Use Your Words

In a blog post by Adam S. he mentions about great bloggers and great writers are different. I ask him how and like most the people I’ve asked how or why to, they throw the question back at me without answering it themselves. He’s the one who made the statement, why do I need to answer my own question. When people do that, “throwing the ball back into my court”, it makes me question how valid they find their own statement to be. Not the validity of the statement itself. But instead of getting into a rumble on his blog about that, I answered him. I think not every great blogger has to be a great writer, yet on a personal note I find myself being drawn only to bloggers that can write. The ones who use their words as much as imagery if not more than. Images can attract as much as they can distract.

In a past blog post of my own, I mention how I rarely put in images or graphics into my own writings (or bloggings). I’ll add to that, I will add featured images if the blog layout I desire requires it because it would look silly without them. Luckily I fell into one that I like and can do with or without the featured images.

Some bloggers who may think they are not such great writer’s will use images and memes to elaborate and supplement their posts and do so with such ingenuity it makes them a great blogger. Some are great writer’s and know themselves to be will place images not to supplement, but to heighten the piece. Then there are bloggers like myself who use only their words because they are too lazy to create images to go with their work. Unlike how Alice feels in Alice in Wonderland, I don’t read picture books so I think the ability to string along words to produce imagery in someone else’s mind or to make them think from only my words is important. It’s something I practice everyday because I love to read and I love to write, I just choose to write in a blogging platform.

Back to Adam’s post of being either the Art blogger or Conversational blogger, black and white I’d fit into the Conversational category. But in a world with color, I fit easily into both. Art is my words, my craft, my thing. I don’t need pictures to be artful. To you or someone else art can be pictures and graphics and images and sculptures or music. Whatever you deem your creative talent. I think everyone is creative in their own right. The accountant in the office, numbers are her thing. She can’t draw, doesn’t paint or write, but she puts numbers together to make a big picture down to the penny. I cannot do that. Even simple math throws me. That C.E.O for that major company that’s world wide, power is his craft and leadership his thing. Lawyer is law, Judge is law and decisions, Pharmacy Technician is medications and customer service. It may not be deemed “creative” to the people at large, but if you’re good at something, at anything artsy or not, it’s your talent and your craft.

My words are my self-proclaimed art. I use my words. Just because I want you to, does not mean you have to, but I want you to use your words. What do you have to say?

Blogging feedback, friendships and life as art - with jokes about poo.

Reblogged from ruleofstupid:

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I don't do this very often but I'm going to write something serious. Don't worry, I've dotted scatological humour throughout :)

I've written rantingly about this before, but CBabe has raised the subject again and it put me in mind of some thoughts I had before, but which were all sincere and not funny!

Should we write critically about other people's posts?

Read more… 1,136 more words

Keep in mind that this is similar to reading a novella. Luckily he writes well. Or she. I saw Catfish. Look up Catfish if you've not heard of it. Scary shiz. Or just really strange. Trust no one on the internet! OK End here. xo

Being Bipolar

Reblogged from Black Box Warnings:

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(A heartfelt thanks to Le Clown for allowing me to guest blog on Black Box Warnings. Please visit my blog, "Journey with Julia" at: http://wp.me/p2ckKM-mM .)

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I’m bipolar.

But, don’t worry. You can’t catch it.

Bipolar disorder is a psychiatric disorder (also called Manic Depressive Disorder), that causes my moods to swing between really high and really low, to a degree that interferes with my daily functioning and quality of life.

Read more… 950 more words

You ought to know.

Write Mind

“Write to be understood, speak to be heard, read to grow…”
— Lawrence Clark Powell quotes (American Librarian, Writer and Critic, 1906-2001)

I love to blog. I love to blog about anything. A thought. An idea. Something personal. Something that’s happened. Something that’s happening. In short, I love to blog. I love to blog and I love to read blogs. I can spend all day, seriously, reading and pondering many different posts or the entire blogs themselves. I learn from blogs and from blogging. You can say both make me think; critically. Similar to that class in high school that you are mandated to take, Critical Thinking. Or really what I was mandated. Maybe not you. I don’t really remember what was taught in the class, but I am sure it involved some pretty heavy critical thinking.

