Tag Archives: blogging

You’re So Vain (Part 2)


It’s one of those days, folks – a day when I haven’t got a single intelligent thing to say. But I’ve promised myself I’ll write every day in this blog even if this means that I just write crap. This was a personal goal of mine, but, hell, even Leo Babauta over at Zen Habits says it’s a good idea. I’m sitting at the airport now, waiting for my flight back home, and I really didn’t feel like writing anything but then “You’re So Vain” started playing, and that seemed like too much of a coincidence to ignore.

I’m depressed to be heading back. It seems like nothing in my life is going well. Professionally, personally, emotionally and spiritually I feel adrift. I work up feeling depressed, and then felt better later, but the depression hit me again later as I was having lunch with my friend in a café. I’m not sure if the Prozac is working, but, well, I’ve only been on it for a week, so I guess I should give it more of a chance.

I bought a pair of expensive jeans today, and I was depressed looking at myself in the mirror in the store. Yeah, I know, first world problems, right? But, well, I never claimed that I wasn’t superficial with a head filled only with vapid thoughts. I’m attractive, but I think I could be a lot more toned. I seem to have put on weight over the last few weeks. Then again, it’s really hard for me to know whether I look good or not, as I probably have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Any time I think I look good, people say I look unhealthily thin. After seeing myself in the mirror, I decided that I would start training for another marathon again to get more toned, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’m so fucking busy – I’ll be starting work on the SLAA steps next week, and meeting with my sponsor weekly; attending the Zen center at least once a week; going to at least one SLAA meeting once a week; meditating daily; looking after my ten pets; singing in my band; blogging daily and, oh yeah, working forty hours per week. Do I really have time to train for a marathon as well?

I can’t believe I’m about to quote a Radiohead lyric from 1992 (clearly, I never outgrew my emo phase), but “I want a perfect body; I want a perfect soul”. Marathon running and honing my body probably shouldn’t be a priority in my life right now. I should probably be focusing on my recovery. But I just can’t stand the idea of growing older, and not being attractive anymore.

I want to be a Buddha, but, well, a really fucking hot Buddha.

 

Habit


I don’t have much to report today. But I’ve decided to write anyway since my two “top lines” in SLAA are  to mediate and write every day. I’m sure that it’s common to have far more than two top lines, but my life has always consisted of a big list of “shoulds”, so I decided to keep it simple, as there’s less chance of my freaking out that way, and self-sabotaging. My pattern is to impose a lot of rigid rules on myself, and then panic, break them all on purpose, and hate myself for doing so. I’m not quite sure where that comes from, but I’m sure it’s got something to do with my overbearing, over-controlling mother. I feel like I have two people inside me – my mother who’s telling me to do something and me, as a child, who wants to yell – and sometimes does – “Fuck you, mother!”

The biggest challenge for me is not getting to my meditation cushion or to my desk; the challenge for me is believing that there’s a point in writing or meditation if I can’t do it “properly”. Meditating “properly” means sitting down for at least thirty minutes and, ideally, I’d do that twice a day – once in the morning, and once in the evening – but that has yet to happen. I do usually manage to sit for thirty minutes once a day.

When I was twenty-one, I went on a ten-day, silent Vipassana retreat in France, where I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. every morning, and practically meditated the whole way through until 9:00 p.m. I’m not sure I ever want to go on a silent retreat again (actually I didn’t mind the not talking part – although my friends would be astounded given that I’m known for not being able to shut up for more than two seconds – but the no-reading/no-writing rule really got to me!) but I will forever be grateful for my first introduction to mediation and Buddhism. However, the one bad thing about the retreat was that we were told that we needed to continue our practice at home by meditating for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. Two hours of mediation a day!? Well, I’m sure this is indeed optimal, but how many people have that kind of time to spare? I managed to keep up the two-hour meditation rule for the first couple of weeks at home, but it became too much after that. A healthier person wouldn’t have beaten themselves up for this slip, and would have simply tried to do what they could, but ever the black-and-white thinker, I couldn’t tolerate such compromise. I either meditated for two hours a day, or I thought “Fuck it!” and did nothing at all. Soon I just stopped meditating altogether.

