My truth

Thinking alot about blogging, callings, honesty, and the nature of real work this weekend.

I didn't run today.  I didn't want to, I have to admit.
I woke up, groggily, and went back to sleep again. It was cloudy, but it was hot and muggy (when I finally ventured out).  I think I may have been able to convince myself into running if the rain had fell a bit earlier, but as it was, the rain came much later in the day.

I padded around my loft this morning, opening mail, brewing coffee, unloading the dishwasher, and just doing some minor clean-up.  Laundry, sweeping, straightening up.

After I walked to the St. Lawrence Market late yesterday (still blazingly hot) and roasted tomatoes, cooked chicken, stirred a risotto to completeness (I like to cook alot of things on Saturday and eat them in the beginning of the week--lots of effort on weekends means minimal effort on weeknights).
Once I ate dinner I lazed about on the couch, flipping through Rogers on Demand, settling on the movie (American) version of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".  I hit play, and while I watched I did my nails.
It was a long movie, but somehow I managed to keep my attention focussed, and watch it to the end.
Bed followed soon after, where I read a New Yorker for a while and talked to Mike before falling asleep before 11.

So. Blog thoughts, writing thoughts, where I can go to be honest, and work.
I have some work to do on my computer tonight, work-work, should I choose to get it done and out of the way before Monday morning.
In terms of writing thoughts, I'm thinking about returning to journal format for my writing.
Lately, (I'm not sure if this is the result of a conflict that occurred yesterday, about this blog, between a friend of mine and myself) but I feel the need for real, searing honesty, not mean honesty, but MY truth, and part of the double-edged sword of the internet is, yes, this blog is for me, ultimately, it's my writing practice, the same way each run is a running practice, for me, but it doesn't exist in a vacuum.
It's online, live, read-able, it can be critiqued, commented on, fumed about, and dissected.
Truthfully, the evaluation (of anything in life, really) pisses me off. Isn't it enough that I'm brave enough to put it out there? To explore the parts of myself (and how others affect those parts, and how I affect them) that I want to alter, work on, renovate? We all have parts of ourselves we wish we could vanquish. I know that I can be way too over-sensitive about things. I've gotten alot better at holding conversations about this with myself in my head rather than taking it out on someone else.
And isn't this what growth is? Looking at yourself, finding some things that you lack (me: patience, calm, compassion) and then applying this personal growth to your own psyche? As the saying  goes, the only behaviour we can control is our own. I don't always succeed in total control. But I am working on it.

I revised a blog entry recently. It didn't feel good to revise it. I didn't expect to feel victimized (I don't really 'do' victim--I try to own my actions, good or bad, and not transfer blame when I've made a mistake).  I revised it for a number of reasons, one being that fundamentally, this blog is by me, about me, created by me, and really, others can't really play much of a role. As I was reminded (this bugs me alot, though), they don't want to be part of this blog. Or they do, just only when it paints a flattering picture. Which I understand. And somewhat stubbornly, I have to respect. After all, if someone feels victimized, then I don't want to be the cause of that.

So.  The fawn-lark journal is looking inviting. As is possibly starting a blog that is invitation only. After all, I know for the most part who is reading, who wants to read, and who can handle my truth.
A few months ago I wrote something I called "The Unblog Post" and emailed it to several curious friends, who had heard me talk about it in passing, and wanted desperately to read it. I obliged. It's not a post that will ever show up here on my blog, (regrettably, it's one of my favourites) but I can't let this truth unfurl here. I guess it, much like my recent revised entry, is where my writing is going.
Deeper, more focussed, and sometimes, that ruffles feathers.
Come to think of it, I've never grown to love any sort of writing that is pasturized, toned-down, vanilla'ed.  Those are not the type of books I remember either. The books I remember, that I want to re-read and hold on to feature truth. Truth that is not dressed up, prettied, and tied with a bow.

And sometimes, as much as we wish it didn't: the truth hurts.