I Need Help Writing

On my “writing” days that I don’t have work in the morning or some early appointment:
Wake up, lay in bed for a while thinking, smoke a cigarette, maybe go to the bathroom, get back in bed and lay there for at least 20 more minutes, make coffee, drink coffee while facebooking, open the document I’m working on, realize I’m out of coffee and cannot write without it, smoke a cigarette, get more coffee, start writing, hit a wall, facebook some more, force-write some crap that might work later, give up, text someone, see if anyone wants to hang out, read, think about cleaning, get dressed, fix hair, eat, hang out with Corey, complain about how I didn’t get much writing done today, the day is over, lay in bed and pray, think about how it will be easier to write tomorrow, until the next morning, get up and do it all again.

Great writers say there’s no such thing has writers block, and that writers need discipline. But sometimes, I just don’t know what to write about. Have I really reached that point in my life where I stopped caring passionately about things? How is it that I’ve become so nonchalant, my mind suddenly so old? Where have all my deep impulses for writing gone? How do I find that buried thing that needs plucked out of me and put on paper for all to see? I would just give up writing altogether, but I’d be severely unhappy if I did that. Help me.

We're Not Supposed to Worry

About two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Shortly before this took place, I was talking with one of my best friends and roommate, Nadia, about various things that worry me. My career, my relationship, my family, what God would have me do. What if this, what if that, what if I mess everything up because I worry so much. I started worrying about worrying. “Nadia, I won’t be able to go to sleep because I’m so worried,” I said, to which she made the reply, “we’re not supposed to worry.”
Although this statement is one that I should know very well, it seems that this is the easiest of all things to forget. There it was, momentarily putting a stop to my circular thought process: “we are not supposed to worry.” How could it be so simple? Somehow, (even though people do lots of things they are not supposed to do), I thought, “well, if I’m not supposed to, then I won’t. How bad could my life be if I’m not even supposed to worry about it?”
I was able to sleep, but the next day my anxieties started all over again. Thereafter I was told that I have OCD, a form of which my compulsions ranged from getting affirmations from people on whether or not I was insane to checking my alarm clock seven times before sleeping. Naturally, I started obsessing about whether or not I actually had this disorder. No one had ever suggested this to me before, not after years of counseling, not after years of constantly checking with people to make sure that I am, in fact, not ugly. It perhaps makes sense that I had never been told that I had this disorder before, seeing that I had many more external issues to deal with; life events that were shaping and breaking who I was; I needed help coping, that was certain, but no one really bothered to put a label on what was going on in my mind.
As with any mental disorder, you cannot point do it like a tumor and say, “yes, you have cancer.” However I have decided that in order to get effective help for a type of torment that might be happening within one’s own mind, labels can be helpful. Get as second opinion as I might, the sentence, “we’re not supposed to worry,” is a simple statement that will always stick with me. From Nadia’s words of wisdom we must remember that no one can benefit from worry. It does not change a single thing about one’s life. OCD, as far as I see, is just a corruption of concern: doing something that we are not supposed to do; blown out of proportion like lots of gifts/neutralities we are given that are molded into sin. It doesn’t matter what chemical imbalance a person may or may not have; whether or not we believe in such labels. We are not supposed to worry.

Luke 12:25 And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?

Anyway, here’s a poem from project that I’ve been working on, as humbly as I can offer it for a growing poet who’s not quite there yet:



People Think Way Too Much of Poetry

The pretentious flower wears glasses

thick framed, heavy.

His neck bends,

his stem close to breaking.

The pretentious flower has a hat,

baggy, knitted;

his petals hidden.

He wonders why he's a boy,

why he's a flower.

All the bees flock to him,

making food,

making poetry.

They don't care he's not a girl


like most flowers,

or that he's actually ugly, for that matter.

Random Thoughts, for Valentine's Day, 2012

I have been writing a lot of poetry lately. In fact, it's one of those things where I do a lot of it, and then leave it alone for a little while. Recently I went back to it, and I have been writing about two poems a week, and reading the poetry of others every day. I'm thoroughly enjoying this phase, as it is a useful tool in helping me to express myself until you know what I mean. Here's my most recent poem:


Nightmare


Was I asleep?
I remember you were
talking on the phone
while I gave you a foot rub.
I squeezed the muscle and
stroked the bones of both
your feet
before I noticed that you were talking
on the phone to someone.
I was there rubbing your feet.
But by that time
I’d vanished from your life
like the last time you used the bathroom
or the delivery guy who over-charged you.
I went into the other room as soon as I realized it
and started throwing knives at the wall so hard
they stuck, while I screamed and grunted
over and over.
You didn’t come in.
you just kept talking
to a mechanical voice on the other end.
It was like the dream where you laid
your head on my chest,
playing with my braids as
I took all of you in,
meditating on your dirt,
and making it to mud, but
the rocks covered my hands in blood
and I couldn’t make it clean, as if
you were smiling and giggling at
my witless jokes and
suddenly
started yelling and bashing in my teeth,
kicking my stomach,
shouting profanities
while I choked for air.
I screamed to wake myself, hoping
to find you in the kitchen
making some pancakes
or getting a drink of water,
the aroma sweet when you’d tell me it was a dream.

You weren’t abusing me when I woke,
or raising your voice,
or making breakfast or drinking water because you couldn’t sleep.

But you had talked on the phone.
I had rubbed your feet
and threw daggers.
And by the time I was done,
you’d left.
You’d left before
you’d even dialed the number.
I wasn’t asleep,
but I’m still trying
to wake up.

