The Power of the Introvert

I've always thought there was something wrong with me. At least that's how people always treated and continue to treat me. "You're too quiet." "Why are you so shy?" "What's wrong, you're too quiet..." on and on and on. I'm not quiet because something's wrong and I'm not really all that shy. I just don't care to fill every moment of every day with endless, pointless chatter. I can't do it, I don't like it. That's that. I can be socially awkward (to some people), but in my head, I'm just trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible so I can have some peace.

People don't seem to understand the desire to be alone and quiet. I don't know if it's an introverted thing or just me, but I like to do things on my own, I set my own goals and all I need is my own satisfaction to get me by. I don't need constant encouragement (sure, sometimes I get down, I am human after all, but I don't need someone always patting me on the back, pushing me along my 'path' to my calling).. Others can't seem to understand that.. "What helps you do better?," I'm asked, and I just want to say, "Leaving me the hell alone makes me do better," but of course, that's not the answer they are looking for. They want me to say something that allows them to be needed, allows them to get involved. Sorry folks, that doesn't work for me, it just pisses me off.

All this group stuff can be thrown in the garbage for all I care. I loath working in groups or doing group activities that make me feel as if I'm in elementary school all over again. Every environment I've ever been in is geared toward being a social extrovert. Someone who needs social interaction to get the juices flowing. That's why either in school or work, we have never-ending meetings about one thing or another, spending two hours talking about something that could have been done in five seconds. I sit there, grind my teeth, predicting everything that is done or said, listening to them all repeat themselves over and over again, and pray to God it's over soon.

I get that there are others who need that social interaction, but there are those, like me who think better in the quiet and can't even fathom coming up with a decent idea with all the chatter going on. One is not better than the other, they are just different, and if I can see that, why can't they? I've gone so far as to explain it to some people and they still look at me funny like I have a disease or something. I'm starting to believe extroversion equals narrow-mindedness, based on what I've witnessed time and time again.

I wish, I SO wish that those around me would realize that they aren't the only types of people in the world. You can't treat everyone based on the same kind of personality traits.

Emotions ~ Real or Not Real?

To be human is to feel ~ or at least that's the way I look at it. I call it 'raw emotion,'  that moment when you are stripped of your masks, titles, sarcasm, whatever it may be and are completely vulnerable to your surroundings ~ if not completely vulnerable, then absolutely revealed. I'm reading World War Z, and I came across an 'interview' that talked about Paul Redeker, the crazed but genius man void of all feeling. "Paul Redeker always believed, well perhaps not always, but at least in his adult life, that humanity's one fundamental flaw was emotion." This guy suppressed everything and looked at any situation with a severely logical eye, taking sympathy and worry out of the equation. Kill thousands of innocent, uninfected civilians? If that means solving the problem, then he was all for it. He didn't care the cost of his plan because he knew it would work. He was called 'emotionless,' but how true was his hard-earned title? Another quote from the book states, "Redeker's lifelong jihad against emotion was the only way to protect his sanity from the hatred and brutality he witnessed on a daily basis." That sounds more true than being an empty shell lined only with practicality.

I think about a few other characters that try to hide behind their actions or their strength, and it always turns out they are the most sensitive of human beings. Jeff Lindsay's Dexter Morgan, Amanda Hocking's Remy King... These are characters that have experienced the worst and do whatever they can to steel themselves to the reality of their memories... We can't keep from feeling ~ it's out of our control no matter how different we'd like it to be...

So, *emotion* ~ real or not real? Definitely real.... those who try to act as if they don't possess that quality which makes us all human are those that feel the most, hurt the worst, and fall the hardest.


