Most of the time I fear that people reading my blog will think me a silly little fool, thoughtless when it comes to the real and tangible facets of a live lived. The problem, as I see it, revolves around the fact that most of my thoughts, at least the ones I divulge, are based mainly on some other hinted life. Some life which exists under the covers of this harder, more difficult life. The life which requires that we pay taxes, panic at Christmas, lose jobs, find ourselves unable to pay mortgages, or car loans. The live which reveals that the sex trade is a very real atrocity and a high dollar business- someone's making a lot of money from human trafficing. It's the same life that requires us to realize that children are starving to death and women remained shunned, disrespected and brutally wounded.
Reading the news isn't something I enjoy anymore than I enjoy going to the dentist- but I do it. I don't read the news, in hopes that I may become that much wiser, or prepared for what's to come next. I read the news because I feel I owe it to people and a people whose stories need to be told, divulged and unraveled so that I can better appreciate the simple space in which I live and breath.
My life is simple compared to many. It's far more complicated and challenging compared to others. I suppose it's all how you see it, where you stand and from what viewpoint you're looking, waiting and watching.
Life is a mess. And life is beautiful.
There's a certain guilt I gravitate towards when someone else's tragedy unfolds before me...but then, if Donald Trump were to hitch a ride in my car, or step foot in my own house, he'd probably assume my little life a tragedy and he might go so far as to pity me...dare I give him that much credit. He would not feel pity, but might better recognize his own wealth. He might better understand the ease of his financial state should he watch me panic while I maneuver through my stack of bills, some months deciding who's late fee I am better afforded.
The point is, life's remiss and I get that.
There's some tinge of guilt I fear when I write about things as silly as mermaids and quiet Irishmen who troll seedy bars, seeking quiet and solitude. It's my escape.
But is it my escape and my freedom to dream, simply because I can afford the time to do so? Or is it because it's an innate mechanism, triggered by even the slightest change in the wind, or the view of some place before me?
I got a FACEBOOK message today in response to a blog entry I'd posted and it read:
"I read your blog. I don't get it, but it must be nice to have that kind of time to waste on all that dreaming you do."
I wasn't offended, at first. I was sad, and ashamed of the luxurious time I possess which certainly allows me the space to dream, read and write.
And then I got pissed off...in true Brett Fashion.
I didn't respond to the message, but I will.
The point, I suppose, I am trying to make is that I "make time to dream." It's a luxury I can afford because I have created a space in my life which will not override who I am and what I seek in life. It is that space in which I pour through myths, legends and stories of magic because it does something for me, in the same way that a 90 minute yoga class refreshes my Simpatico Sister, Ronda.
We all have to make time for something, whether it's our (ok your) kids, our pets, knitting, D&D, fitness or fashion.
It's an eye opener to have been called out on the time I spend on reading and writing. And really, it's a funny one- I can think of a lot worse things I could do with my time, and better things too.
In the end, as a wise man once told me "No one owns you but you."
I have created, for myself, a life which allows me the luxury to dream, and while I have that time, I make the most of it. Maybe I do it for people who cannot afford the luxury. Maybe I do it because it's the way I cope with things.
Whatever way you slice it, it doesn't mean I have forgotten that tragedy strikes some of more harshly than others.
Reading the news isn't something I enjoy anymore than I enjoy going to the dentist- but I do it. I don't read the news, in hopes that I may become that much wiser, or prepared for what's to come next. I read the news because I feel I owe it to people and a people whose stories need to be told, divulged and unraveled so that I can better appreciate the simple space in which I live and breath.
My life is simple compared to many. It's far more complicated and challenging compared to others. I suppose it's all how you see it, where you stand and from what viewpoint you're looking, waiting and watching.
Life is a mess. And life is beautiful.
There's a certain guilt I gravitate towards when someone else's tragedy unfolds before me...but then, if Donald Trump were to hitch a ride in my car, or step foot in my own house, he'd probably assume my little life a tragedy and he might go so far as to pity me...dare I give him that much credit. He would not feel pity, but might better recognize his own wealth. He might better understand the ease of his financial state should he watch me panic while I maneuver through my stack of bills, some months deciding who's late fee I am better afforded.
The point is, life's remiss and I get that.
There's some tinge of guilt I fear when I write about things as silly as mermaids and quiet Irishmen who troll seedy bars, seeking quiet and solitude. It's my escape.
But is it my escape and my freedom to dream, simply because I can afford the time to do so? Or is it because it's an innate mechanism, triggered by even the slightest change in the wind, or the view of some place before me?
I got a FACEBOOK message today in response to a blog entry I'd posted and it read:
"I read your blog. I don't get it, but it must be nice to have that kind of time to waste on all that dreaming you do."
I wasn't offended, at first. I was sad, and ashamed of the luxurious time I possess which certainly allows me the space to dream, read and write.
And then I got pissed off...in true Brett Fashion.
I didn't respond to the message, but I will.
The point, I suppose, I am trying to make is that I "make time to dream." It's a luxury I can afford because I have created a space in my life which will not override who I am and what I seek in life. It is that space in which I pour through myths, legends and stories of magic because it does something for me, in the same way that a 90 minute yoga class refreshes my Simpatico Sister, Ronda.
We all have to make time for something, whether it's our (ok your) kids, our pets, knitting, D&D, fitness or fashion.
It's an eye opener to have been called out on the time I spend on reading and writing. And really, it's a funny one- I can think of a lot worse things I could do with my time, and better things too.
In the end, as a wise man once told me "No one owns you but you."
I have created, for myself, a life which allows me the luxury to dream, and while I have that time, I make the most of it. Maybe I do it for people who cannot afford the luxury. Maybe I do it because it's the way I cope with things.
Whatever way you slice it, it doesn't mean I have forgotten that tragedy strikes some of more harshly than others.
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