New Project

Last year, I wrote a short film, submitted it to the screenwriting contest at Malone, ranking in the top four, and never made the film. This year, I am graduated and have never been more uncertain about what to do in my life. That's a dramatic statement, I realize, but I'm not going to downplay what I'm feeling and thinking because dramatic as it is, this really is the most uncertain time of my life. Even if I say "this is the most (blank)of my life" about a lot of things. I really mean it, every time.

So, I thought I'd do a project in the midst of all this uncertainty because I lose myself a little when I'm not creating a damn thing. Even though I'm currently writing another film, I thought I would actually film the one I wrote last year, since I finally decided that it's kind of important to me. I have some semblance of a crew put together, and I'm trying to get more crew members interested. Here is a sample of the project proposal:

Torn:
A film about the effects of talk on the perception.

I hope that the film will stir emotion and thought about how simple everyday things in life can greatly alter our view of the world and the people in it

The Story
Olive, a smart and trendy college age woman, hears various rumors about Jonah Hart’s questionable,(asshole -ish, douche bag-ish) behavior and obsessively tries to decide for herself the true nature of his character. The story is meant to portray the curiosity between one human being to the next, and the nature of how expectations change based on hearsay. Read more about the story below. . .

And of course, I've chosen not to tell you the rest of the story. You don't want to read every little detail, now. But if you ever see it, you'll know every detail. It feels good to be working on a project again.

Dreams and waking early

I had a dream that Fiona Apple's "Limp" was made into a newer, better version. It sounded basically the same except the instrumentals during the chorus were more elaborate and slightly more poppy. It was an excellent dream. I have been listening to Fiona Apple so much lately that even when I sleep I need to listen to her. Musical phases for me usually match what's going on in my life. If I could write good music, it would sound similar to Fiona Apple's. (Apologies for the dorky, probably more transparent than necessary, self disclosure)

I woke at six this morning. I laid awake for an hour, wondering what my life is about, restless. I didn't have any spectacular revelation, no epiphanies, no deep insight on myself. I laid there thinking long enough to go back to sleep. Now that I think back, it was actually five, because of the time change. When I woke the second time, I realized that I was supposed to set the clocks back last night after mid night. So, I really didn't sleep in 'til noon. Just eleven. And that makes all the difference.

Anyway, we are having a belated Halloween party today because we at The Hideout are not good at doing these things on time. In other news, my hair is finally orange! I can do anything now that my hair is orange.

Shorter entries

I've decided that maybe the trick to keeping up with a blog, for me, would be shorter entries. It makes me really sad that most people don't appreciate the art of blogging. Online journaling is amazing. I will always have it so I can look back, though I spend far too much time doing that.

Logging in to blogspot.com made realize just how forgetful I can be. I made an email address for this site and for other sites and job applications called echilensky@gmail.com. That sounds far more professional than c.chemicalgreen@gmail.com. A week ago I created yet another address with a new boring name for the same purpose. erin.chilensky@gmail.com. Wow. I'm continually doing things like this. I've fixed my resume so many times, not realizing that it was already fixed and just saved in four other documents. Do I need help?

Ready, Confess, Action

Dear God, I confess. Kbye.

What is the point of confessing? Is it so that a sound mind can be achieved? A guilty conscience can be alleviated? Is there an empty room after the dainty and dirty thoughts and emotions have been cleaned up, swept away, and polished?

Lately I’ve been neglecting blogging, or writing in general because my heart is heavy and when that happens, I refuse to process it. But as I write this, I’m aware that I am confessing my concerns to you and myself just as I have done to God. I am forced to process.

This morning I dreamed that I was in the swimming pool of a rich man with my brother. I was holding on to a giant, obnoxiously yellow floating device as if I had forgotten how to swim. A voice in my ear told me to hold my nose and go under water. So I did. When I could breathe no longer and came back up for air, it was storming. My brother was floating face down. In a panic I suddenly remembered how to swim. I swam to him and took him and brought him to land. We were suddenly in my back yard where I grew up and played as a kid. My parents were there, concerned. He seemed to be still alive. But as we towled him dry, he suddenly became a little girl. I looked in her face to realize that she resembled me. I more hastily dried her off.

I’ve been sinning more than usual and I feel its effects. Sinning is like lying: you have to keep doing it to cover up your previous errors, or so you think. In turn, it also affects your sense of entitlement. I want pleasure, I want gratification, I want vindication, I want love. These are mine, I’m entitled. But wait, what about everyone else? I’ve got to walk a straighter line, here. There is temptation, there is despair, and there is me, right in the corner of the page, that little stick figure. Temptation and despair are the storm, and then there’s me, trying to remember how to swim to save me from drowning.

As I’m faced with strange and new challenges, I must remember that’s it’s not only confessing that’s important. It’s not merely a list of rules in the bible that we’re supposed to follow. Does self gratification have a place in the perfect Kingdom which is made not just for you, but for others? Does vengeance have a spot in our place of rest? No. If any of these things did, the Kingdom would be chaotic and not perfect. Let’s not wait ‘til we die to start building this place. Confession is nothing if I don’t ask myself what’s in God’s will. Asking myself that question is what gives me direction as to what action I’m to take. I’m to pray for my enemies and not murder them in my own heart? Wow, that will be a daily struggle. Confessions are mere thoughts without action; thoughts that can be revisited comfortably. The action that follows confessing is what makes it uncomfortable. If there’s anything I’ve learned in this past year, God is not concerned with your comfort. He is more concerned about whether or not you drown in that pool. Sometimes the air is harsh on the lungs of someone who’s been drowning for a long time.