~ Keely ~

Apocalyptic Worlds

I'm in zombie mode right now.. or end of the world mode... Yeah that sounds a little weird, even to me, but I've surrounded myself with it lately, and not on purpose. I read Article 5 (check out my review here), while simultaneously reading Hollowland, plus I can't get enough of The Walking Dead on AMC. I don't know if it's because it's 2012, "the year of doooooom! mwahahahaha,"  or if it's just because the idea of the world as we know it coming to end is starting to come to the forefront of everyone's mind ~ especially those in entertainment ~ but apocalyptic shows and dystopian novels are all the rave. Things are changing, there's no denying that. Prices are skyrocketing making are stagnant paychecks smaller and smaller every couple of weeks. I don't believe in zombies, but I think a change in the way we live is definitely possible. I'm not all about the 'doomsday' obsessed cults that are out there now, picketing about the end of life as we know it (instead of getting some smarts to prepare for what they so kindly predict for all of us), but I do think it's important we learn to depend on ourselves... Who knows what the heck could happen?

(Doesn't really do 'the look' justice ~ but if you've seen it, you get it)

Anyway, what I really wanted to write about revolves around episode 9 of The Walking Dead ~ "Triggerfinger." They are already gearing up for episode 11 (I think.. I don't know, I have a Roku minus cable), so this is nothing new to those who are fanatics about the show. I wanted to write about Rick and what's happening to him. Shane's already fallen down the looney tree and hit every branch on the way down, but Rick ~ solid, big-hearted, hold-on-to-your-humanity-Rick ~ is getting closer and closer to that point. Or is he? I'm wondering if he is inching closer to the truth of human nature in a world that requires ruthlessness or if he is getting further away from it. He shot the living without even blinking, something I never expected from him...and the look on his face right before the credits started rolling told me something significant had morphed inside him...

So about this thing we call 'human nature...'  what is it? Is it compassion or is it survival? Is it a little bit of both?

I'm gunna think on it and write my answer a bit later, but I want to know...

What do you think?

~ Keely ~

The Joy of Art

Lately, I've been in the creative mood... It's consumed me to the point that I can't think of anything else... I can barely stand to be at work, and my poor little house is in desperate need of a good scrubbing.. I think this obsession is a good thing.. Someone must be trying to tell me something...

This past weekend, all I did was paint or draw.. Saturday I made myself a pot of coffee and began my discovery of acrylics.. I worked from 9 am until after 4 pm, only breaking to shower... Once I was 'finished' (it's not done yet!), I felt like I had run a marathon.. a few sips of Jameson later, and the nervous aftershock of all that concentration finally dwindled... and although I felt like I had been hit by a semi, I couldn't have been happier...

I still love my writing, and will continue to stick with that as well.. in my opinion, as you might have read in a previous post, it's just another form of art... but there's something to be accomplished here...

Thanks for *listening* to me ramble :)

~Keely~

Sudden Obsession

I've always loved to draw, doodle, paint, and just create .. well, anything. But, for the past year, I've been focusing on writing and reading. I have my book blog, Realms of an Open Mind, which will be shutting down this week due to the fact that my hosting term has expired and I can't bring myself to pay for another year when there are free ways to blog. Veryyy tough decision.. but what's helped me through it is the fact that I've got this new fervor for art. I don't know exactly what happened... My pops gave me a gift card for art supplies for my birthday, and once I had that newly sharpened charcoal pencil in my hand, it was all I could think about. I'm not sure what, but something in my brain, heart, or soul ~ whichever you like ~ was triggered and I'm a drawing/painting fiend now. My only regret is that I have a day job that gets in the way (and is becoming more and more demanding), but I just see that as a challenge to work harder in order to get away from it ;).

So enough of my random rambling... If you'd like to visit my shop on  Etsy, please click here and just take a look. I'm working on my first acrylic, which came from a dream... yeah, that's how obsessed I've become ~ I'm even creating in my dreams...

The Many Faces of a Writer

I recently posted a quote by Jasper Fforde on my other blog, Realms of an Open Mind, and it goes like this:

“After all, reading is arguably a far more creative and imaginative process than writing; when the reader creates emotion in their head, or the colors of the sky during the setting sun, or the smell of a warm summer's breeze on their face, they should reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer - perhaps more.” 

