R.B. O'Brien's Blog, page 5

Shutting Down Technology for 24 Hours

Have you ever tried to shut down for just 24 hours? No technology whatsoever? No phone. No internet. Just quietude? Or what about just Social Media? Staying away from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the myriad other places you might frequent. How did it make you feel? I want to try to go at least one day without checking into my accounts, just one day of not going onto Messenger. Just one day of not checking book sales.

As I sat down to write this, and opened my computer, the screen saver was a universe of blue and purple and teal and bright and light stars. Beautiful really. Like a Van Gogh painting of space. But the longer I sat behind my laptop, the more I saw myself blending into it. The longer I stared, the more I could see myself in its reflection, just a shadow, and the stars became blurred and universe, so pretty when I opened it, faded into the background as I became more prominent in the picture. It was the exact reverse of when I first opened my computer and stared at the screensaver image, full of color and wonder, now it was just me, faceless, a black outline. Sounds like a bad acid trip, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid, it’s who we’re all becoming, extensions of technology. The very first thing I do when I wake in the morning is search for my phone. It lights up in my face like someone with a flashlight, and I draw my legs into a comfortable position, tucking myself on my side, and lounge and search and drift and write, perfectly content to lazily stretch and roll about, making my already messy sheets messier. It relaxes me. It’s much like the days of old, reading a newspaper slowly, pouring coffee, and then sipping it alongside the Arts and Entertainment section. Though I still do that on Sundays (less and less it seems), this is similar. I open my news apps first, then I surf Pinterest, get caught up on some blogs, and then begin the Social Media frenzy. No coffee, just me, my bed, and my pal, my phone.
The mere thought of not waking to my phone produces a bit of panic and anxiety in me. Usually waiting for me under my pillow, my hands search blindly for the rectangular handheld gold, and when it’s not there, I feel my heartbeat rise, my eyes pop open, my feet already on the cold floor, searching desperately like the most important part of me has bee stolen, before I realize it’s on the nightstand. And then, I can climb back in, roll about in the wee hours of morning, like a lazy semi-conscious slumber: calm, languid, as long as I can scroll my phone and hold it close like a teddy bear. Its soothing...And it’s dangerous.
Because as much as I tell myself it’s bad and I must put it down and I must shut it off and that the time is getting away from me, and I’ll be throwing my hair into another messy bun because I’m late, I’m finding it harder and harder to stop it. And even as I’m telling myself I need to put it down, I can’t. It’s addiction, I’m afraid. Plain and simple.

So, next week, I’m going to give it a go. Shut down for at least 24 hours. Like anything else in life, baby steps. I’ll try just one day. But with any addiction, it takes more than one day, and perhaps, that is why I know I can do it. Because I’ll be back, right there with my favorite blanket to comfort me. Will anyone notice? Or miss me? Highly doubtful. And that is the saddest part of addiction. The addiction doesn't need you. It will find its next victim. But you? You'll go into serious withdrawals, because you need IT, and if you don't? Perhaps you don't. Need. It. At. All... ​​​ I’m becoming 
the screen, 
the glare 
all I see—
mesmerizing 
addictive 
vapid—
a black hole
of light,
swirling 
with impermanent 
nothingness. 

I fade 
Into the background 
of its rectangle. 
Everything blurs.
Everything’s lukewarm. 
Everything’s grey.

I’m bored to tears, 
the plop
of them,
hard 
and heavy,
echoing 
in my ears 
of sleep 
and wake,
my thumb,
my brain, 
the click click
tap tap
of another
digital number
turning its red face. 

And I 
am a constant 
blue.

​R.B. O'Brien Author

My Closet Was A Metaphor

​Some things are meant to be messy. Hair. Chocolate. Watercolors. But life? It shouldn't be a complete mess.

​I realized recently that my closet was a bit of a metaphor for my life. I needed to streamline some things; lose things that were weighing me down; get organized; prioritize in what order things should be; in short, I needed to pay attention to my mental health.

So…I got myself a new closet, quite literally, and slowly, I’m finding my frenetic, rat-race kind of existence beginning to change. I’m learning those changes are not just about where I can find my favorite shoes or t-shirt or jeans, but it’s about finding what makes me thrive and happy and what people I want to keep around me in order to do that (and what people I don’t.)

