Pushing the barrier

Blogs blogs everyplace...

A few days ago I actually sat down and pondered the origin of the word blog and was astonished to realize that I couldn't remember a time that I didn't know what a blog was... Technically it's a shortened version of web log I suppose, although then it should probably be called wlog or something, but geeks are not known for clever naming or artistic prowess, and it was the geek influence that started this madness called blogging.

And I do think it's madness. People read these blogs, snippets of people's lives, as though they were gospel or a well researched news article, when in fact most are just musings of an individual's experiences. So here I am, pulled in by the random urge to "join the crew". I've never been one to bow to popular opinion, and I'm arrogant as hell so it's not like I ever needed to bow to popular opinion, but I find myself at a crossroads in my life.

I won't bore you with the details now, but for once I'm stable. Seems like an odd thing to stay, I'm stable, but it is the first time since I started college that I feel anchored, under control, and uniquely bored. And my mind has been fermenting. Kind of like a pot of old stew in the back of the fridge, or the diapers in my son's wastebasket when they start to give off the odor that means it's trash day.

I haven't written in a long time. I suppose you can tell by the jumble this "first post" has become. Most people begin their blogs with a short snippet on who they are, how they came to be....their lives and loves the purpose that's led them to write. I don't have any other purpose for this blog than to write. For me, writing is an outlet for that creative side of me that swelters under the heat of everyday life. That part that dreams every night, creating new scenes in the "great american fantasy novel" that sleeps in my head. Although it's not really sleeping at the moment, more like devouring my mind.

And so I write, let the pressure out, let the fingers fly over the ...well keys I guess. I haven't actually written something since I was in elementary school, since my second grade teacher requested my papers typed, since my handwriting deteriorated from the harsh scribblings of a child to a scrawl that would make a doctor wince. And so I learned very young to let my hands fly across the keys, although never as fast as I can think. If I could type as fast as I think the great american fanstasy novel would be more than ten notebooks of plot, character, and setting scribblings resting in a rubbermaid in my closet.

And here I am, making letters dance on the screen, unable to really make this post do much more than meander over thoughts that can't seem to solidify. If anyone actually reads this whole mess, well you're a better man...woman...alien with green tentacles....ok now my imagination is simply running away with me.

Speaking of imagination, I've been reading too much fanfiction again. My current flavor of choice seems to be Dragonball Z;Vegeta and Bulma induced nonsense. I've never picked up the manga, and I've only seen the crappy dub, which I'm certain is hacked and raped as much as Sailor Moon, but I've always been fascinated with the characters and plot of Dragonball in all it's incarnations. Now granted the execution sucks, why spend five minutes showing Goku's new muscles popping while he grunts instead of exploring his relationship with Chichi in all it's glory, but that's why fanfiction is so appealing to me.

And the A.U.s, my goodness there are some fantastic ones. Dark and realistic in a way that literally makes me weep. World and Enough Time and A Glad Day, both by Lisalu, are enough to shake me to my soul. I found many others in my trip through darkness, but now I have a story of my own brewing in that dark space in my heart. And I should write them. But something seems to continually pull me away. That perfectionism that holds my hand and screams for every plot twist, every word, every breath of the character to pulse with realism and choice. And so I hover in the shadows again, afraid to put fingers to pen for fear of falling into the trap of my sailor moon tales.

Ah, my other fanfiction. I feel so awful, with all the reading I've been doing. I lost track of the number of stories I devoured and then swore at when I realized they were unfinished. And yet I have several of my own, pulsing on the back burner, which I know there are those who really want to read them. The biggest problem for me is they're finished in my head. I may not know the twists and turns but the end is there, complete and closed. And those who read my stories don't know those endings, don't see the closure. And I feel bad for I am one of those authors with abandonware. Abandonware...my god I've become such a geek.

And there is the key to my problem. Sometimes I wonder if I don't have a parasitic twin brother stuck in my brain. My whole life there has been two sides of me, the side that writes stories and plays with dolls, knits, sews, cooks, likes pink and long hair and wants to be the epitome of what is feminine. And it wars with the other side of me that loves the swift justice of a parse error and the sweetness of solving a problem with a few lines of elegant code. The logical being wars with the creative and my head feels like the broken soil they tramp across in their battles.

And so now I find myself at the end of what should be a completed post, knowing that I'll continue on because there are still twists and turns of life alive in my brain waiting to escape. I suppose, now at the end, I will complete the mandatory first post nonsense.

My name is Elizabeth Marie Smith. I know, a more boring, common name you couldn't find. I've always rather liked my first name. My mother used to call me Eli (pronounced Elly) as a baby, but then the kids at school began to call me lizard and it turn to Liz and suddenly my name wasn't the feminine ideal I'd always imagined. I'm twenty-six years old. I feel older. Two husbands, three sons, two years of struggling to support myself when I was alone, confused, and broke as hell have taken their toll. I suppose I should be thankful to be where I am now. Solid, centered, anchored by a man I can best describe as my stablizer. And yet I still feel those purrings of unease, usually in the evenings when the TV is a constant buzz in the background and I long for more than laundry and diapers.

Well, enough about me. This blog will probably be broken into several "categories".... the general musings like the story tonight, the personal forays into my mind, life, love....although I'm not sure how many of those I'll open to public eyes. The logical stories of my affair with the personal computer and my php project of neverending perfectionism. My writing, both fan and original, from the modern taste of dream hopping to the the great american fantasy novel to my brush with the world of children's fairy tale and my love of the trashy romance novel. And the fanfiction, Sailor Moon, InuYasha, Fushigi Yuugi, Rayearth, Dragonball(Z,GT, whatnot), and the continued life of Shitennou. And then there will be my rants.... on society at large, distribution of wealth, the position of women and the horrible things we do to our children. You'll find my political views hover somewhere between Machivelli and Ghandi with little middle ground :)

And perhaps you'll find something you enjoy reading here amoung this stuff and nonsense, a place where you can see the end of the line, the reason to visit, the excuse to waste your employers time here rather than at your computer...

But I suppose this is enough for now. I have some stylesheets to edit and if the insomnia finally slows after this outpouring, maybe I can get some sleep.

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