is what people could see on the surface. Within the façade of all things natural was a plethora of the most unnatural fallacy. We were our own little connector; a blend between the two worlds of life and semi-life. A small colony on the edge of a civilization too busy living and not enjoying life, and bordering the most uninhabited piece of forest in the state. How I came to be there is a long story in and of it’s self. It’s a story I don’t want to recount just now. But that place…that little colony was home.

I would like to say that it was on that stormy night that I met the man of my dreams, or that I found destiny, or that my ‘story’ begins. It just wouldn’t be true. A life is filled with stories, each overlapping into the other, and my life here at this little colony was just another chapter. Even though this night wasn’t biggest night of my life, it was a night which will say in my memory forever.

I was serving a table with a tourist couple when I noticed a man in a dark leather jacket, standing against the telephone post. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t seem to mind the rain as it darkened his blonde hair. He was surprisingly still, as if he was listening for something. Then I realized that I was in the same frozen state, watching him. He rolled off the wet wooden post and slowly made his way to the doors. Was he man, or vampire? I wasn’t sure. I had plenty of blood ready, so I decided to make a pot of coffee. I could hear some of the non-coffee drinkers groan. You can’t please everyone, and I give up on trying years ago. We, the vampires that live here and I, didn’t see too many wandering vampires around. They generally had a purpose. It just wasn’t common to find one that looked so lost or out of place. Soon the small silver bell over the door announced company with its common tune. I turned around and put on a smile to greet the stranger at the counter, but he had already moved to a booth, to sit by himself. He hadn’t said a word or looked at anyone. Jack looked at me, slightly upset by this man. He understands my low tolerance for rudeness. A reassuring glance calmed him down. I knew how to handle people like this. Kill’em with kindness. I almost hopped to the gentleman’s table, trying to appear happy. I kept imagining a little bunny, or a butterfly, or anything pink, and I don’t even like pink for that matter. Perhaps I could infect him with some joy. As I approached, I imagined him covered with rabbits and butterflies, squirming in pain. The image itself caused my smile to be even wider to the point that I held back a laugh. I stood at the edge of the booth and looked at his dark wet face.

“Welcome to Jo’s diner. Can I get you anything?  Pie? Soup? Coffee?”  A smile?

He was dead silent for a few moments, though it felt like longer. I parted my lips, about to repeat myself, when he muttered.

            “Coffee”

I nodded and left, rolling my eyes. I hated smug customers. Those that think they are so much better than you, just because you’re the one wearing an apron. I thought about spitting in his coffee. I took my time not serving him, getting around to the other tables before bringing him his beverage of choice. Although I normally served my coffee hot, his was especially cooler than most. As I set down his drink, I looked at his face. Maybe there would be a sign of life. His brown eyes were wild though, unlike his face. From his expression, you would think he was deaf and dumb. Those hazelnut eyes, however, were looking at all the tables, analyzing each of them, focusing on certain ones, marking them with his memory. He finally looked up at me and grumbled a thank you. I noticed the tables that he was analyzing, noticed a pattern in them. Each one had at least one vampire occupying them. It concerned me, but I decided not to make a huge fuss about it. It was very possible that he was curious, but it was also possible that he had other things in mind. Regardless, I continued my work.  I preferred peace at my establishment, as well as in my life, and I was trying to maintain it as best as I could. Not exactly an easy task when half your customers can eat the other half. But I had been doing it for years and wasn’t about to let a nervous little twit change that. I went back to my counter, ringing up the customers that had finished eating. It was almost to the point that I knew the regulars by name, and some of their kids. It was all stored in the limited rolodex within my mind. Even if I didn’t care, I still made an effort to remember… bigger tips.

            The strange man never moved. Not once. He just stared at all the vampires, warming his hands with the cup of coffee. I said goodnight to my last daytime customers, the tourist couple. I gave them directions to their destination. Wine tasting in California…must be nice. It was only after the tourists had left that the stranger came to pay for his 50¢ coffee. I tried desperately to read his eyes the way I thought Erika could. He had something troubling on his mind. I could see the handle of a small knife on the inside of his coat as he pulled out his wallet. The handle was silver and hand crafted. It reminded me of the old weapons that Jack showed me once. I also saw a lighter and his packet of cigarettes. I looked up at him, meeting those confusing eyes.

            “It’s on me if I can bum a smoke” I said quickly.

He looked up at me and thought for a moment before agreeing. I walked with him out the back door, moving past the boxes of preserved food, a pile of dishes and out into the cool night air. The rain was coming down harder, forming a small waterfall at the end of the gutter on the roof. I watched him fumble for his pack of cigarettes, eventually coaxing them out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He handed one to me and ignited the tip before doing the same for himself. I leaned against the door, looking around for a moment as I pulled the smoke into me. I looked up at his drying hair, seeing the natural wave to it. It was actually very attractive.

            “Are you passing through or are you looking for a place to stay?” I asked. Part of me really wanted him to go. He had trouble written all over his face, his body language and his demeanor. But then there was a part of me that knew he wasn’t supposed to leave just yet.

            “I’m planning on looking for a local hotel.” His voice had changed now that we were outside. It had a sweet element to it.

I took out a small bronze key from my pocket and looked at it for a moment. “Here… there is a hotel down the block… room 114 is vacant.”

