The Full Mind Way

I’ve heard a lot about living a mindful life, and I’m all for it. Really. Make an effort.

That said, what I think I’m experiencing is a full mind life.

My mind is full. I don’t mean in a great mind sort of way. Symphonies and cures are not banging up against each other in there. No plan to save or take over the world. No.

My mind is full of do-stuff lists, annoyances, things I need to say or should’ve said, projects, memories, random crap, and a few worthwhile notions. If brains are like junk closets then my junk closet is in the house of someone about to be invaded by cameras for reality TV. “Just look at what is still in here!”

Please note I said TV crew not police. My junk closet isn’t that bad.

Well, actually it may not even be that interesting, but it is that cluttered.

Anyway, one thing rattling around a lot lately is irritation. I have wasted more time getting annoyed with and debating with people on facebook than normal. I find that I read something–and I can’t let it go. Usually I roll my eyes at things and shrug. Everyone is entitled to an opinion and I’m wrong as often as anyone else.

But I’m angrier these days. Frustrated with the world. It’s ridiculous because no one is going to change the world with a facebook comment. I hate to argue with people. I hate to make people mad at me.

And yet…

Are you someone who likes to argue or who avoids argument no matter what? How do you argue–to their face on in status threads? Do you think arguing is useful or a waste of time?

Inundated, overwhelmed, and out of my mind. You?

My son's "Are you crazy?!" look.

I’ve got a stack of novels and short stories I’ve written and a folder stuffed with rejections. I think I fumbled (to put it politely) my last effort at getting an agent. But self-publishing doesn’t appeal to me either.

You know those hoarding shows where you can see people surrounded, no, overwhelmed by the dross and remains of their lives? I feel like that except instead of pizza boxes and newspapers and cats, it written words and all the talismans that cling to them. I don’t even know where to begin.

Some days I think I can do anything I put my to. Other days…I wonder much I could carry to the dumpster before my mind clears.

Ever think of just throwing all those words away?

Magic Pixie Dust & Other Ways to Act like a Grown-up

My next art show is January 20th. My spring semester starts January 9th. I’m not prepared for either.

If I could give up washing dishes, laundry, walking the dog, and parenting, I might feel okay with these dates–and I might not have this headache.

But no pixie is going to sprinkle my apartment with magic dust and announce, “You now have the gift of extra time!”

Bills will not pay themselves. (Shocking, isn’t it?)

I don’t need to live in a spotless apartment (please, never stop by unannounced), but I do rather like eating off clean plates and wearing clothes that don’t smell. (I’m a conformist.)

The thing I’ve learned about art shows (at least, my art shows) is that they do not pay for themselves. From a budget perspective they are foolish endeavors… why go through all the bother?

I know plenty of people who when deciding where to live and what to study and what job to take look at the money. They have a lifestyle they want (above the basic food-and-shelter), and they act accordingly. Often these people have lovely houses in nice neighborhoods and they do things like take trips and go shopping for new clothes.

When I’m in these people’s houses I feel I’m from another planet and my brain is incapable of figuring out how these people manage it. They have matching furniture in the living room!

Okay, I’m rambling when I’ve got plenty of work to do.

If you know how to juggle everything and live like a grown up, please let me in on the secret.

The Insanity of Space

Outer space is weird. True. But that’s not the space I’m talking about.

I’m talking about my work space. And by work space I mean the crazy corner in my apartment for writing and making art. Things are out of control. I can’t use my table, and the shelves are full. Little odd things are everywhere, but everything seems like something I need to keep.

I’ve read Real Simple magazine, and all that’s really helped me do is lament my lack money for nifty matching containers and for a nifty house in which I can do as I please. I live in an apartment of about 800 square feet with two other human beings and two dogs.

How much clutter can one person have before madness?