Issara Simone Edwards's Blog, page 15

Kill Your Idols.

Friday 3rd of May 2019

Writing is the release of bile and other toxins that build up in the blood…

I’ve always steered away from having idols, and honestly thought I was free of such afflictions. Expect everyone to disappoint is the motto. But there are some people, writers, musicians, philosophers, that have crept in, that have become the patron saints of dreams that die in the mouth, and I unknowingly, found myself expecting more from them, expecting better. That was a long, run on sentence.

From certain people whose work I admire, I found that have expected nothing more from then than to know better, which apparently, has been too much. Must everyone be children? Just one, sentient, understanding, adult, human would be nice.

No idols, no love, no adoration, no respect. That’s the way, At least until people wake up.

Writing is a drug isn’t it? It’s not pleasant, it’s not entirely healthy, and it has an addictive power, an agency that comforts and splinters you apart. You need more of it to feel better, but less of it or it will kill you.

Do what you love, do what you enjoy. But it’s not that. It’s do what you need, do what will…

All of this is random, random, unconnected thoughts, and that’s fine. It’s all fine.

I keep seeing this symbol today, anyway…

How would I rewrite the world if I could? What would I want to make people see? Would I create a beautiful version of reality where the artists we love reveal themselves to be saints, not hateful, flawed humans? Or would I keep reality as is to show people what they really are?

I’m angry, I’m disappointed. Our idols only have one job, to not be like everyone else. But, I suppose, they’re entitled to be human, that’s there right.

Repeat after me: “The world is ours and it owes us everything. It’s time to kill our idols and believe in ourselves” (not literally, not promoting murder here.) I used to think I had to be worthy of the world, but I don’t. It has to be worthy of me.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a book I wrote about a bunch of people to not look up to.

Story Time.

Sunday 29th of April 2019

Is it time then? Is it only when we start thinking about the future in comparison to where we are now that things go astray in us?

A new boiler was fitted today, we have heat and hot water and I feel exhausted and defeated, vulnerable and scared. An exposed nerve in the wind.

It’s all supposed to be over now, but I feel more to come. I’m scared. Why can’t I just enjoy this? What would happen if everything just worked out now? What would everything working out look like?

So, I’m not in the future, I’m here, right now. Can that be enough, to be here right now?

‘The Murder of Miss O’ It’s a book, you can go read it, if you’re so inclined.

Pieces Lost.

Sunday 28th of April 2019

Staying positive is a choice, isn’t it? It’s active, not passive. Conscious choice. It’s taking a deep breath and trusting. It’s not thinking. No, the thoughts are still there, they’re just moved aside, stored for later, I expect.

Trusting is hard, but I’m trying. I’ve been trusting, walking through the dark, trusting it all means something, trusting (trying to trust) everything that’s around me. Wanting to believe.

There’s nothing wrong with trusting, it’s simple, you let go, stop resisting, curb doubting, there’s almost freedom in it… if I could just do it fully. Practice makes perfect.

As I wonder along the path before me, I come across a small chest. It’s a simple brown box, but inside are a set of bindis, yellow sunglasses and a green dress. They’re pieces of me, pieces of the person I was, thrown away. I don’t know what to do with them so I leave them in the chest and remember. This was who I was, I was so sure of it. A spiritual being, working towards enlightenment. I was a good person, an evolving person, certain I my beliefs, eager to gather and learn more. I had my own style, my own sense of self. I was fifteen and I knew everything I needed to know. yet, I was also lost, confused, angry, scared, depressed, alone, desperate and searching.

I was so eager to get away from myself, to be something better, someone better. I was half-baked, not done yet, but I was on a path I was certain of, until I wasn’t.

‘The Murder of Miss O’, another book recommendation, but it’s my own book, so does it count?

Meaning for Meaning Sake.

Friday 12th of April 2019

What if I start writing again out of sheer boredom? Seriously! Everything is so boring! Reading is boring. Watching stuff is boring. At least if I write something it won’t just be something to pass the time. I could write something interesting, something I want to read, something that means something, even if that meaning is meaning for meaning sake.