He looked at me like I was crazy, after all, who carries keys to hotel rooms in their pocket. He gave me a quick nod of thanks and walked back into the rain, flicking the half burnt cigarette into a puddle. As he walked to the parking lot, he looked over the key. It was probably the only hotel in the state which didn’t have those plastic card keys for the rooms. At this hotel each room had its own unique key with its own design. The keys were made of some type of metal. I had nothing against those little credit card keys, but my establishment was small and frankly, I always had a weird thing for old keys. I watched the nameless man get onto his motorcycle and start it. It was a beautiful 1947 Indian Chief. From what I could tell, it was in mint condition. The roar of the engine made me smile. Wild pasts… My smile faded as he looked back at the vampires in the diner, then at me and sped off to the hotel. Why was he speeding away? I don’t know. Maybe he was afraid of my customers, or of this place. Maybe he was afraid of me.

I topped off the last of my customer’s drinks before kicking them out at the end of the night. It was good to have everyone well fed. It kept the homicide rate down. Jack seemed partly worried and partly upset by my short meeting with the strange man; so I smiled at him, hoping to keep his temper at a tolerable level. He was always so overprotective. So eager to rescue me, even when I didn’t need or want to be rescued. Jack offered to close up for me. There was an offer I couldn’t wait to accept. I thanked him, taking hold of my dark blue coat and a large stack of papers. He eyed them as I made my way to the door. I stepped out in the raging storm, and pulled my coat collar up. I carefully placed my papers inside my coat, pressing them tight against my chest. I walked through the ever deepening puddles towards the hotel. There was a man with a long coat and a black umbrella walking down the road in the other direction. Although I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was looking at me. I looked at him for a few moments, studied him. He was too tall to be the man I feared. In fact, he reminded me of Gene Kelly. And I began to whistle one of my favorite tunes.

Who Am I Today?

Greetings. In my last post, I wrote about authors and writers while I was thinking about the great books which I have read, and have yet to write. Although I am no philosopher, I have read a large amount of philosophy about a plethora of topics such as comedy, God, time, space and man. In all honesty, I haven't absorbed all the information in these books. Frankly, I don’t know if it is possible, and I am not sure if I would like to see what I would look like if I did. I imagine I would look like a mad alien scientist in children's cartoons with their heads swollen and veiny from all that information stored within. I suppose if that were to happen I would be very popular at parties and I would have to own a very large number of hats to hide my terrifying head... But I digress.

I have read about identity in some of the books on my shelf, but the concept has always baffled me. How can someone say who they are? I find that people are always changing, becoming different people based on experiences, much like Aristotle would say. Here is how I see it. Does anyone know/remember what Spin Art is? For those of you who don’t, I will try to explain. You take a square piece of white paper and you place it on a machine that makes it spin. Then, as the paper spins, paint or glitter or whatnot is applied onto the paper to form the art. Once done, the machine stops spinning and voila, you have spin art. I made several as a child at fairs and such. I’m sure some of you are reading this (the whole 2 or 3 of you) and wondering "is this another ridiculous tangent?”. Well, surprisingly, it is not. I think spin art can be used as a metaphor for our identities and how experiences influence us. We are born as the piece of paper, and then we experience things which throw paint on us, making us who we are. But, with each turn the paint spreads thinner, or in a different direction, even uncontrollably. Sometimes we have too much paint, or too much of one color and everything becomes a mess. By then it is too late and the spinning continues none the less. You can’t go back and try to remove the paint. I suppose we would call those "regrets". Whether or not you agree with my little metaphor, as flawed as it may be, I believe we can relate to the constant movement of life and the ever changing concept of identity.

Who am I? Well, that is really nothing of consequence. In honesty, I prefer the anonymity of my little piece of the digital world. Here, I am completely honest, free from influential scrutiny. Of course there will always be people who disagree with me about my blog, think I am wrong or foolish, or that I should never have written anything at all. These people are not the ones that fall under the category of "influential". The people who are influential, like my family, close friends and people I trust, have no idea that this blog even exists. It is all part of the mystery that is me. You see, I am a deceiver. I adapt to the people and events around me, which is why if you asked me "Who am I?" I would not be able to give you a real answer. I am who I need to be that moment with that person. With my family, I am the honest, obedient, hardworking and loving child. With my lover, I am the flirtatious, supportive, helpful, loving partner. With my friends, I am the loyal, fun-loving, drinking and smoking companion. With my boss, I am the efficient and productive slave, and so on and so forth. With each category of people I am a different person, never revealing all of myself, almost as if the other parts of me never existed. I change who I am to adapt to who I am with and what needs to be done. Who am I? Hell if I know. Perhaps all this lying and adapting IS who I am. Maybe, I am simply the adaptor. Then, who am I here? In my little corner of the digital world, where no one knows who I am, or what I look like, who do I get to be? I suppose the simple answer is, myself. There is no family or boss or group of close friends that can influence me here. I am free to think, feel and write as I choose. It is refreshing. Who am I today? I am me, at least for the time being.

Writers and Authors

Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.-- Fran Lebowitz


I believe this quote is true. The proof lies within the overabundance of modern books. Last year alone, over half a million books were published. Can anyone even think of that many titles? There are too many books being written by people who can't write. Period. The reason there are too many books is that too many people think that they are authors, when most of us are writers. Writers are people who write down thoughts and ideas, while authors are creators of thoughts and ideas. Writers are like the people that take you on a boat to go whale watching. Authors are like the people on the Discovery channel taking you into the ocean with the whales. What would I consider myself? At the moment, I am  writer. I would love to be an author one day, even if I am not a great one. I know that I am not even close to there yet, and that I might never get there. I have no desire to add to the meaningless fluff of modern American literature. To those writers out there, please hear me. If you have an authentic talent, like so few do, then please continue to write. If you are among the majority of average individuals who don't have that talent and yet feel the urge to portray their thoughts and life stories, buy a journal and keep it locked... Please. Personally, I am still unsure whether or not I posses "true artistic ability", whether or not I have what it takes to be an author. Until then, I will have to keep writing, and eating chocolate.