Tag Archives: writing

Que Sera, Sera

I’m still “redesigning” my life – a process I don’t think ever really ends, but that often gets kicked into hyperdrive after a huge, life-shifting change.  I don’t know that I was this intentional about it after other, prior, significant relationships ended in my life. I certainly was not this conscious of it and saw it more as a liability than an opportunity, so I can’t say that any changes that I made were because I created blueprints and followed them to the letter. 

I think the fact that I didn’t do that, that I wasn’t intentional – or maybe that I didn’t know how to be – is (potentially) one of the reasons that things went to shit to the magnitude that they did this time.  I got tired of waiting.  I became impatient.  And I started forcing things to move without thinking of the repercussions. 

Now, granted, I could not possibly have predicted the level to which things went to shit.  And none of the ways in which it went to shit were my fault… the only thing that I can say to explain it all is that I saw the machine, I thought I knew the machine.  I thought I could control the machine because all the times the machine has gone haywire before, I’d been able to fix it (or at least stop it from getting out of control).  A part of me probably knew that I’d get caught in the machine eventually – which is what happened this time – but I couldn’t rationally believe what I irrationally knew. 

Now that there’s been some distance placed between what happened and now, I can see it more clearly (though I suspect it will take years to really see it all the way through) – and I have to ask myself, “Why did I think I could play with the machine at all?  Did I really think I was so skilled, so qualified, that I would not lose a (figurative) limb?”  It’s like playing “chicken” on a two-land highway.  Eventually you’ll get hit by a semi.  I know.  I lost a friend that way once.  You’d think I would have thought about that before I went balls deep into it, but I didn’t.  Or maybe I did and I thought, “Yeah, this won’t happen to me.” 

Folks, I’m here to tell you – it CAN happen to you. 

A friend told me last weekend that sometimes the universe kicks us in the ass a little but saves us from the worst of the consequences, as if it’s saying, “See?  This is what could happen if you don’t fix your shit right now” and to warn us that if we don’t fix our shit right now, we won’t be spared the second time.  I don’t know how I feel about that – but I’m in a place where I am willing to heed that warning.

Anyway, back to my point, knowing what I did – the very blasé way that I ran into one burning building, then another, then another, then another until I decided I was just going to stay in one – means that I really need to take a good look at what makes me want to run into the burning buildings to start with.  It means that whatever the landscape looks like, however much I might want to move “on” to the next phase, sometimes (most times?) it is not really within my ability to control.  I mean I can try – but when I try really hard, I end up running into burning buildings and coming out with third-degree burns. 

So I’m just not… Que sera, sera, no?

Oh sure, there’s plenty that I can control – my career, for example, which (thankfully) was not affected by the drama that started this whole thing (though it absolutely and very easily could have been).  I’ve been shooting a LOT again (and I’m including some of the new stuff at the end of this blog – you can follow me on Instagram @spacegoddessenterprises if you’ve a mind – shameless plug).  Writing a ton.  Playing a lot of video games (I can’t always control those, but it’s nice to know that when there’s a Radroach in your way, it’s within your power to reduce it to a liquified ball of goo). 

But the big stuff?  Stuff that involves more than one person?  Nope.  I’m just going to sit around and watch the world spin for a while. 

Enter Lord Ormsby – A Flashback

In 2005, I was going to college at the University of Louisville, majoring in History, chosen because I liked the research, I loved the writing, and I wanted to teach it at the University level.  In November of that year, I had just turned twenty-three.

I had been modeling since 2001, though once I’d gotten older (and had moved to Louisville), I saw the amount of profit I was managing to get from it dramatically increase.  Freelancing suited me better – I liked finding my own work.  I liked negotiating and keeping records almost as much as I liked the performance aspect of it, and I found I had a proclivity toward it.  Between school and the modeling, I was a very busy girl.  And, professionally-speaking, I was happy… truth be told, in my professional life, I can’t recall ever being happier.