I guess it gave me a sense of pride as a reader because it does take imagination to be able to take something literary and turn it into a physical world. A lot of people ask me how I can read so much, that they get bored, or they don't have the patience for it, and I guess, yeah, it does take a certain kind of mind (not a better one, so don't get offended!) to be able to read in the quiet for hours at a time.

Books are like movies to me, better even. I can see it playing out in my head as if there is a screen behind my eyes and the book is projecting the images. It's hard to explain, but I barely see the words ~ just the actions and emotions they create.

However, I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the value of the writer as good ole Jasper does. After some thought, I don't think it's true that readers should "reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer - perhaps more." It may take a specific breed of mind to read unrelentingly, but a reader has one face, one mind ~ a writer has dozens, hundreds, thousands of faces.

The writer, no matter age, gender, background, race, or point-of-view, must wear many hats and be able to project multiple personalities in a way that is believable. They have to play the role of an older, motherly lady at the same time that they construct a witty, sarcastic young man with a flaring temper. Not an easy feat when you have to take yourself outside of your own mind and put yourself in dozens of different shoes. The thought makes my feet hurt (hopefully, one day I'll be more flexible), but somehow there are some writers who can build up so many different viewpoints and personalities and make us believe it all to the point that we become infatuated with the characters and the story. They can see any situation through a number of minds and pairs of eyes, and they have a mind open to every possibility.That's a good writer.

 

“People hide their truest nature. I understood that; I even applauded it. What sort of world would it be if people bled all over the sidewalks, if they wept under trees, smacked whomever they despised, kissed strangers, revealed themselves?”  ~Alice Hoffman, The Ice Queen

This is probably my favorite book of all time. I read the entire thing in one sitting ~ completely captivated :)

Quote

“Words are like physical objects around us that appear to be continuous and whole but are in fact composed of particles too small for for the eye to see, for the brain to imagine. Words oversimplify reality. Break open a word, and it's like breaking a mold. The contents seep free, become something new.”  ~ Christina Meldrum, Madapple

One of my favorite quotes... I went to school for art history, but what I really should have studied was English, creative writing, or the like, for my greatest passion revolves around words. I don't speak them very well - call me socially inept - but I love to write them, to string them together in a meaningful sequence that will, hopefully, create a spark somewhere. They are what keep my world turning, my wheels spinning, and my sanity intact.

Meldrum says that words are 'composed of particles too small for the eye to see, for the brain to imagine.' Every word we speak or write or think has a meaning, hidden or otherwise. We see them for what they are, 'continuous and whole,' when in reality, if we choose to think of it as such, they can be broken down into the reflection of the enigmatic soul.They 'appear to be...whole' when we hear them or see them, but there is an entire universe living inside that one word, if only we take a moment to look beyond what we imagine.

They give us a way to express the enormity that is our emotions or our thoughts. 'Words oversimplify reality.' We can pluck a feeling from our conscience, something so vast that it can expand to absorb our entire being and more, and embrace it in the form of a tiny word. 'Break open a word, and it's like breaking the mold. The contents seep free, become something new.' Look beyond the black and white, peer into the depths of what anything really means, and you'll have a whole new outlook.

...

"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." ~ Anton Chekhov

My husband was perusing the Facebook newsfeed, and he came across this quote that I shared so generously from Good Reads.

"What does that mean?," he asked.

"What do you mean?," I said. "It's poetry."

"Why did he use broken glass? I don't get it."

"Each word is significant. I just thought it was nice."

Getting frustrated with my lack of any kind of help for him to understand, he had a bit of a tissy, so I left the room so he could finish his coffee and just get over it.

The thing I love about poetry and just words in general is that they can mean something different for everyone. I couldn't really *tell* someone and force the meaning of those words that were in that particular sequence because that is something I believe  people need to feel for themselves.

