Renaissance

It has been quite the year.

Despite my long hiatus, I have been pondering on the art of writing  and my dwindling attempts at that endeavour during the past year. Indeed, the ever widening gap between passion, responsibility, and mere despondency has sheltered my thoughts from public view somewhat, but here I am again digging my quasi-obscure self out of its shell to try again.

Self-deprecating has always been a quiet blog despite garnering the attention of CBC News during its political soapbox heyday and it feels anti-climactic to explain my absence to my select few, but loyal stalkers. During the last year, I have been surrounded by preoccupations important and trivial, bliss in my personal life, and just mere distractions such as Twitter’s accompanying action game Spymaster which still fuels my interest despite latent disappointment with the hostile endgame of most players. Still, it is smart and almost as suave as that elusive of Her Majesty’s Agent Extraordinaire, Mr. Bond, and a wonderful time waster.

All the same, I have lacked the discipline to carve out a niche for my passions which is paramount to the blossoming of my soul and creativity. Instead, I have procrastinated and succumbed to the demands of the quasi-rat race. At a cursory glance, I feel like I have let myself down for not having lived with intention, but more as a drone lately, but things are looking up and hopefully, inspiration will decide to stick around the second time around.

Despite the lackluster of daily life, exciting things are happening, such as becoming a homeowner and seizing the day. Life is being created instead of being lived.

Welcome to my life.

Inspiration

Sometimes I get too entrenched in daily routines and preoccupations that my creativity has been more and more stifled as of late. Although I have been embracing the slow movement and its delightful derivatives in one way or another all my life, it does not feel enough to nurture all that I want to experience, share, and create. Lately, I have been feeling uninspired and stuck in a rut, feeling reminiscent of the bustling moments of the yesteryear and craving more variety, more spice, and a constant need to be more than the sum of all parts that constitutes my life lately.

On the one hand, I have reverted to the loving role of the voracious bookworm yet my writing has suffered considerably. During last month’s move, I discovered troves of writing material which included short stories, essays, and umpteenth drafts of my old screenplays. I need to write again. My soul depends upon it.

I know

it’s hard to be reconciled

not everything is exactly

the way it ought to be

but please turn around

and step into the future

leave memories behind

enter the land of hope

-Zbigniew Herbert, from A Life

Despite my best intentions, the days roll into weeks which turn into months. Therefore, writing is on my wish list. In fact, I may finally participate in the annual NaNoWrimo. How about that for a challenge? In fact, I do not lack inspiration nor the willingness to write, but the time and daily motivation. As my 20s draw to a close, I realize that I did some of my best writing in the earlier years when I was not so encumbered with commitments and cumbersome obligations, yet I feel inspired particularly after reading the insightful Herbert excerpt.

It feels like an ode to the upcoming days.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

I have finally understood the old adage “once bitten, twice shy”.

Recently, my inherent belief in the goodness of people was shaken to its core which led to a feeling of betrayal and foolishness for having allowed deceptive connections that hinder a true communion of souls. Over the course of the last few months we have discussed the basis of friendship and love, in these parts, with mixed impressions and perspectives and it finally dawns on me to be true to myself and sift out the undesirables.

Time and time again I try to comprehend the complexity of the human spirit in order to explain how we measure our sense of self and share our vulnerability with idle strangers who were, in the end, not worth the care we lavished on them, yet we are not willing to be equally generous with those who truly give another meaning to sweet surrender. Is it a case of emotional detachment with those who would, given the chance, make our souls blossom and a misplaced case of being a commitment phobe?

Indeed, it feels quite appropriate to take stock of the hurtful and needless agony that have constituted some relationships in the past decade and embrace new adventures with a light heart instead of wallowing in a vicious circle that stunts personal development and joy.

Home, Sweet Home

After talking about it for so long, I finally moved out and it has come together so nicely. It feels strange to have my own space (discounting house sitting last summer for my brother) where I am not dependent on other people’s routine, just the cumbersome jumping up and down of neighbour kids.

While everyone tells me I am crazy, I have decided to forgo owning a television altogether. It feels wonderful to return in time and cook meals the old-fashioned way without unduly distractions, to read books instead of being glued to the television set. Moreover as an obsessed tea lover, it is lovely to wait for my kettle to boil as I listen to the birds chirping outside my kitchen window.

Now I just need to bring my library of books home and I am set.

As for buying property, R., it is a worldwide phenomenon, but I think it is time we scaled conspicuous consumption back particularly in view of the wobbly housing market and America’s housing crisis. In my case, I have never followed the Jones’ and I shall buy a house (a condo or a townhouse) whenever I find myself ready in all sense of the word. In the meantime, I am living in a beautiful neighbourhood and in an apartment (in a quadruplex, really) that feels like home and responds to my criteria of what that means at this point in my life.