I’m not a “professional” blogger. By any means. I know, you are as shocked as I am. I’m just a wee babe, we’ve got some time. If you want to throw me monies now, I’ll gracefully oblige. You don’t? Yeah, I wouldn’t throw any of my pennies your way either. Times are tough and my stomach is not going to feed itself. So with not being a “professional” blogger it feels even less appropriate when someone writes an article on a current thought or idea they have and you’re thinking they could have done better. The piece was missing something. Maybe it wasn’t deep enough. Maybe it lacked organization — I’m highly skilled at that. In fact, stick ‘lack’ in front of anything and I’m sure you’ll find me. Yet even as a “professional” blogger what gives you any right to give pointers or critique someone else’s writing? Can you imagine Dooce and TheBloggess dropping each other pointers on how they could do better? Yeah, not very pretty.

It takes my all not to comment what I really feel about a post. I will stare at the post contemplating if I can state eloquently my thoughts or opinions. If I realize I cannot, I will simply move on, but with that urge taking it’s time to ruminate and ever so slowly dissipate or not. I will, however, lack (see?) eloquence if what you say on my blog leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I think that may be why I’m more censored on others. You can find a way to thank me later. Seriously, save your Christmas money for someone else. So, essentially if what I read from you ruminates in my mind enough, I will make a post about it, without calling you out. I’m just too damned kind; sickeningly sweet.

So writing and critiques, writing and critiques. I read a post recently (could mean within the last 10 years or today, choice is yours) that shared an idea, a universal truth, a thought that kept them pondering and maybe ruminating themselves. I’m liking that word today. They shared it, putting it out there for all to see like most of us do. I’m not a teacher as I only ever have been a student. I do not have a career in writing — stay tuned as that shall be in the works. But as well as this person writes I was a little surprised. The piece was an excellent topic. The beginning started out pretty strong. As it went on, I became a little lost as the piece became less enthralling. They were either reaching too far or maybe were tired, but still had this to share (been there, done that — this may be one of them). The conclusion of either being a conclusion or one of those pieces that end with the thought of never having a conclusion was uncertain. I also felt in need of wanting a back story or a more predominant statement that said there was no exact backstory.

The piece scraped only the surface and I felt I was left in the dark. It does really hurt to bite my tongue. I don’t always want confrontation as that is not always necessary. I just will say what is on my mind. Unless I know it could offend. Though, if I knew you in real life and was comfortable around you, my oh my. I’m definitely an acquired taste. And lovable at the same time. I don’t want perfection out of everyone, I just want everyone to strive for their best. Think critically. Even in factual writing; Who, What, When, Where, Why, How? Tell me how you really feel. I’m listening.

Limp

And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists
I never did anything to you, man
But no matter what I try
You’ll beat me with your bitter lies
So call me crazy, hold me down
Make me cry; get off now, baby-
It wont be long till you’ll be
Lying limp in your own hand
Fiona Apple “Limp”

I don’t know if writing about this and telling my story as I recall it will do anything at all to help me or to help anyone else. People I try to talk about it with tend to shy away from the topic, my mother especially. I think she thinks since I did not tell her after it happened and waited until years later that it makes it less valid. Less true. She asked me the other night why didn’t I tell then; I tried to explain the weak and powerless that overcomes you when the event or occurrence actually happens to you. You think if that were ever to happen to you, you’d shout it from the roof tops, tell anyone who would listen, get that fucker charged to prevent it happening to someone else. I was 14, I can remember trying to tell her, but I think she was so angry with me about lying to her and not knowing where I was all night that she couldn’t hear me and brushed it off. I don’t think she understood the severity of it to me at the time.

There was a song I listened to over and over after it happened. I can remember lying in my bed hitting repeat over and over. It’s probably a song written about love, but with it’s melancholic mood and somewhat monotonic voice, it suited me. These lyrics helped:

So Tonight That I Might See

I look to you and I see nothing.
I look to you to see the truth.
You live your life;
You go in shadows.
You’ll come apart and you’ll go blind.
Some kind of night into your darkness,
Colors your eyes with what’s not there.
Mazzy StarFade into You

Seeing nothing? He’s worthless. Seeing the truth? The reality of what he did to me. Living life in shadows? He’s a predator. Coming apart and blind? Won’t admit he did anything wrong/The need to go after unsuspecting girls will blind him will pull him apart to exercise his wicked ways being blind to the fact that they are wicked. Some kind of night into your darkness coloring your eyes with what’s not there? He’s blinded to the fact that he’s sick and thinks what he did was also what I wanted. My want for that was not there. When Mazzy Star goes into the chorus of “Fade into you, shame you never knew” made me feel at the time I was listening to the song so much that my innocence faded into him that night and it’s a shame that he’s so sick and selfish as to not realize what he had done to me.