I think there was an idea. I think my subconscious sat down and said to itself, “If things stop mattering to them, if we highlight everything in their life that has no meaning, no real life in, the things that do matter, the things that have meaning will stand out like the jewels they are. They’ll appreciate them more, love them more, cultivate them, embrace the, seek out more of them, better their life with them.”

The trouble is, so very few things mean anything that this scarcity is depressing. It makes me feel like nothing means anything. Percentage wise it’s about 2% against 98%. Depressing, right?

I have no desire to watch the TV shows I used to like because I see there’s nothing in them. They’re just designed to generate viewers and money, underneath that is no story, no passion, just a subtle, or not so subtle manipulation. If this happens viewers will want to know what happens next and keep watching. If this character takes his shirt off in this scene, we’ll get more viewers.

Shows I recommend for no other reason than the story, stories that are amazing, thought-provoking, creative and feel as though they were written and made with genuine excitement and love for the craft.

Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective AgencyThe OAThe Umbrella AcademyRussian DollLegionMr. RobotBattlestar Galactica

I could also give a list of shows to avoid, but why encourage them with recognition, they know who they are.

You know what though, reading has become just as bad. When was the last time I read a book and mourned its ending? ‘The Night Circus’ maybe. ‘Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis’? Even that felt a bit strained actually. Maybe Anne Rice should have stopped at ‘Prince Lestat’. Then again, I haven’t read the new one yet.

Book recommendation time… I should get sponsored for this. I’m joking… kinda.

The Witching Hour.

Thursday 11th of April 2019

The police were called last night. They didn’t turn up, but they were called.

At around midnight we heard the front gate slam against the wall. Then a woman started screaming and trying to break down the door.

“I’m calling the police!” She screamed. “I saw that man just run in there!”

When the door wouldn’t budge she actually called the police, gave them our address and everything, then walked down the road as though she accomplished something.

Let’s be clear, no man ran into the house at five to midnight. I would have noticed. Just making that 100% clear. But a crazed woman trying to break into my house in the middle of the night was actually terrifying. I slept with my pocket knife nearby, just in case she came back and succeeded the second time. Yes, I would have stabbed her. Not that I got much sleep, I couldn’t get warm last night, no matter how many layers.

On to more pleasant news… I don’t have any, but it would have been nice, right?

Something’s been happening recently, I’ve been writing, but I wouldn’t call it writing. See, it feels different, it feels like… composing, composing an elaborate, mechanical symphony. Composing, I like that. I’m composing.

I decided to take a break from writing and the internet gets cut off. Now, this would be okay if I hadn’t just spent my last £70 on paying the bill. Vodafone suck. They suck so hard. Boycott Vodafone! I’m a millennial with no internet, what do I do now?

‘The Murder of Miss O’, if you’re looking for something to read.

Take a Moment.

I got a new pencil. It’s dark grey and has ‘Take a Moment’ written on it in bronze.

I went to the UWE Library today, Frenchay Campus. Everything in there, including the books looked so old. It was as eighties library and I fell through a crack in time. I guess people only use libraries for computers now anyway, the books don’t matter so much. Books now a days are just extra credit and add-ons if you’re writing an essay. Brownie points for not just using web addresses in your bibliography.

Back to the library.

I made a nest in the corner, in the biodiversity section. I really can nest anywhere. I laid my coat, scarf and cardie on the floor to sit on, surrounded myself with books I wanted to dive into and explore. I watched people go by, drank water from my bag. I should have bought sweets though, or some other sustenance.

I had a good day, ate a halloumi and olive pizza from the cafe, spent some time with my sister, and when we got home, everything, every problem, there was a solution, right there.

I’m getting £250 on Monday, and the new boiler is £240. The phone/internet bill is £70, I have £70 in my account. I wanted soup for my dinner, bought two tubs on my way home, but my mum had read my mind and there was soup waiting for me.

I took a moment and things seem to have fallen into place.

‘The Murder of Miss O’, it’s a book, but you can get it on Kindle.

Goodbye, Friend.

Monday 8th of April 2019

This pencil’s getting shorter and harder to hold, I should get a new one.

