Well, there it is.

I have been unable to write, as I noted earlier, all week. I just. Can't. And today I've been really pushing myself to think of something, to put something cohesive together and just f-ing DO it. The advent of a tragedy in my life has forced me to re-evaluate a few things, namely the things I have control of in my own life, and I've realized that I am very, very frustrated with my lack of discipline and work ethic. Disappointed, mostly, because I have been blessed with an unstoppable drive to assert myself creatively on my world, but simultaneously have found myself possessed of a paralyzing fear of failure in my endeavors, and a lethargy that arises directly as a result of that fear. I am always tired, too tired to do the things I want to do, because if I were to energize myself and do them I would face the possibility of them going unrecognized. For example, I never paint things to keep, only to give away. When I do paint something for myself, I never finish it, always telling myself "Oh, that needs to be touched up a little before I show it to anyone." It's the same with stories. Poems don't even get started anymore.

What's really unfortunate is that, the more I look at my few finished projects and accomplishments, the more I realize that they are, in fact, quite decent. Some of them even border on GOOD. But I'm stuck at a place of uncertainty. New York, especially, is so intimidating in the depth and breadth of possibilities for a creative individual to earn a name and perhaps even a living, but I am absolutely terrified of moving forward to a point at which I could claim myself to actually BE one of those creative individuals on a professional level. No matter how much I create, I have never once voiced the assertion: "I am a writer." or "I am an artist." These are dreams for me, goals that if they were to be reached, would carry on their backs a weight too huge to imagine - the criticism and analysis of a public beyond my own, already severe and even punishing, critiques. Because, while New York is rife with opportunities, it is also a place with millions and millions of dark corners in which hide the failures of those who attempted to be heard. It's terrifying. Debilitating.

And so, rather than really trying to succeed, I continue to let myself languish in fear and self-indulgent criticism, telling myself over and over that I'm not good enough yet to make my debut. I never finish anything, letting my ideas pile up on top of each other. Ideas for ventures, businesses I could run on my talents, never get far enough to even advertise them. "I could paint murals in people's houses! I'll put them up in my apartment, take pictures, paint in friends' places, take pictures, and post them online! I could make a living that way!" Or "I could paint cups and saucers and sell them online!" Or "I could take commissions for paintings on canvas!" Or "I could have written a way better article on this for that blog!" or "I could really be a writer." But I don't DO it. Because I'm always too busy, or too tired, or too overworked, or too underworked and listless, or whatever. It's always something.

But the quote on Jenelle's Gchat today, "Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense -- the creative act" is making me think. A lot. Here I am making excuses, perfectly aware that they are only that: excuses. Painfully aware. But not changing the situation. I've been sitting her all day bemoaning how I'll never make a name for myself as a blogger if I don't WRITE anything, but again, I haven't been writing.

But then, a few minutes ago, something magical happened. There is indeed a muse. And he walked into my gallery. And he was a tall older man, probably from a Nordic country based on his accent and physique. He had a beard of mostly-salt and a little pepper. He was wearing a tasteful, but nonetheless plaid, suit. And he was also wearing... get ready... a FUR BERET. I am not kidding. He is still in the gallery as I'm typing this. In his fur beret. It looks like fox fur. I dont' even know where one would go to purchase such a splendid thing as this. I never would have even thought for a moment that somebody made these things. But behold. It is here. And it is glorious.

And when I saw it, I said to myself, "Well, there's your blog post for the day. It has nothing to do with anything, but it's remarkable enough to warrant a blog post, no doubt about that." And so I set in to write about it, and lo, I have instead bared my soul. And it feels good.

History lesson

This is courtesy of Mental_Floss, my favorite favorite favoritest website. The last two sentences sum it all up:

...The Grattan Massacre, a bloody clash between American Indians and U.S. troops that played out in 1854 in the Nebraska Territory, just east of what is now Laramie, Wyoming.

If you thought Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was bad news, consider what the cow that wandered away from a Mormon pioneer train on the Oregon Trail started. The rabble-rousing bovine clomped its way into a camp inhabited by the Lakota Indians, one of seven tribes that made up the Great Sioux Nation. Not being ones to turn down a free lunch, the Lakota promptly killed the presumably abandoned cow and ate it.