My closet woes were really just a manifestation of my real-life woes. And I don’t need to be loyal to a pair of shoes, who frankly, are too expensive. Holding onto “people” who no longer belong, who take me granted, or trying to fit too many things into such a small window of time, is taking a toll; they’re too expensive. And I don’t have to pay for them. Or feel guilty about it. I can get a new closet. Rearrange a few things. Finally get rid of the things that no longer work. And so I did. And so, I am.
Friends laugh and say: “First-world problems,” and yes, it does seem a bit trite to spend money on a closet. But everything is relative, isn't it? The mess, the chaos, the last-minute searches for things was spilling over into everything else. Always late as it is, it only further agitated me, furthered my anxieties, furthered everything into a panic. I don’t need to live that way. The closet is the first step. I’ve decluttered, created a new work space, put on a new coat of paint, eliminated furniture, sorted boxes of junk, bought new artwork…and that’s just the outside. Next? The inside.

So if you don’t see me around as much, well..it’s because I’m cleaning out my closet. Not everything deserves to stay. Not everything belongs. Some things just simply don’t match anymore. ​

On Fearing Death...

I've had a few strange things happen to me lately, regarding my health. And of course, WedMD and the like don't help with hysteria. After some blood tests, I'm perfectly fine. Chalk it up to some sleepless nights and stress, and our bodies and mind are quite in tune with one another. Sometimes, we need to put ourselves first. And while many people have no problem doing that, many of us do not. 

I'm not sure exactly what molds a person that way. I think mine comes from my childhood, something I've written about before, so forgive me if I sound like a broken recording. Growing up with a brother whose intelligence was way beyond mine, perhaps I overcompensated in other areas. That my accolades often came from "doing" rather than "being." The good daughter. The good dancer. The good student. It took me a very long time to get to a place where I understood myself. I'm still on that journey. Perhaps I will go to the grave that way.  Maybe it's not about childhood at all, but just how we're born, wired. Maybe my work ethic, the way I like to stretch my body till it hurts, work until I see blurry lines in front of my face, stay up way past reasonable hours thinking and perfecting and sighing when I feel I'm not there, is just who I am. Maybe a little pain lets me know I'm alive.  When a colleague told me, "We missed you at our meeting," I was reminded that I do love life but I'm not afraid to die. Why is it that people don't like to talk about that? Or mention it? I explained to her that I had to have some tests done. She was shocked. "I don't know anyone healthier than you."

Yes. I am the picture of health on the outside. But our minds. Our minds have their own health issues. Show me any person alive, and I'll show you another world within them we don't get to see or hear the way they do. It's a whole universe in there. Alive and thriving some days; barely hanging on others. There are landscapes and dreams and color and black and white and roses and dirt; and sometimes, all at once. Maybe that's why writers must write. Or painters paint. Or dancers dance. Or singers sing. Or musicians play. We have two worlds, two lives. Maybe that's why we become exhausted, keeping up with both.

I said: "Well...we all are going to die someday, right?" She was shocked and horrified and said: "Perhaps while you're at it, you might want to talk to a psychologist." I smiled, not offended in the least. "Perhaps I should. My mind certainly has a lot to say."

But really. Besides being a notoriously rude person, she really didn't understand that I don't fear getting sick or fighting the inevitable. It's foolish. Haven't we read enough literature by now to know that fate cannot be avoided. As Shakespeare's Caesar's said: Of all the wonders that I have heard,/It seems to me most that men should fear;/Seeing death, a necessary end,/Will come when it will come." I'm not suicidal for goodness sake. But for all my romantic notions, there lives a pragmatist in me as well--sort of exactly like the two worlds that inhabit my mind within the same body. Maybe, I'm just an old soul with healthy, young eyes.

To Those Of Us Who Are "Artsy"

I have always been creative, artsy, one might say. From fashion to dance to writing, my mind seems to see the world in images and art. It’s an odd thing, or at least I used to think so. What can you do for a career with that though? Being "artsy" isn't practical. I’d often hear. So when a certificate course of study was offered for high school students to finish with college credit in Interior Design, I jumped at the chance.

Of course, nothing is as easy as picking out pictures and furniture or paint colors and style, and so it’s one of those things that never fully took hold. When I dated an older man from a bit of a wealthy background, I found myself dabbling for people, first for free, and then for small fees. I think he just wanted me to have a “career,” but I was only just in college then, finding myself, discovering who I was, making sense of my urges, and growing into the person and career I wanted.