I’ve been told, since I was young, five or younger, that I was bad. By not living up to others ideas of good, I was bad. I was told this so much, had it implied so much, that I believed it. In believing it, I embraced it, reveled in it, made it who I am. The villains in TV shows and movies were my people. I knew I was the villain and I liked it.

I’m starting to believe, at thirty-three, that might not be who I am. Just because, as a child, I failed to live by my families notion of good, it doesn’t mean I’m bad. What about my version of good? Am I my version of good?

I don’t bully children, check. I’ve never abandoned a child, check. When I get upset I do say things others don’t want to hear but they are always true. I push people away when I start to feel abandoned… I don’t intentionally disrespect others, check. I don’t force my ideas or opinions on others, I hope. I don’t manipulate… okay, fine, it’s like my hobby. But, I always feel guilty after, as thought the guilt makes me good.

My point is, if I’m not the villain that I’ve been brought up to believe, who am I? How do I find out?

It’s time to retire this pencil. Off topic.

If I could do anything in the world, I’d have a professional teach me how to play the cello… or maybe just a professional play the cello for me. It’s my favourite instrument, I love its sound, and I honestly believe there is nothing better than a beautiful woman with a cello between her legs.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, out now, Amazon, Kindle, stuff like that… It’s about people trying to be villains.

Looking for Warmth in Unfamiliar Places.

Art Print available from Society6
https://society6.com/product/photography5192419_mini-art-print?sku=s6-20404408p113a263v867a264v868

Sunday 7th of April 2019

A door appeared next to the lounge chairs to my right. A light brown wooden door with a small heart shaped lock on the right, below the handle. In the centre of the door, about eye level, are nine small panels, like a grid. They can be slid around the square they form, revealing symbols underneath.

I slide them around to see all the symbols, but what’s underneath is a distraction. It’s the subtle nicks in the wood on top that form a pattern, a puzzle to fit together.

The panels unlock a piece of paper that falls out. A letter addressed to me. It reads:

~ There’s so much to say and not an easy way to begin. So much pasted and so much going forward. So, I’ll just get to it.

There was so much that we both kept from each other, so much we kept to ourselves and hid away because that’s the way we thought we had to be. I see clearly now what I didn’t see then, we were children, not taught to know any better by our parents, who weren’t taught to know any better. We put too much pressure on ourselves to be who we thought we were, when we were just the abandoned children of abandoned children.

I want you to know that I don’t blame you for anything, and I’m hoping, with everything that I am, that you’re not blaming me. It’s so easy now to look back and see our mistakes, to see what we now think of as flaws, when before they were our strengths and stupidities.

We’re older now, and we know things now. We’ve taught ourselves and we’ve learned from our mistakes, our failures.

I’m not who I was and it’s because of you. I want you to know that. Because of you I’ve grown, I’ve learned, I’ve developed. In failing each other, we raised each other, at least, that’s how I feel.

You were what I needed when I needed you to be it, for that I’m always grateful. Thank you for being there for me and not being there for me, as silly as that sounds. The parting of us was essential, and I like to think it was for you as well. Don’t worry about me, I’m good and I hope you are too.

Be well, be happy, and remember we did what we were meant to do in each others lives, never doubt that. My love and gratitude… ~

When I finished reading the letter, a soft glow began emanating from under one of the couches. I reached under and pulled out a key, attached to a rope like chain.

The key fit perfectly in the lock and turned with ease. It opened with a slight push, stepping through, the door closed behind me.

I wish it was summer because when the sun goes down, when it shines at all, its the sort of cold that settles in around bones. There’s just no shaking it, no staying warm. I’ve been sleeping in my dressing gown, with an extra blanket and a new addition, a hot water bottle. But, I’ve still caught a cold, so, whatever. Was that post modern of me, dismissing my plight like that?

I’m not intentionally covering up my emotional state, I just don’t care. Getting upset or even fighting it doesn’t seem practical right now. And it’s not because ‘things could be worse’, or ‘there are people out there worse off than me’, it should be, but it isn’t. I just don’t care. This is my reality now, I’ve embraced it, and also, I’m not here most of the time anyway. I should name the world in my head. It should have a name, like New Cap City. Only the truly worthy will get that reference.

