Mental Masochism, or I Know Why I Have Carpal Tunnel

During this past semester's course, I had a number of writing assignments. Obviously, I like writing...it's my major, it's what I do for work (to some degree), and it's what I do for pleasure.

But research papers are tedious. All those sources to be cited.

So I procrastinate. I know this is one of my worst faults. But without someone (literally) keeping a fire beneath my arse, I just rarely work ahead of schedule.

Part of this might be a bit of arrogance. It's just writing, right? I could do it in my sleep. Who needs a month, or a week, I can crank it out in a day.

But this is where my tendency to procrastinate crashes head-on with my need to please.

This very quandary led me to argue that a paper did NOT deserve the grade my professor so kindly bestowed, and to his response that he would lower the grade and allow me the chance to revise it.

Groan. What an idiot I am.

But all is well that ends well, considering the message I received..."All of your work has been received. The [last paper] was a particularly thorough and interesting analysis of the Internet's effect on literacy. Despite your own misgivings you excelled in the course and your submissions, including the final exam, were among the best of the semester."

I think my favorite part is that he referred to my SUBMISSIONS.

I'm going to do some Professor/slutty student roleplaying now.

Tactile

Long ago I retrained myself to write gracefully. Not the words, but the act of putting pen to paper. I practiced for weeks. A A A A a a a a. B B B B b b b b. It worked. I have excellent penmanship.

But I rarely use it. My longhand notes at work are purely for my own use, not for the enjoyment of others. But I do keep a little journal, sometimes pre-blogging there, or jotting stream-of-consciousness phrases that long to be made into poems. 

Yesterday I found some lovely note cards. Beautiful paper, very textured, with gilt envelopes. Now I am leafing through my address book, wondering where to send them...

I don't want to be here now, the product of an experience I can't quite remove from my head. This silence is a step back, a deep breath. 

Namaste.

Wodan's Child

There is a bit of magic in all of us. No matter how ordinary we seem, no matter how deep one has to dig, there is that child inside with eyes squinted to see fairies instead of fireflies, to hear voices on the wind, to smell lightening before it strikes.

My magic plays out in words. They fall out of my fingertips, I barely even look at the screen.

Often I cry as I write.

That's my magic. Hidden in a stack of letters and rounded silent lip movements. It's not passion patterned out in a spray of touches.

I've held my hand to a chest, and felt the crinklycrackly hair and sighed my contentment. Sometimes it is enough. Sometimes it isn't. And sometimes that child inside squints and sees Odin.

I haven't stopped squinting.

There are days and ways of normalcy. Amongst this I must find the magic.

Speechless

I keep coming here, with the intention of writing something. Anything. I end up staring blankly at the screen for a few moments, then running off to shop online for hammocks.

Of moderate interest...I found two 'stories' from when I was in high school. One was run of the mill Penthouse forum-variety. The other was of a more D/s nature. All along I thought I hadn't discovered this until my mid-to-late twenties, only to find it was in me much earlier.

In me. Snicker.