To be honest, I still don’t really see how meditating for just five minutes a day (if that’s all I can manage) is going to help me at all. But I guess the idea is to just develop a meditation habit, and take it from there. Research shows apparently that if you stick to a new activity for twenty-one days, then you form a habit.

As for writing, my dilemma is very similar to the one I have with meditation. “What is the fucking point of just writing in a blog about the pitiful, little, self-obsessed dramas of your life?” my bitchy mother’s voice asks me. “That’s not going to help you start a career as a freelance writer!”. My bitchy mother is right in a way, of course, as I really would like to do some “real” writing, but I do think it’s important to write here every day. I’m incredibly lonely, and it’s nice to write something and say “Hello, world! I’m here! I have a voice!”. And again, it’s back to the matter of creating a habit. I shouldn’t feel that I can only write something when the muse strikes.

It doesn’t matter how unimportant, uninspired, uninteresting or short a blog post might be, I just need to do it!

Just fucking do it!

Needlework


I’m back at my cliff, still throwing things off. No wait – that’s Björk. My reality is far less romantic. I’m back at my altar, munching on a tuna sandwich and trying desperately to squeeze in some writing before I have to head back to the office.

It’s at times like these that I am filled with admiration for all those long-dead female writers who had to snatch whatever precious moments they could to fit in some writing. Five minutes here, before putting the kids to bed; ten minutes there before getting the dinner on the table; twenty minutes before the men of the household interrupt your embroidery session, and you have to stash your beautiful words underneath your needlework.

Snatching time here and there to write – create – has long been the preserve of women. Virginia Woolf wanted a room of her own, but I find, perversely enough, that it’s easier to create when I’m limited. My room scares me because there are too many possibilities so I get anxious and end up doing nothing.

I don’t kid myself that these 10-minute blogging sessions are great literature. But I’ve surprised myself by just how meaningful they are – at least to me. First of all, I’m not as dull as I thought it would be and, secondly, they keep me connected to writing and, through my readers, to the wider world beyond.

It’s fucking priceless, that’s what it is. It’s helping me become less of a perfectionist.

“And so to bed”


The title for this post just popped into my head (for it is, indeed, off to bed that I am heading) and I wondered where I had heard it before. I just googled it and apparently it was Samuel Pepys, the famous English diarist, who used it, at the end of every diary entry. Ye cannae say that you don’t get educated on this blog, eh?!

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It’s interesting, isn’t it?, that a seventeenth century man is most famous for his diary. Sometimes I feel so self-indulgent and pathetic when I write on here every day about my life, and my little insecurities, but it just goes to show that people have been doing it for centuries, and nosy parkers will always be interested.

However, I digress…

The bedtime title of today’s post is because it is nearly 10:30 p.m*. and I really, really, really want to try to start getting into a habit of going to bed much earlier, around the same time each night, if possible. I have never been one who likes going to bed early because I always feel like I’m missing something if I do. In nearly thirty-two years on this planet, however, nothing really exciting has ever happened to me when I purposefully stayed up late. You’d think I would learn, wouldn’t you?, but nope.

If I had a normal job, and had to be at work every day at a certain time, I’m sure my bad bedtime habits would sort themselves out by sheer dint of necessity. That’s what used to happen, anyway. However, with the massage, I can start when I want, and I often I do. I’ll end up staying up late, surfing the internet pointlessly, just because I don’t have a job and responsilities to attend to the next morning. I know that some sex workers love the freedom of this job, but it’s really not for me. The lack of routine and structure makes me feel unstable and confused. I find it hard to be productive and get anything done.

Yesterday, when I was reading more about Ayurveda and about my body type, Vata, I saw that it’s really important for me to get to bed early, and get up early, too. Routine is apparently also essential. This is something I’ve always known about myself, so I need to make some lifestyle changes.