Relationship-wise, in the winter of 2005, I was living with a man I would later, in 2006, marry.  This flashback is not about this relationship, but it does explain some of the choices I made, and so this is worth stating.  He and I had been engaged.  We had broken off the engagement when I discovered he was cheating.  But, for a multitude of reasons I am not going to go into here, we were still living together.  I was not happy, but it was a choice I’d made, and I could not see any way out of it for the time being – he was all too happy to take the money I made modeling and spend it on poker while, in the privacy of the house, yelling at me for doing what I loved to do (the school and the modeling – he agreed with and supported neither).

Still, I’m not one to give up.  And I’m not one to stop doing what I love just because it’s not going “exactly” the way I want it to.  So I kept doing it.  I didn’t get to keep the money, but I got to manage myself anyway, and that was worth something.  He didn’t share my love for education, and books, and learning, but I got to be around people who did.  Home wasn’t great, but the time I spent outside of home?  It was spectacular.

Anyway, in 2005, on one of my modeling networking sites, I saw an ad posted by someone I did not know (which was rare, in those days, because having been around since 2001, I was familiar with pretty much everyone).  He was advertising for models, writers, etc. for a magazine he was starting in Louisville.  Now, I’d seen these before… most of them were scams, most of them weren’t legit, and most of them weren’t worth answering, but Finals were over for the semester and I was looking at a month’s worth of free time, and what else did I have going on except the occasional shoot… so I answered.  And he replied.  And not only could he write, but he asked if I could meet him at a coffee shop to discuss things.

I was still skeptical.  A little.  But after an email or two and after an exchange of phone numbers, I became less so.  Still, the first time I met the guy, I brought my then-boyfriend with me.  Mr. Ex didn’t say much.  I can’t remember what we talked about when we met.  Honestly it was a fairly standard discussion when it came to work.  Lord Ormsby was friendly and personable, completely professional, and he knew what he was talking about (which helped).  He was ridiculously attractive, too, but I was in a relationship.  And even if I hadn’t been, even then, I didn’t shit where I ate (or didn’t eat… but you get the idea).

Anyway, long story short, over the next several months, we worked on the new magazine together.  I became even busier than I had been before, once school had started back.  Not only was I carrying a full semester of coursework, but I was also modeling AND working with the magazine.  I can’t remember everything I did for it (2006 is a long-ass time ago when life happens to you), but I remember that there was an events calendar that required me to make a lot of phone calls.  Lord Ormsby and I were on the phone a lot… we had to be.  Project production doesn’t just “happen.”

It’s just that… the more we were on the phone, the harder I worked, the less time I had to spend with Mr. Ex.  At first he understood, or pretended to.  But, then, when I kept working and the checks weren’t coming in (because they didn’t come in until the project was completed – which is standard), he started asking questions.  Why were we on the phone so much?  What did we talk about?  Why did I have to call him every afternoon, and why did those conversations that were supposed to be only about one thing last such a long time?  Why was he inviting me to parties with him (forget that they were group events and others were going to be there too)?

And I answered those questions… truthfully, and honestly, or at least as honestly as I dared.  It didn’t matter what I said.  He would still get pissed and, at the end of the day, it was one more reason to fight.  If I talked to Lord Ormsby excessively, it was because he was kind, he did not yell at me.  He was fun and he made me laugh.  Although we really never spent a lot of time in each other’s physical presence, we got to know each other.  And yes, I DID think he was attractive, but, then, so did everyone else.  I would never have acted on it then.  I was engaged.  And I do not cheat.  Ever.  Not even on a man who was cheating on me, and who gave me every reason to do so.

Regardless, though, the more I got yelled at, the more strained I became.  When the magazine was complete, I had to break off ties with Lord Ormsby.  I did not want to.  But my wedding was coming up.  I didn’t see any other option.