What I discovered is there wasn’t much that was creative about it. In fact, it stifled creativity. It wasn’t MY creativity. It was THEIR creativity. I’m sure that brings people much joy, to exact a plan to specifications, perfectly to someone’s expectations, to watch their joy about the completion and fruition of a vision. It can be. Do not get me wrong. But more often than not, it was just frustrating. My taste and style may not be someone else’s, and frankly, it didn’t matter. If someone wanted things I found repulsive, I followed through. After all, that was the job. And more and more, people would say they wanted a particular style or time period, but really what they wanted was a page out of Pottery Barn over and over. This wasn't about me feeling satisfied with art or beauty or creation; it was about basically doing what I was told. And I don't like doing what I'm told (unless maybe in the bedroom. :) But I digress!) This concept is no different when it comes to writing, especially poetry. A creative person needs to create. Not for pay. Not for someone else. But only for herself. There are people who write for others. Some prompts make me feel that way. Write about THIS. But I don’t want to write about THAT if it doesn’t inspire me or touch me or reach me. It’s artificial to me. Instead, I want to write about the sky or the weather or love or my dreams or my thoughts or my fears or my fantasies or my relationships or my experiences or my self-discovery or my stream-of-conscious rants; in short, I want to write about whatever I want  to write about or feeling at that moment. It’s a burning urge that is almost impossible to extinguish. I have stopped trying.

I create because I can’t do anything else. It comes out of me. It spills forth, whether I share it with someone or not. I write so much, so much of it I’m afraid to share, the darker moments of my psyche for instance, but I have yet to fall prey to writing for what I think an audience wants. Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps that is precisely what I’m doing wrong. But for now, I see the interior design of my mind, and I try to convey it with words. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don’t. But I never have to paint it orange when I want to paint it black. ​ And perhaps that's not practical. But perhaps practical is overrated. 

"Love of My Life"--Romantic Nonsense?

Have you heard people use the term “love of my life”? Have you used it? And what is it really? What constitutes using that phrase? Can it happen more than once and therefore, an overused, trite phrase? Is it really “love of my life right now”? Or worse, do you only know that because it was someone you let get away? Someone you wish you hadn’t? Or have you yet to meet the “love of your life,” and are you still waiting?

To me, this means someone you love wholly. Someone you don’t want to change, and someone who doesn’t want to change you in any way. It’s that someone who fulfills you--emotionally, sexually, intellectually. That person who makes you laugh. Who “gets” you. Who finds you beautiful even when you know you’re not. It’s acceptance. It’s that someone who makes you love yourself, even when it’s very hard to do. It’s someone who looks into you, at your scars, both figuratively and literally, and loves you anyway. And it’s symbiotic.

To me, it doesn’t mean a perfect love or a love that is superficial. It is deep, fulfilling. It is a love that challenges you on occasion. A love that is passionate. A love that transcends anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s poetry really. It’s beauty but not in a physical sense. Not at all. It’s about souls connecting in another dimension of living. It makes you feel as if you weren’t living before. And it’s never jealous.
​
Is this “love of my life” real? Fleeting? Just another romantic fantasy? For those of us who have been there, it’s the very reason for existence.  i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
E.E. Cummings

How Important is College?

In my profession, I hear this a lot: “Everyone needs a bachelor’s degree. The bachelor’s degree is the new associate's degree. Most companies/professions don’t even care what the degree is, as long is there is a degree, that someone finished a program, can show they have work ethic and drive and some common set of skills."

I’m not sure if this is true. Ironically, college enrollment is down everywhere where I live (myriad theories on that, including that most families are smaller than they used to be), and there are always those who find great success without finishing a bachelor’s degree, my brother being one, a computer guru who makes a helluva lot more than me.

And I’m seeing a lot of the younger generation, not all that removed from me to be honest, coming up with all kinds of entrepreneurial things. But can they be successful? Truly? Are they really setting themselves up for failure? Or do MANY people do just fine without a degree? 

A lot of the jobs that people used to do without a degree seem to be morphing now as society changes. While some of the past are still present--factory jobs for instance, some pretty damn traditionally good paying ones--are being lost completely, plastics as an example or outsourcing as we know it. But plumbers and electricians aren’t going anyway; police officers and firemen too; and it’s interesting to see other things cropping up: uber drivers and others like them, grocery deliverers that didn’t exist, all kinds of food trucks, youtubers, online start-ups that never existed, writers (

ONLINE FRIENDSHIPS

Friendship, true friendship, is rare. Can you find it even with people you haven’t met in real life? Do you have friends online that you feel closer to than some in your physical world? And if so, do you think there’s something wrong with that? That there is something wrong with you? Must you be with someone in the flesh, in the real “touching” world to be close to them? To have a real relationship?

