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Turning Point before/after 5 migraines in 9 days. I know what's triggering it: stress. I'm at a very high stress level, and there are certain people--like my mother--that just push it right over the edge. Gleefully, it seems. Time to double down on the xanax. Also, I've been thinking about this diary... --and again, I'm interrupted. I strongly suspect this is a good part of why I'm not writing. I used to be a guerrilla writer. Give me a pen and a paper--and usually a good quantity of marijuana--and I could write anywhere anytime. I'm tempted to ask 'what happened to that', but the reality is I don't think I got interrupted much in those days. Perhaps there was no call for my attention. Or perhaps all the pot, booze, and drugs helped me filter it all out. Contradictorily, in part anyway, the pot made me excruciatingly sensitive, or rather heightened my sensitivities, but--and this is the big but--it helps you have a pinpoint focus on whatever your object of attention is at the current moment. It all depended on how you used it. Now, there's always a demand for my attention, and no pot or booze or anything. Strangely, these interruptions only come at the most inopportune times, right at that critical moment when you're starting to develop a flow, and the words will tumble forth in an avalanche. Its as if the very act of me bearing down and focusing on something creative is like a siren-call to any and all around me, somehow mystically calling them into my sphere of attention to disrupt my creative activity. Which isn't to say its an entire loss. There are certain parts of the creative process you can actually hammer through and some that are simply practice or routine. True, you won't get as much from it as you could from full immersion, but there is something there...like eating a granola bar when you want a steak. You get something out of it, but not nearly enough. Maybe that's my fate, or, at any rate, my fate right now. Maybe fate, or my destiny, doesn't want me to create right now. Maybe that's destined for later...some sort of reward. I don't know. All I know is that I'm fighting some sort of odd mystical tide against my creativity, and I know from long experience swimming upstream against fate and one's destiny is a hard path to follow, and usually leads to bitter disappointment and frustration. At some point, it will be easier. I do not have the sense that the poems and stories have dried up...that horrible fear that Bukowski once stated that one day there will be no more poems...I don't have that. It will come again, and quite possibly with a vengance, if I know my muses. They do not like being pent up, and become resentful of it. Maybe this has contributed to the prevalence of my migraines. I don't know. Regardless, I am pondering the eventual death of this diary. I am coming up on the end of my first year in law school. They do an extensive background check when you take the Bar exam. It may be for the best if I simply delete any and all electronic tracks back to myself. Mitigating this is, of course, the fact that I have maintained anonymity for awhile now--even though it doesn't feel like it. So many that have at one time gotten to know my most intimate of thoughts found their way to me, and know me quite well in what passes for 'real life' these days. Which is odd in itself. The first blog I ever read was by a person named 'Possumgrits'. She's long since deleted her diary and disappeared. I remember being blown away by the confessional nature of her blog. I reached out to her and expressed the same emotion, glorifying her for standing naked in front of the masses as she was. (Remember, this was in the tender days of the internet--all this was SO NEW.) She admonished me with several rules, including getting a pseudonym, pseudnomynous email address, and never, EVER, let anyone you know figure out you have a blog if you ever wanted to maintain true honesty in it. Boy, was she right. In the end, I wound up dating someone who read my blog and I think that cast a pall on the honesty which I held so dear. I got tired of hearing about the things I wrote about from her. "I don't wanna hear any more about coffee-shop-girl's bubble butt!" So the censor kicked in. I felt guilty about it. It was a betrayal of the initial mission of my diary. But what can I do? When the electronic diary composed of ephemeral one's and zero's started to have real life consequences, one does what they have to do. So my lusts and ponderings went into the closet, so to speak, and the mundane crept out. But I was unwilling to abandon this fucker. And I'm still unwilling to do so. I *AM* an old skool d-lander, and holy fuck did I write a LOT in this bastard. I poured a chunk of my soul in here, and if I was Voldemort, then this son-of-a-bitch is one of my fucking horcruxes. Yeah, let's hear it for pop-lit. I conciciously avoided pop-lit references for a long time. Still do. Pop-lit references never stand the test of time. Every once in a while I'll come across a pop-lit reference in one of the old masters I revere (which may be entirely different from those which you revere, but I don't give a fuck.), and it seems entirely archaic. Anyway, so that leaves me with this: I am taking the slow route through law school. Odds are I won't be done for four years, unless something drastic happens, like I sell the business, move down to school and hit it hard-core. And that's something I wouldn't be opposed to doing. But its complicated on so many levels, not the least of which is finding a buyer, finding a way to provide for my health care in the interim, saying goodbye to my father's life's work, as well as a host of other complications. Which is to say--probably won't happen. What will happen, regardless, is that I will dish on EVERYTHING. Fucking EVERYTHING I've neglected in the past...idk...YEARS. I've been holding out. And, if I do say so myself, some of it, large chunks of it, are probably pretty fucking compelling. I may end up passwording it towards the end. I don't know. But in the end, should anyone still read this, and have stuck this long, you will know just about anything and everything you could possibly want to know. Maybe its narcissistic for me to think anyone gives a shit...or even still reads. But I have the feeling that its gotta' get out for me to have some closure and resolution to the tumult that has been the past. So no, the sky isn't falling. I'm not seeking attention, and if d-land is here, I'll be here for a fuck of a while longer. But I do see an end-game. It'll happen. In some fashion. I think, anyway. That would be an odd twist--to make this declaration, and in the midst of sweaty confession come to the realization that I'm going to do this the rest of my life. heh. Probably not. But fate and destiny have a marvelous way of both surprising me and...being...not predictable but...hmmm. I'm struggling for a word. It would be a word that would indicate that something or someone can be both capricious and methodical, and in that, the most unlikely outcome is rendered stone-cold-obvious. Fuck. Chew on that. Anyway, I get the sense that d-land is dying...its better days are long gone, and I, and a few others, are like the Anne Rice vampires. Some are old and have resisted the allure of the bonfire. Some are young and go into the blaze quickly. What am I? It'll be scary to start some of the confessional. Give me time. I'll get to it. And I'll let anyone who reads this...ponderous mass of literature...ample warning before padlocking this fucker. And even more before I go into the fire. If you're still out there, listening, I wish you well.
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