He stepped out to the balcony of the hotel I was at with my friend, her sister (Ivan’s girlfriend) and another guy. They were all asleep and the guy and Ivan had left so I thought nothing of taking my friends Old English and sitting out on the balcony. I can still remember hearing the slider and looking to my left and seeing his white shoe with his khaki pants. I had a sinking feeling, and instinct that I should have listened to, but I didn’t. He seemed a little too happy to see me, but I again wasn’t listening to myself. Therein lies my downfall. He offered me a Heineken or something and I told him I had a beer and he said something along the lines of the Heineken being better. So he went inside and got me one already opened. He didn’t open it in front of me. Had I had the knowledge I do now, I wouldn’t have drank it.

He was sitting next to me and handed me a blunt. I smoked and we talked. It wasn’t until I started fading out that he was trying to pull me closer to him. I went completely out only to awake to him cradling me like a child and feeling me up and kissing on my neck. My head was screaming no, but I couldn’t get myself to talk. Finally when I could make sound I continued to try and say no and it finally came out. I then tried to get up and he held me either not seeing or ignoring the tears streaming down my face. The slider was open and there was noise in the room so Ivan put me in my original chair and went in. He came back out and said we had to go call her friend Jen.

He was kissing me on the elevator and I remember he was chewing Winterfresh gum. My innocent and naïve self didn’t know what to do so I let him.

Jen didn’t answer so we went back up stairs and that’s when he pushed me into the bathroom. He stripped me and I tried to resist in subtle ways. Using my words, thinking that shit would work. Pulling away. Nothing was doing it and I was afraid to scream. I should’ve just screamed, but I didn’t. Eventually he had me naked and after everything we were sitting on the bathroom floor, he was still clothed. He only used his hands and mouth on me. He was telling me to shhh and that I wasn’t going to tell anybody about this. I told him I was going to tell everyone about this. He said none of it happened and I was dreaming. I said I could feel the coldness of the floor and knew I wasn’t dreaming. He got up and left me on the floor closing the door behind him so the light wouldn’t wake my friend or her sister up.

I don’t know how late it was. I’ve never been very good at keeping track of time. I went into the tub and took a scalding hot bath and washed everything from my face to my toes. I cried. I felt violated, scared, I didn’t know if anyone would believe me over him. Each time the water got cold, I’d drain it and take another hot bath. I felt sleepy after so many that I went and laid down next to my friend, in the clothes he’d stripped from me. I thought he was gone, but all of the sudden he spooned me and started whispering in my ear that it was all OK and I shouldn’t tell anyone. He got up and went to my friend’s sister’s bed and I fell asleep. I woke before anyone else and took a shower, Maria needed the bathroom so I got out and asked my friend if she wanted to go to the gym with me. That’s when I told her.

I told her every detail, details I can’t remember now if I tried. We talked a long time and she told me I needed to tell her sister. We went to her sister and told her everything and she was outraged and hurt and very compassionate at first. Until we were at her friends house (Jen’s) who talked her into not believing me and of course Ivan denied it all. I was given the phone to call my mom to pick me up and I had to wait outside. My friend and I didn’t talk for a long time after that. We talked a little bit in Journalism when she was back in the area and attending my high school. It wasn’t until Ivan assaulted her while she was getting ready to go out with friends. Her sister and he lived with her in her apartment. Her sister and niece were in the other room when it happened and luckily my girl is a fighter. He had grabbed her from the master bath and slammed her onto the bed trying to strip her. She was yelling and screaming and was able to get out of his grasp long enough to run to her sister’s room.

She called me after it happened and I think she even apologized for letting her sister talk her into not believing me. I’ve written this whole thing out and only now am I tearing up and saddened by thinking what he tried to do to my friend. Unfortunately, her sister is still with that bumbaclot and they just had another baby together.

I let myself believe that my word would be invalid to his. It didn’t help the fact that the shit went down the way it did. I felt that if I did go to the authorities that the drugs and the alcohol involved and the fact I had no one behind me it would be useless. The people that were there were asleep and he’d in someway have them to back him up. I don’t know.

I do know that if anything like this, more or less, happens to you tell someone. Shout it from the fucking roof tops until someone hears you. They are the weak and powerless, not you.

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