That quote struck me when I first read it, and I had to share it. Taylor's question (and subsequent irritation) got me really thinking of the reason why it meant something to me. So when I went back downstairs, this is what I told him:

What is the moon? The moon is the silver light in the vast darkness. It is the promise in midst of hopelessness. Now what does "broken glass" signify? Something shattered, whether it be a heart, dreams, or a soul. It's a tragedy. What my friend Anton is trying so eloquently to say is that he doesn't want you to simply tell him that not all is lost, that everything he thought was broken will realign itself. He wants to see, to be shown, with his own eyes, proof of the glimmer of that hope of which you speak. He needs to see it among the shattered, blackened tragedy he's experiencing in order to believe in it.

That's what it means to me.

White-Out!

It's the morning of January 12th, my lucky day off, and I awake early as I usually do and stumble downstairs for some coffee and my favorite show before everyone else wakes up (I live with two men who insist on making wise-cracks about it, so I have to be sneaky in order to have any peace and quiet.) All the blinds and curtains are pulled tight, so I almost forget about the storm wreaking havoc just outside the comfort of my warm slippers. I look out the window above my kitchen sink, rinsing out my coffee cup and all I see is a monochromatic vision of white.

I smile. How can this day get any better?

I can't wait to get out in it, but since I've got my priorities straight, I hit up some caffeine and get my fix in front of the tele (probably the only time of a day I have complete control of the remote, so I might as well take advantage.) Ten minutes later, Taylor (my husband) comes stomping down the stairs singing, "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow." I grin, he comes and sits next to me, sees what I'm watching, but my warning glare - better known as The Look - keeps him from ruining the moment for me.

 An hour later, in even better spirits, I pull on my winter gear. Ahh and the best part - I rip the tags off my brand new LL Bean Winter Walker snowshoes (that my husband so graciously gave me for Christmas), and finally head outside to begin the daunting task of actually getting them on my boots. Taylor helps me as I stumble, fall on my butt, and cuss myself out, but pretty soon I'm hiking through our front yard, down the hill, and onto the street making a beeline for our favorite path that leads down to Lake Arrowhead.

Now if you've never seen a winter storm, you should really put it on your bucket list. The snow is coming down so hard that it reminds me of confetti falling from the sky in Times Square at midnight on New Years. The wind is swiftly making its way through the trees, and I hear the tall pines groaning in protest as snow and ice builds on their limbs, making them bend and stretch, nearly touching the ground. Everything is completely white, and I can't tell where the sky ends and the ground begins.

It has a way of making you feel ridiculously small, like a tiny speck of imperfection in the pristine beauty of the madness taking place around you.

I make it to the trail's entrance, which has this strange welcoming feeling to it, almost as if it's opened up just for my little expedition. I'm immediately surrounded by trees ~ on the left, to my right, and even above me as branches bend over the top of the trail, creating a perfect tunnel. The snow isn't as thick here with the protection of the trees, but there is literally a *light at the end of the tunnel*, and pretty soon the sky opens up above me and I'm slammed with falling snow. I pull my hood back and allow the little frozen miracles to cling to my eyelashes. Pure bliss.

 It's unbelievably quiet, almost eerily so, and I feel as if I never want to turn back. I make my way up and down hills, over fallen limbs and rocks, and reach the banks of Lake Arrowhead. The thing with frozen, snow-covered lakes is that they look much the same as the frozen, snow-covered ground ~ they blend and meld together as one giant achromatic mass. The snow is coming down so thick, that it looks like a hazy fog is lingering in the distance. I'm tempted to test the thickness of the ice ;), but I think better of it and turn around to find another trail.

I could stay out here forever, I think. I don't want to head back, just set up camp right here and remain trapped in the storm forever. It's so incredibly beautiful, raw, and savage, this thing called Mother Nature ~ if I wasn't hooked before, she's definitely ensnared me now.