I used to think I had the answers to those questions. But I don’t. I have a life outside of online social media. A full life. Sometimes too full to be honest. But this online life of mine feels every much as real. Am I fooling myself? Is this as fleeting as the online internet provider’s connection? Somedays, I think yes. People I thought were my friends disappoint. Lie. Say they support but don’t. But that is no different than real life friends or co-workers, people who constantly let you down or don’t have the same work ethic as you. Self-absorbed people who talk and talk and talk about themselves but never ask how you are doing…who don't see the consequences of their actions and often play the victim. Those people, I’m sure, are the same in their everyday, flesh lives as well. That's just who they are. It doesn’t have anything to do with social media or being online. We can’t “fake” the essence of who we are. Everyone’s true self comes out eventually, especially when you’ve been in the game this long. I’d rather have 10 close friends I can count on than 1000 fake ones, only after self- preservation.
So today, I want to dedicate this post to tried and true friends, and in particular, a very special group of friends, The Writers of NuR, as we just saw our first anthology, Beyond the Last Page, go live and with great success! You are my writing comrades, but it’s more for me. We are friends. I count on you. And I hope you can count on me. We worked through deadlines, edits, critiques, and publishing. We listened to each other. We encouraged each other. We supported each other and left our egos at the door. We cheered each other on, sometimes hearing things about our work we didn't want to. We grew together. And we produced something I’m quite proud of, and quite smoothly I might add, a group dedicated to something outside of themselves. 

Though some of you I haven’t met in the flesh, you are every bit as real to me, sometimes more so. I like waking up knowing there is someone there to say good morning and really mean it, who listens with sincerity, and who isn’t a fair-weather fan, but a tried and true friend. 

​Congratulations to our first, and, hopefully, many more successes. Cheers!

Is Blogging Dead?

-I love to write blogs, and I still love to read them! It brings life into focus for me. I still peruse the internet looking for blogs that interest me on numerous topics. I enjoy it. 

I started writing my own blogs, because I needed a voice to record my thoughts as they were happening to me. Events of the day. Things people would say to me that made me want to scream or rejoice. Feelings. Relationships. Emotions. Basically in a word: Therapy. Or in another: Health.

I found that writing down my feelings and thoughts, much like a journal, help me process. Lets me move on. Forces me to think, deal with my cauldron of demons, and exhale or heal or make sense of a world I sometimes can't. And maybe it helps someone else.

I never thought to publish them here, like I have been regularly. Who cares? Who would read them? Most of the time, they're stream of conscious type rambles that I think will be about one thing and morph into another. It was friend of mine who said: "Publish these. And not just on your website." I'm still debating that. Probably not.

​But as I learned of a new feature here on my website, Categories, I started to update my posts into topics for people to find easier, and I realized, I've written about a lot of topics (see right-hand column), some more meaningful than others.  From poetry and philosophy... ...to goals, religion, and sexuality... I've got shit to say!

​But who's reading them? Am I wasting my time sharing them with you, maybe a handful of people who might click over and see what I have to say? Again, I ask myself, "Who cares? Do people even read blogs anymore? Is blogging a silly thing of the past? Is blogging dead?"

A co-writer recently said: No one reads blogs anymore. Stop spending your time of this crap. It's not like it's driving sales...

No. It's probably not. But I guess it doesn't matter. I write these for me just as I do my poetry. I write them because I'm an emotional person. I write them, because if I don't, I might carry things with me far too long, and that's not who I am. I write them to forgive. I write them to love. I write them to discover who I am. Plainly, I write them, because I'm human, and if I didn't, I might implode. Does it matter if people read them or praise me or any other reason? I would love it if they did. But I've realized that's not IT for me like it might be for other people. It will NEVER be the reason I write ANYTHING. Fuck that.

I've written them because I don't have a choice. I've written them to improve. As a writer. As a person. And as a thinker. There are too many days I want to give up because of something someone else tells me. I didn't think I'd write a blog today, "too busy," I said to myself...and then, I found myself writing, without even a conscious decision to do so!

And here I am, finding a way to process things on my mind. It's helped me work out my demons. And what I really discovered is that being a writer is happening all day long for me. It's a part of who I am. I can't shut it off even if I wanted to. I have a voice. We all do. And this is what I do. I write.