The wedding changed a lot.  Now legally bound to the man that had, for several years, taken every penny I made, restrictions began to be placed on what I could and could not do.  I could continue to go to school, but what work-study money I made went to that joint account that he watched like a hawk.  Modeling was out of the question.  Respectability was expected.  All I had left was the amount of time I spent in the classroom and studying (and I made sure that was over half the day).  My cell phone, once autonomously mine, now was shared with Mr. Ex, who kept a careful eye on all of my incoming and outgoing calls (but conveniently forgot to give me the password to the account so I could do the same for him).   I couldn’t even call Lord Ormsby anymore…

I saw him only one final time after the wedding (and before the present day).  In the fall of 2006, after the wedding was over and the honeymoon had been taken, as I was struggling to settle into a new “normal” where my days were filled with work-study and classes and my nights with cooking, cleaning, and dissatisfactory sex.  He and a couple of girls were making their rounds around the common area where the students took their lunches, distributing copies of the magazine.  I was standing in line at the Chick-Fil-A, getting lunch before my afternoon classes.

He did not see me.  A part of me wanted to go to him, to talk to him, because I missed my friend.  But I remained planted, stagnant, not even knowing what I would say if I had approached him.  I wasn’t angry with him (though I think he thought I was), but I didn’t know how to explain what was happening without giving more details than I felt were appropriate to give.  He, the magazine, all of my friends, the modeling, those things that had once defined me, those things that had made me happy, all of them now belonged to a life I was no longer permitted to live.  I wasn’t happy in this new one, but I’d gone into it anyway, and I was determined to make the best of it.  When Lord Ormsby left with the other girls, I sighed.  Not out of relief, really, because I wasn’t relieved at all.  It was a sigh of resignation; resignation that everything I had been – the last essence of who I was once – had disappeared out of the Student Center door.  And I hadn’t even tried to approach it.

You would think this narrative would end there, wouldn’t you?  If I were you, I would.

But it doesn’t.  Not by a long shot.  Oh, sure, we lost touch.  He went on with his life.  I went on with mine.  Got divorced.  Moved to Tampa.  That stuff, if you’ve been following along, you know.  But, then, last Christmas, seven or eight years after we had met in the coffee shop, I saw his name pop up on the “People You May Know” finder on Facebook via a mutual friend.  On a whim, I sent him a Friend Request.  He didn’t respond right away, and I forgot about it, to be honest, until he accepted it a couple of months later.  I figured we’d leave it at that.

But, again, that’s not the way it happened.

Because in February of this year, my sister got engaged.  I did not want to go (but, of course, I had to).  And I figured I’d make an unpleasant situation a little more pleasant, so I posted something about going Ziplining in the MegaCaverns under Louisville.  He “Liked” that status.  We started chatting on Facebook again.  One thing led to another, and we made plans to meet up when I got into town, maybe go to Kentucky Kingdom (Louisville’s amusement park), have a drink somewhere.  I figured we’d do that, catch up, then go our separate ways and, again, that would be that.

But I was wrong.  Oh fucking Lord Jesus Christ on a bike was I wrong.  But sometimes being wrong?  Sometimes being wrong is a million times better than being right.

Sobriety, Creativity, and a LOT of Patience

So I did something drastic and gave up drinking.  Not that I really did it all that much anyway.  My rule is, and has been for awhile, that I don’t drink alone.  Partially because I think it’s pathetic, partially because it’s just not as fun to be drunk when you’re by yourself – and when I get tired of being drunk, which happens, more often than not, before I am actually sober, there’s nothing to do but to go to sleep – and then I have funky dreams.  Funkier than they normally are.  That’s saying something.

I did it, really, to maximize the amount of things that I get done creatively, since my writing is crap when I’m drunk.  And because I find it easier to do some of the other things I do (paint, for example, and tarot, too) when I am sober.  As far as painting is concerned, that is going very well.  I’m nearly finished with the series I’ve sold… only two more to go, and then I can get that out the door.  I’m working on a personal project right now for my own wall to replace some of the things that I’ve hung up there for awhile.

