wordjunkies

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Hauntings (part 3) June 1, 2012

Filed under: Writing/Words — Annie Maier @ 12:29 am
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Previously on wordjunkies:

 

 

I’m a snake

(not a snail)

I shed my skin

like Mithral mail

 

Head and neck

no problem there

throat and shoulders

lick the air

 

Only catch—

as we found out—

is that my arms

can’t come out

 

No arms no hands

no words escape

No words no voice

no me takes shape

 

About those arms:

It was right after commenting on the half-assed state of my molt (noun; a loss of plumage, skin, or hair, esp. as a regular feature of an animal’s life cycle), that Life Coach Jackie mentioned my parents. As in, “How do your parents feel about your writing?”

Two damn good questions.

I don’t know how my parents feel about my writing. I have an idea. I conjecture. But without being able to ask, I’ve no access to the truth. By the time I decided to pursue words as a vocation my dad was dead. My mom… well, my mom offers no opinions.

Except…

Except where the book is concerned. Should that particular gathering of words ever see daylight, the remaining parental unit would not be happy. See:

 

Ballistic

adj

  1. of or relating to a body in motion according to the laws of ballistics (the science of the motion of projectiles in flight)
  2. extremely and usually suddenly excited, upset, or angry; wild

I know to expect such a Newtonian reaction not because I asked, but because Mom confronted me before I ever had the chance to ask. Said confrontation makes a good story in itself, but hang on, let me finish this line of thought first.

Is that why I stalled? Because my parents, one live and one dead, might or might not be happy with my words? Maybe. But not entirely. I stalled for a few reasons, I would think. That is perhaps only the most obvious.

“I have problems speaking,” I told LC Jackie. “Writing is easy, but when it comes to putting myself, my work, out there… Well, that doesn’t seem to be happening either. I write to a notebook, to my computer. I write a blog that’s read by people I don’t even know but not by the people I do know. I feel like two separate entities, Annie Maier who goes about her day doing whatever and… some other person who writes. I need to integrate the two. Or at least introduce them.”

Jackie said something helpful. I can’t remember what—by then I was thinking that I had turned into someone unfamiliar. Not in a larger, life context, but in a word context. Because, one thing I’ve never censored is my words, at least not the ones I could write.

A diversion: Put one or more writers in a room with a recently successful (i.e., published) nonfiction writer and someone invariably asks, “How do you set boundaries when writing real life?” or “How do you keep from hurting someone’s feelings?” or “What right do I have to write about other people?” To which the speaker invariably answers, “Your job is to write your story. Don’t think about ‘other people.’” Amen. I think about what other people think too damn much already. I can’t do it while I’m writing, too. Not and stay sane.

So what a surprise to find that yeah, I’m great at taking this advice while scribbling words to an invisible audience, but introduce real people into the situation and all hell breaks loose. Or rather all hell comes to a screeching halt.

Then LC Jackie said something else helpful, something I remember: “Lot’s of people live two lives where their families are concerned. Do you need your parents’ approval to get the book out there?”

Which is exactly when I realized I had told her nothing about the actual contents of the book.

“I don’t need their approval. I need…” Damn, what do I need?

Amid this struggle, Jackie asked, “Why do you think you stopped working on the book?”

Dammit all to hell. I thought having a life coach made things easier. “Well…” I stopped. Why? I’ve no idea. But I bet it has something to do with that skin trapped at my arms. “So, the book… The book is about… I wrote the book.” I was trying. Valiantly. “The book is about my dad.” Jackie made a sound, but held back any articulation. “The title is Please Kill Me and Other Life Lessons. I wrote it right after he died.”

I heard another sound, but forged ahead. Stopping then would’ve meant another 10 minutes of stammering, “He had a stroke. It was a miserable death. It took three years.”

“Wow,” Jackie said.

Yeah. Wow.

Or, whatever.

It depends on what day you ask me. And whether “you” is someone in my head, or someone outside my head.  It’s a heavy subject for sure. He was my dad. He died. It was miserable. But lots of peoples’ dads die. It’s often miserable. And lots of people write about it. I hear that some of them even publish what they’ve written.