And so to bed!

* Now, it’s nearly 11:30 p.m. because Midwestern Man brought me a brownie, and we chatted for a while. Sigh. At least I’ll be going to bed before midnight. Still a major change for me.

Where did all the men go?


One thing I have noticed since “discontinuing” my old blog and starting this new one is that there has been a subtle, but very distinct, change in my readership. All my readers now appear to be female (well, at least the ones who leave comments on a regular basis)!

Part of me doesn’t mind this at all. I don’t really have any good friends of any gender in this town, unfortunately, (besides my husband, of course) and I really miss female company given that I spend nearly ALL my time with men. It’s nice to come here and feel like I’m part of a little female community.

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On the other hand, I never really set out to write exclusively for a female audience, and it’s kind of depressing that all the men have disappeared. It disappoints me to think that they were perhaps only interested in my last blog because I was much more open about being a sex worker, and they were hoping to be titillated. I have definitely noticed that other “out” sex worker bloggers also tend to attract more male readers who, it would seem, are either johns themselves or simply voyeurs. Some of them still leave intelligent, articulate comments (paying for sex, or fantasizing about it, doesn’t make you a moron, after all), but it just saddens me to think that it takes the mention of sex to draw men into a blog which would otherwise be “women-centred”.

Fuck it, though. I can’t write anything else about this topic because an “Air” song has come on the radio and a huge wave of melancholy has washed over me. I don’t remember the title but what I do remember is falling in love to this song. I remember the great wine, the great sex, the plumes of smoke from a joint rising up into the darkened room as we drank each other in, and listened to the music.

There were so many songs I couldn’t listen to after that relationship was over because the pain wracked my body when I did. It was awful because a lot of them were by my favourite artists. The only way I could “reclaim” these songs was by forcing myself to listen to them and “desensitizing” myself.

I guess I forgot this one. And here I am, eight years later, aching all over again.

The sad thing was that it wasn’t love. The sex wasn’t great. It was passionate, yes, but there was so much missing. He was an incredibly emotionally distant man, and it was the most abusive relationshp I’ve ever had.

The even sadder thing is that falling in love with him was such a heady, intense experience, and nothing else has ever come close. How depressing that the most important moment of my emotional life was actually a love affair which took place mainly in my head.

Maybe it’s good all the men have gone. Clearly, I can’t be trusted to make good decisions about them.

Red, red wine


No time to post tonight.

I’ve been drinking red wine with a client all night, and now we need to go have our session.

How dutiful am I, though? Even though I’m tipsy and still have to work, I still don’t forget about you, dear readers.

Comment, for fuck’s sake!


I came home this evening from a volunteer training session and immediately checked my email in the hope that I’d find at least one wee comment on yesterday’s post. But no! Not a single comment – and that despite the fact that poor Petrichor here nearly left the realm of mortals yesterday because of a careless driver!

Come on, people! Comment, goddamn you! I’m not just writing this blog for the good of my health, you know…well, OK, so actually I am….but still! Show me some love!

Yesterday I finished the NaBloPoMo September challenge (i.e. blogging every day for a month), and yet not a tiny word of congratulations from anybody? No? Sigh. Oh, what an underappreciaed, unloved blogger I am.

I do worry sometimes about having lost a bit of my mojo over at this blog. I worry that getting married, and no longer having quite the same need to seek solace in the blogosphere, has made me a bad writer. I also worry that writing every day with a time constraint (I try to take no longer than one hour for each post) has made my writing duller, too. Oh, but what if it has?! I can’t go through life being miserable, depressed and single just so more people comment on my blog. I really like what Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, has to say about the romantic myth of suffering for your art:

“Art isn’t really born from pain – rather it’s just that the pain focuses our attention on the details”

I will leave you with that thought while I go off to drown the sorrow of your terrible neglect in red wine and an episode of my beloved “Deadwood”. Goodnight, you miserable non-commenting bastards.