But the writing (and I don’t mean the blog) that is going VERY well right now.  I’m working on two concepts.

The first came to me when I was reading this thing about reincarnation.  It was an essay that proposed that we are all reborn, and we come back each time, with a purpose or something that we are supposed to accomplish.  The premise was that children, until they are a certain age, often remember where they were before, or past lives, but then forget as they grew up.  I’m writing this from the perspective of an adult that never really forgot.  Simple enough, right… except this adult remembers EVERYTHING – all the other lives, what is between, and has since childhood.  THIS person knows their purpose, and always did, but the problem is, no one else remembers.  If what the essay poses is true, and kids really do remember who they were before and what they’re supposed to do, I can only imagine how frustrating it must be to just try to even talk about it to people who only praise them for their wonderful imaginations.  That’s what I’m trying to do here with this – or at least that’s where it starts.  I’m not too far into it, but it’s coming together nicely in its early stages.

The second project is loosely based off of Dante’s “Inferno” and the circles of Hell.  It’s told from the perspective of someone who has committed suicide and who ends up in that seventh circle, trying to get out of it (and consequentially get to paradise).  This is a challenge because I really want to update Dante’s perspective of Hell with more modern concepts.  Right now it’s in the planning stages, so I’m taking it circle by circle.  The seventh was pretty easy to do.  The sixth hasn’t been.  In the original “Inferno”, the sixth circle was for the Heretics – and it was a circle where those heretics could only see the world as it would be, not as it is.  I played with this idea in two ways, though first I struggled with the definition of “Heretic” since that isn’t a word that’s used very often and in our more diversified culture, I don’t know that one could really call ANYONE a heretic.  But then I thought, you know, who says I have to really “define” what or who the heretics are… I’m not sitting here trying to create a “correct” answer for religion, since this is mostly supposed to be for entertainment value (very unlike “Inferno”).  The concept of the sixth circle of hell is what do these people see?  At first I thought well, if the opposite of enlightenment is ignorance, then maybe I could just throw the people in that circle in sheer, impenetrable darkness.  But then, after I thought about it for a minute, I decided to actually keep the futuristic theme that Dante started.  I’m setting that circle in a post-apocalyptic world, though I haven’t fully determined what that’s going to look like yet.  That’s tomorrow’s project.

Anyway, I’m writing a lot and that’s been good.  I haven’t been able to turn out fiction all that well since “Charlotte” last year and the final part of that that I was missing came out of finally understanding who the hell she was and who she was waiting for.  Whatever happens with Botboy, he gave me the ending to that and I guess I’ll always owe him for that one.  And “Charlotte” was the first piece of fiction I’ve actually managed to finish to my own satisfaction since the Mordred story in college.

I’ve been reading the cards a lot too.  Most of that came naturally to me, but I’m trying to get better.  They confuse me sometimes.  Because I do the spreads, and I see the answers in front of me, and I’ve been doing this long enough to know that they never, ever lie when they’re shuffled properly and when the deck is split.  There are 78 cards in the deck.  The probability of ones falling that are relevant to your current situation are… well… slim.  And when you put them out, again and again, and the same ones turn up in the same spots over and over, despite how often you shuffle them – and when you get the same results when other READERS do the same, you can’t really doubt what’s being said.  I guess where I have issues is with understanding how that final outcome will be reached.  Especially when the current environment does not currently support the messages that the cards are giving me.  Same thing goes for the runes which are an extension of the cards – same message, same things falling, just don’t understand.  I guess that’s where patience comes in.  Patience is not one of my virtues, but I am being forced to familiarize myself with it.  It’s a hard lesson to learn.

At least I am lucid.  I’m not drinking anymore, my mind is not distracted, and I can create the things that I need to create.  I don’t sleep very much, but you know, sometimes I’m better off (at least creatively) when I’m running on caffeine and creativity.  My ideas are a little off the wall, but sometimes it takes a little bit of insanity to make things believable.