To be continued? I don’t know. This whole exorcism thing is harder than I expected. Twisting necks and lava-vomit aside, the devil is no match for the demons we carry in our heads. Jackie is amazing and EFT is effective, but trying to relate the details of how and why is exhausting. I’m tempted to leave it up to you, the invisible audience. Do you want to hear more? But that seems cowardly. Aren’t I supposed to determine the direction of this blog? Or am I being sneaky, too sneaky even for myself? Changing the subject when things get tough.

Let’s talk about you.

How are your ghosts?

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Hauntings (part 2) May 23, 2012

May 23, 2012

With additional thanks to Liz Wong, illustrator.

Previously on wordjunkies: Annie Maier is haunted by a ghost of earthly existence. Flesh and blood and yet also of her own creation. The identity of said being must remain hidden, due in part to Annie’s desire to remain among the living. When we left her, Annie was inching toward a conclusion: what did this specter have to do with forward motion, writing, and escape?

Before I jump to any hasty conclusions about the presence, temporality, and effect of my ghost, I must call the reader’s attention to the plural s at the end of this week’s (and last week’s) title. Hauntings.

 

Ah, a surprise! But maybe not. Perhaps you’re way ahead of me. Perhaps you noticed this “s” and made your own conclusions. No self-respecting human has just one haunter, after all, why should I be any different?

I am not. (That is, in a nutshell, the whole point of this blog. We are no different from one another. We look different, give or take a few centimeters between our eyes or drops of melanin in our skin, and we sometimes disagree on important issues like human rights, the efficacy of universal health care and voting regulations (to say nothing of the unimportant question of who might win American Idol), but beneath that, in the pulse and clatter of our veins, we are pretty uniformly crafted. A little blood, a little bone, a few pounds of viscous tissue and viola! a human.)

In fact, the second surprising outcome of my first visit to Life Coach Jackie was the discovery that my other ghost is quite regrettably, and no less irrevocably, dead. I can share his identity due to this state of non-temporality, as well as to the fact that he, my second ghost, Ghost #2, haunting plus “s,” is not a succubus (however reluctant) but is, rather, a poltergeist; in death as in life, he is here to support me, love me and cheer me on. (Because that’s something he and Ghost #1 have in common, though absolutely real the roles they each play in my life are manifestations of my own, often overwrought, psyche.)

It is my father to whom I refer—the venerable but no longer fleshy joseph Rizzo (b. 1936—d. 2007).

Now for the conclusion (which isn’t really, but it’s getting there): I had, in seeking Life Coach Jackie’s assistance, three goals—to complete the final edits on my book, to market my book, to get WordJunkiesPress off the ground, and to be able to leave the house on time each morning without causing myself a nervous breakdown. Primary among these was… well, they’re all primary. I can’t do 1-3 without doing 4; I can’t do 2 without 1… Pressed for an answer, by LC Jackie who could, after one brief phone call, see right through me, I chose number 1. Upon being asked to articulate this desire even further, I said, and I quote from however murky a memory, “I want to find out, and address, why I keep putting off the liberation of my completed but as yet homeless book.” I actually don’t think I used the word liberation. I think what I really said was closer to “ I want to know why I don’t get off my ass and send out my book.”

I didn’t tell Jackie the book’s title, or contents, upfront—not out of a desire to be duplicitous, but because it simply didn’t occur to me. The bizarreness of this statement points to my complete lack of self-awareness while also fully explaining the ease with which my ghosts (1 and 2) infiltrated my head. I mean, really, if I don’t even know I’m up there, how could I possibly be expected to detect anyone else?

Instead, LC Jackie had to do a little digging. Meditatively speaking, she picked up a series of impressions in association with my birth name, Annmarie Rizzo turned Ann Marie Rizzo turned, well, me. Interpreting those impressions was my job.

“The word I see for you” she said by way of intro, “is hesitancy.”