The one thing that makes me turn around is my excitement to share what I've experienced with Taylor. (I never go off into the woods on my own ~ usually scares the living hell out of me ~ so I know he'll appreciate my enthusiasm). I climb back up the hill to our front yard, and find him no longer outside shoveling. I know he'll be looking for me though, so I wait a couple of seconds, and sure enough he spots me through the window and opens the front door.

"Want to go again?," he says.

"Hell yes!"

"Let me get my skis."

And we're off again.

Hosac Mountain

The alarm sings while the moon still sits high in the sky, almost as bright as the sun. I swing out of bed, still a little groggy but quickly becoming alert with the excitement of the exertion to come, and I'm led downstairs by the glow of the kitchen light. I grab a cool glass of water while the smell of coffee pervades my senses, and I wait for the drip, drip, drip to cease so I can satisfy my vice and get my daily caffeine fix. My husband is stuffing his pack with water, apples, oranges, and an extra coat and sets it to wait patiently by the door. I tread back upstairs, pull my hair back, and set myself to the task of dressing warm - it's below freezing outside, the sun has yet to rise, and we'll be out there in the darkness for a few hours. I hear my brother's alarm, so loud it's a wonder that it doesn't give him a heart attack when it goes off, and I know it's almost time to go. I grab my husky's leash, pull on my warm boots, take another gulp of water, and we head out the door.



We pull up to the entrance of Hosac. "No Trespassing," the sign says, but everyone ignores the warning because it's something that's hardly enforced. We set out ~ 3 adults, 2 dogs. The moon that was once a beacon in the sky has hidden behind a dark cloud, and we can barely see where we are going. We can hear movement in the woods on either side, and I can't help but feel that we are in a horror movie or a Stephen King novel (we are in Maine after all) and something is going to leap from the darkness at any moment. The full moon the filled the sky before it was overcome with shyness adds to the spookiness, and we start laughing about werewolves and other monsters, and before we know it, the creepiness is gone and its just us and the path ahead.

Hosac isn't a long hike and it most certainly isn't the most difficult, but for us, who don't do this everyday, it definitely isn't the easiest. We have to stop for a short break after every steep climb, the path is slick with ice in the sub-freezing temperatures, and we are concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in and out, and keeping watch for possibly angry moose.

The last hill comes into sight, and it's the steepest one yet. I take baby steps, my husband in front of me with our husky, Anouk, and my brother behind me with his dog, Dixie. We are huffing for breath at this point, but the end is in sight and the sun is starting to rise - the whole reason we're here in the first place, and we don't want to miss it. We try to hurry, baby steps, and pretty soon, the path levels out and we can catch our breath. We look around, and we can see the little specks of houses in the town of Limerick miles away. The white-tipped peak of Mt. Washington is barely in view, and we feel as if we're on top of the world. We snap a few pictures, tie the dogs so they can rest, and we pick the best seat in the house to view the sunrise on this beautiful, brisk morning.



We sit and laugh and talk for about half an hour, and then it happens. A small orb of red tinted orange appears on the horizon and not thirty seconds later the sun makes its debut in full force, and we know the sweat and strenuous effort was totally worth it.



We all sit for a few more minutes, and my brother's stomach growls so loud I'm surprised it didn't echo down the mountain for all to hear. It's time to go. This is the scariest part for me - seeing the bottom, trying not to fall on my but as I inch my way down the steep decline. My husband slips on the ice once, but catches himself, and the dogs look back at us like they are telling us to hurry up, they're ready to move.






We find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, and we realize we've made a wrong turn. We think about turning back, but decide to trudge onward - we'll find our way. Definitely the right decision. New views, new scenes, and a new path - keeps it interesting. We find the exit, climb over the fence and another "No Trespassing" sign, and find ourselves on another road about a mile from the car. At least there's no steep hills this time.

 We've made it home finally, and it's only 8:30 AM, and we feel as if a whole day has passed. We grab some grub, the dogs curl up on the couches and conk out, and we try to figure out what to do with the rest of our long day.