That might not seem like a big deal, but in the mid-1800s, few peace pipes were being passed between American Indians and new settlers. So, when the cattle owner realized the fate his cow had met, he immediately went to tattle his tale at the Territory’s nearest outpost of officialdom, Fort Laramie. In response to the incident, U.S. officials dispatched an eager young second lieutenant and recent West Point graduate named John L. Grattan to bring the cow thieves to justice.

What happened next underscores the downside of history’s insistence on naming events only after they happen. Had John L. Grattan known he was riding off to The Grattan Massacre, it seems likely he might have conducted himself more civilly with the Sioux. Instead, Grattan’s approach would later prompt a fellow Fort Laramie officer to comment, “There is no doubt that Lt. Grattan left this post with a desire to have a fight with the Indians, and that he had determined to take the man at all hazards.”
With nearly 30 men in tow, Grattan met with the Brule Lakota chief, Conquering Bear, and demanded the surrender of the guilty parties. By most accounts, Conquering Bear was open and reasonable during the negotiations, and it was Grattan’s behavior that escalated tensions. At some point, Conquering Bear stood up, and nervous U.S. soldiers—thinking the chief was making a move—opened fire, killing Bear and his brother. Warfare quickly broke out on both sides, and Grattan’s entire party perished.

When news of the event reached the U.S. War Department, officials sought swift revenge on the Sioux. A little more than a year after the Grattan Massacre, on September 3, 1855, General William S. Harney and roughly 600 soldiers caught up with the Lakota tribe. Harney ordered his men to open fire, and nearly 100 Lakota men, women, and children were shot dead in what became known as the Battle of Ash Hollow. (Apparently, 30 Army men being killed equals a massacre, while 100 Sioux being killed equals a battle. Ain’t history grand?)

I have no title.

I haven't been able to write for a little while. At first I was too burned out, then too tired, and now just too... I don't know. Where are the words? I've been seeing in pictures. Some of them I will try to create and post here, to show what I can't say, but some... well I can't get to them all, and some just aren't for showing. Just like some jokes aren't worth telling, but they unfold anyway, amazing me with the outrageous nature of life's sense of humor.

I think there was a time when I would have journaled about how I feel right now in the wake of a tragedy so profound I can't talk about it. And there was certainly a time when I would have written a poem, maybe even a good one, to crystalize that picture of it in my mind. But these days my hands hurt when I hold a pen for too long, and sometime over the past few years I have started to act as if there are some pictures that shouldn't go down on paper. Some ideas that are just too painful to extract, with the perfect placement of words into verse, from myself and lay out.

I was looking at a photo of my best friends in the world, and myself, when we were young. 14 going on 15. At first I was sad to see all our fresh, red-from-laughter faces, so 'full of youth' and what not. Then angry to realize how much bullshit we've all been through since then. All of us. No matter how much we love each other, through the years, we've all been witness to or involved in truly terrible ordeals of many sorts, from the destruction of families to violation to heartbreak to... well... life. And looking at that picture broke my heart as I remembered how innocent we all were and how all that really honestly mattered to us was each other. Each other, and the vast lives we had ahead of us. But those lives have been... well... real. Too real.

And then, as I looked at it and wondered if I should cry, I realized that even then, eleven years ago when we were just kids, when that photo was taken, some of us had already been through hell. Lots of it. Life at the hands of adults.

I guess I should have been cheered by the fact that even though we'd already been dragged through pain and hearbreak and tragedy, we were all still smiling and we were all ok then. But all I could think of were the circles beneath my eyes these days, the weariness of our journeys back and forth to see each other set against the resilience of youth. Will we be ok again? Will our smiles spring back like they once did? Can our moods improve even as life continues to throw tears into our paths? Can we get back to the same paths we started out on? Should we?

This is very personal, and I'm sorry to anyone who doesn't understand it, but the only thing that could make me laugh today as I wonder what the future holds is this one joke that I think should not have been told. And yet, life cracks itself up: a friend from Illinois who I know through my old friend Bryan had a baby last night. And you know what she named him? Seth.