“HAHAHAHA!” I laughed aloud. Perhaps the only more accurate term would have been COMPLETE PARALYSIS!

“The image I see is that of a snake.”

Now, some people might not like being called a snake, but I adore the slinky slithery ophidians. To me they are mysterious and beautiful, adapted in a remarkable way to an environment that prefers long legs and shapely teeth over cold blood and venomous fangs. That they are also considered evil by the bible is just an added bonus.

“But,” LCJ continued, not knowing of my affinity and unwilling at this early date to put me off the whole EFT thing, “this snake has arms.” (I admit it, the arms did creep me out a bit.) “It appears to be shedding, but it’s only gotten half way—its, your, arms are pinned. Have you been having trouble writing?”

Writing? No. Publishing, speaking, putting myself OUT THERE? Why, yes. Yes, I have.

To be Continued….

 

Earthly Ghosts May 18, 2012

May 18, 2012

So, it turns out I’m haunted

(adj)

  1. (of a place) frequented by a ghost
  2. having or showing signs of mental anguish or torment

The “place,” in this case, being my head. The “signs” including but not limited to cuticle biting, eye twitching, intermittent spells of spasticity and lassitude, anxiety (more or less constant), nightmares, night sweats, night terrors, and a fascination with death.

Far from being alarmed by said haunting, I am in fact quite relieved; I’ve known since pre-language toddlerhood that there was something other inhabiting the soft tissue encased in the slowly fusing bone mass that would become my skull. How nice, after all these years, to be able to address this suddenly concrete and thus assailable entity.

An aside: wouldn’t it be cool to find out that somewhere within the recesses of your body, perhaps buried deep within your liver or your spleen, there lurked a twin? I first heard of such a possibility on CSI, which was a decent series back before they killed off Gary Dourdan and William Peterson left the show. TV drama politics aside, the victim, who was really the perpetrator, did not take the news of his slightly unorthodox cohabitation well. (I can’t remember though if it got him arrested or got him off.) But really, think of the benefits! Live twins are said to be one of the closest, most perfect relations we can have, but even they, after all, have limitations. A micro-twin, on the other hand, would have all the benefits of a true mini-me without the obvious drawbacks. (Really, do I want another Annie Maier in my life? No. And you probably don’t either!) You could, for instance, call on your twin anytime of day or night without having to worry that he/she might not pick up the phone, or worse, that your brother/sister-in-law might pick up instead—because, clearly, if light-hearted banter was something you were good at, you probably wouldn’t be fantasizing about having a hairy bone mass lodged in your organs with whom you could have a conversation. You could visit without your twin without calling, take him/her out to dinner without a care as to who would pay the bill, and wear their clothes with complete impunity!

However, I digress.

My ghostly friend is neither dead nor encased safely in my spleen. And while I cannot reveal his/her identity, for fear of endangering the innocent (that is, me), I can say that he/she is someone with whom I am both intimately and irrevocably connected. I am not unique; we all  sanction the presence in our lives of at least one person who wants nothing more than to possess us. As is the case with my possessor, said people are often

Manifestation(s)
noun

  1. display, exhibition, presentation
  2. sign,indication, evidence, token, symptom, proof, substantiation, reflection, example, instance.
  3. outward or perceptible indication; materialization
  4. the state of being manifested, (that is) a conscious feeling, idea, and/or impulse that contains repressed psychic material

As such, my apparition at least must also, in addition to ruthless, insatiable and often cruel, be fairly labeled innocent. A fiend perhaps, but a reluctant fiend.

What, you may be wondering, if you are still here to wonder, in the hell has this to do with ANYTHING? It has to do with hesitation. With indecision. It has to do with goal setting, goal reaching, and self-constructed barriers. It has to do not with writing but with allowing what it is we have written to escape from our souls, our pens and and computer screens to a concrete existence in the greater, larger, infinitely more entertaining world. It has to do with my book. And maybe yours.

To be continued

(thank you to Liz Wong, illustrator)

 

 
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