So even if blogging is dead. This little ol' blogger is alive...the tree really does still make the noise, even if no one is there to hear it. ​​

The Beauty of Old Photographs

When I lost my aunt in December, my cousins asked me to rifle through pictures to see what I had, and it reminded me of so many things. There is something lost now, isn’t there? With our phones and our i-pads and our video capacity. We seem to lose so much, and one would think it would be the opposite, but it really isn’t. There is something special about those old photographs, much like old letters or postcards we’ve kept over the years. There’s something about holding them in our hands, touching them, running our fingers across the front, flipping them over to read the back, see the year, maybe the place. My mother was forever marking up those photographs. And everything looks so…I don’t know, pretty and nostalgic, especially when in black and white, like some of my mom’s baby pictures or first communion I came across. They somehow feel alive. They feel as if they're breathing right there next to us.
​
The same is true of old letters or writing. There really is nothing that can replace handwriting. I remember holding Emily Dickinson’s work once in the basement annex of Amherst College, wearing gloves, being watched as if I might steal them. Smart. I wanted to. I regret the love letters I tossed or the notes from friends during class. I had a best friend and she and I wrote old-fashioned letters to one another in middle school, professing our “friends forever” in black-ink promises, only to be tossed as I moved or aged. Not enough space. Oh, the regret! A new study I read recently stated that this generation (is that me?) is losing living in the moment. That everyone is so Instagram-ized, trying to take the best pictures possible – oh, look at me eating this; or oh, I just saw this magnificent sunset; or oh, look at my dog being silly—that we’re no longer really living in the moment, or even enjoying it, or even REMEMBERING IT at all later, but instead, living for the moment to take a damn picture. How sad if that’s true! What will become of our memories or experiences if we’re so hung up on taking the picture, not for ourselves, but instead for someone else to say: Oh, isn’t Rosemary the coolest cat ever?  

When I came across some of the pictures, it reminded, too, of my childhood and a scene in Edge of Torment I took from my own life, where Patricia, Annabelle’s best friend, has displayed a photograph of the two of them at Patricia's brother Billy’s wedding. It’s two best friends in a pool wearing funky glasses, and I remember exactly the moment I stole the idea from. It was with my cousin, my favorite cousin still to this day, and at the service, I asked her if she too remembered those days in the back yard at 4 or 5 or if the memory was only because of that picture. She remembered it just as I had and, though sad at where we were presently, we smiled and laughed and hugged, poured some wine afterwards, and sat down to reminiscence. That’s what photographs do for us. And I’m grateful I still have boxes upon boxes of them even if I’ve lost so many of the people in them. They are engraved somewhere inside my heart’s mind, far from being lost. And that brought me comfort.

Doing the Unspeakable...

​Today I am admitting something: I am not perfect. Not. Even. Close. Ha! Not so much a revelation, huh? Feel cheated? Tricked? Well, I have another confession. And I hope we’re still friends after it. I’m about to do something I thought I’d never do, that I thought was silly and trivial and narcissistic. And here I am. About to do it.

“What?” you may be asking? You sitting down? I’m about to bite the bullet and go to a salon with one of my besties to get…No. Not fake boobs. Not Botox. Or something similarly appalling. But something else unspeakable...fake eyelashes! Why? Good question. And I’ll try to answer without seeming like…a boob myself!
​
As a Christmas gift, I got a gift card to my favorite salon, filled with all kinds of goodies from facials to massages and to now, it seems, fake eyelashes! I’ve secretly always wanted to try them. But thought: I am not that superficial. Who does something like this? And here I am, about to take the plunge. Tress up my eyes. Ditch mascara, maybe for an eternity!
​
We all have our insecurities. Right? Who among us REALLY likes the way we look. There are certain things I will just never like about myself—the length of my legs, the way I overthink things, the way my two front teeth seem to come out maybe a little too far, how much smarter my brother is than me…and… I could go on, but you get the idea. But my eyes have never been one of them. I don’t mind them. I like the way they change color. I like that I have 20/20 vision (even though I occasionally wear fake glasses. Dear god. I’m a mess!). So why the eyelashes?

Well, why the hell not? That’s the best answer I can give! I've got nothing profound here. 
​
I work hard for a living. I earn my own money. And as I age, I find it harder and harder to find anything that doesn’t irritate my skin, mascara or eye liner often one of them. So why the hell not? It might be fun. I might have more confidence. Maybe I’ll become less shy. Maybe I’ll feel, for just a moment, that I am glamorous, that maybe, I’ll blink my eyes and feel the weight of luxurious eye lashes against my skin, and for once, become comfortable in my own skin.

Highly unlikely. But at the very least, it will remind me never to judge why people might do what they do, cosmetically or otherwise. It’s not my business or for me to decide. Sometimes, we just feel the need to try something new, have an adventure, crawl out of our comfort zones to find the comfort and acceptance we all crave. And this 2019, I’m no longer going to worry about what other people think of me or my choices, or question why I have the urges I do, but instead, sit back, and say: Damn it. That was fun. And then maybe wink with the best damn eyelashes a girl could ask for! ;) ​