How about Emet? Yeah, Emet sounds interesting. I should put the kettle on and go to bed.

Hot water bottle’s in the bed, but I’m not. In the bathroom just now I could see my own breath. I’m pretty sure it’s colder in here than it is outside, but that’s not my point.

When I was in school, I used to see my own breath in the bathroom, it would get that cold. This no heating thing, it isn’t new. We got central heating for the first time when I was in my twenties. Before that we had one gas heater in the living room and nothing else. Before that, one of those gas tank heaters that we moved from room to room. Again, not the point. I’ve just gone back in time, back to the beginning of the end.

I had just started university when we got central heating. I was still in the process of pushing my friends away because I was jealous of their lives, and they were just in the process of letting me so they could get on with their lives. I was convinced they didn’t matter anyway, this was the step I needed before success. They were just getting married and having babies, I was going to have a career. It would be ironic if it wasn’t so depressing.

University was supposed to be the stepping point into greatness. But look at me, I’m exactly where I started. In a house with no heat, just like before. The same house in fact, I’ve never moved from this spot. The difference is now, I have no friends, I have a family who don’t know me or care about me and… there is not third thing.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself, these are just facts I’ve linked together, the brain trying to create order, synergy. I want it to mean something, so it does. Whatever.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available from Amazon and stuff.

The Shape of a Life.

Thursday 4th of April 2019

I heard somewhere that when you can’t go a day without thinking about something, then you’ve already found what’s important to you. I don’t think I’ve gone a day since I was eleven without thinking about being an author. Even seeing the word written, it looks so beautiful. The letters look warm and whole, soft and comforting, like a fireplace in a small cabin, surrounded by warm wood, soft, plush rugs, the crackling of the firewood breaking apart in the heat.

Now I’m dreaming about writing. I had a typewriter, the blue one I was given as a Christmas present when I was maybe ten. My mum saved up to get it for me, and I loved it until the day the ribbon ran dry. I’m sure I never wrote anything good back then, nothing has survived, but it didn’t matter, I knew who I was and who I was going to be.

But back to the dream. I had typed the title at the top of the page. ‘The Shape of a Life’.

The problem: This is the book I’ve been struggling to write for three years, I should say five, but the first two years of writing it I was happy with it, then I let someone read it, a professional editor. Never let someone read your first draft, big mistake. I’ve been stuck since. Anyway, so, what does the dream mean? It’s so hard to convey sarcasm in writing?

I also dreamt about a church. I knew it was a multi-faith church, the things we know in dreams, and the ceiling was obscured by grey and blue mist that made looking up like looking up into the sky. I was happy to be there, surrounded by people of different faiths, different backgrounds and different communities, all accepting and understanding each other. It felt like: “Yes, we have different names for god, we’ve developed different practices around that god, but it’s still god, we are all the same in that love for god.” I wish there was a place like that in real life.

Giving Up.

Wednesday 3rd of April 2019

For three years now I’ve been struggling to finish my second book. On the first of this month, I looked at my notes and felt this panic, I just couldn’t make myself write.

Understand that I know exactly what I want to write, this block is completely mental, my writing doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I can’t write if it doesn’t mean something to me.

I keep writing because what am I without it, who am I? What am I supposed to do, what do I tell people if I’m not a writer? These aren’t good reasons to keep doing something I’m not happy with anymore, right?

I’m not giving up on writing, writing is still a compulsion, but I’m giving up on being a writer right now. There’s still so much I want, so many ideas in me, so many stories I want to tell. And I want to get to them, but I can’t do it in this state. Maybe I’ll never get to them, maybe I have to accept that.

Right now, I’m terrified. What do I do with my life if I’m not a writer? Who am I? I feel lost and scared, but it’s not important, nothing really is and that’s part of the problem. Things have to matter to me again. So, what matters to me?

“Can’t you see there’s a world out there? Don’t be scared.” – A Million Little Pieces, Placebo.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ available now from booky places.