To whit:
YOU TWIT!
Sorry, I didn't mean to call you a twit. I'm referring to my armpit. Or, as the case may be, my armtwit.
No, I'm not drunk, though I wish I were. Blogging is so much more fun when you're drunk! GogGAMMIT, why don't we have more beer in this house???
Excuse me, I'm not feeling like myself. I'm feeling like Ronald Reagan.
WOAH! WEIRD! WACKY! EL SENORITA HAS LOST HER BANANAS!
BEING CREATIVE
Why can't I underline the above header??? Headers without underliner look weird. Ok, where was I going with this? Oh right, "being creative." Right. It's important. The End.
BEATING ONESELF UP FOR NOT GETTING ENOUGH CREATIVE SHIT DONE
Right. I've been doing that too. I know, it's not fun to read about, and frankly, it sort of sucks to write about it, but it's a fact of my life, and you know what? I'm "secretly" proud of that. I put "secretly" in quotes because it's not much of a secret anymore, and anyway, was it ever that much of a secret? My love of self-flagellation? No, I didn't say self-"flatulation"--PLEASE. Don't get all childish.
MORE ON BEATING ONESELF UP FOR NOT GETTING ENOUGH CREATIVE SHIT DONE
So anyway, as I was saying before you cut me off with that gross, heinous, ridiculous reference to disgusting, stinky gas, I LIKE beating myself up. It's part of my martyr fantasy! Making people feel sorry for me because I'm always putting so much pressure on myself to do this and that stupid thing is FUN.
Ha ha! Just kidding.
Really--what I meant was that yes, there is an element of self-pressure, but I'm ferpectly ok with it. In fact, HELLO, I wouldn't want it any other way! Without pressure from lil ole me, who the hell is going to say "Isabel, you're going to be dead some day, like Ronald Reagan! And what have you to show?"
I know, I KNOW, I have great kids! I know. I know that. And I know I have a beyond-describable life of perfect happiness. I know that. I realize that all day long, every single day--I really do.
BUT!
But I do want to ACCOMPLISH. I want to ACHIEVE. And by good golly gigglybugs I'm going to do everything I can to do just that. The End. Thank You.
NON-BORING THOUGHTS ON CREATIVITY
If I keep talking about being creative so much, people are going to get sick of it, so I'll just say this one thing and then almost be done with it:
Being creative, for me, goes much deeper than making stuff. Being creative is about living creatively--it's about going through the day going, "How can I approach this situation in a way that yields a positive result? How can I see every moment, every outrageously lucky moment, in a way that maximizes my appreciation of the moment? How can I get the most out of life?"
The last sentence sums it all up: being creative, for me, is about getting the most out of life. Because if I want to, I can get something from everything--I can learn from every situation, I can grow and get stronger from every situation. That's the most important thing to me, really--that will leave me thinking, on my deathbed, "I didn't do so bad."
TAKING CHANCES
I know I'm not going to get very far if I don't take chances, if I don't believe in myself and do it and all that good stuff. Recently I found a bunch of old poems I wrote, and it got me in the poem-writing mood. It's been a long time since I wrote a poem, but the other night, driving home from the gym, I had an experience and tried to put it into words. I'm not sure if the resulting poem is that great, but, like I said, it's important to take chances, so here I go, posting it here.
The Train
The train had stopped on the tracks
at the Oltorf crossing
keeping me and a growing two-lane crowd of drivers
from going home
at 10 pm on Wednesday night
The flashing red lights of the signal
silently marked the passing of minutes
and the rhythm, I thought,
of life and death, death and life
Had someone died on the tracks?
I didn't know, but when two police cars
screamed by, way behind us, it seemed entirely possible
and anyway, people die all the time
You, in front of me, opened your car door
and from the trunk, pulled out a guitar
which you played and sang to,
a little out of earshot, ahead of me
I watched your hand on its neck and
the red lights of the signal on the keys
and it was beautiful, so beautiful, I wanted
to kiss your guitar and your hand and
thank you
for adding life to my night
at the Oltorf crossing
keeping me and a growing two-lane crowd of drivers
from going home
at 10 pm on Wednesday night
The flashing red lights of the signal
silently marked the passing of minutes
and the rhythm, I thought,
of life and death, death and life
Had someone died on the tracks?
I didn't know, but when two police cars
screamed by, way behind us, it seemed entirely possible
and anyway, people die all the time
You, in front of me, opened your car door
and from the trunk, pulled out a guitar
which you played and sang to,
a little out of earshot, ahead of me
I watched your hand on its neck and
the red lights of the signal on the keys
and it was beautiful, so beautiful, I wanted
to kiss your guitar and your hand and
thank you
for adding life to my night
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