Information

A conversation is just an exchange of information.

We trade words, we display facial signals, sometimes without meaning to. We use our bodies and our tones to communicate what we want to say and don’t mean to say outloud.

So I’ve discovered (quite a few times by now, but it’s still surprising every time,) the way I really communicate is nothing like the way I feel like I’m communicating.

I feel loud.

I feel expressive.

I feel like an extrovert when I’m talking to people.

But tonight I realized yet again that I am none of those things, for the most part. As far as I know I’m not stone. But I hear things like this:

“Oh my gosh, you’re so quiet.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Aww. You’re so little and mousy!”

“You’re just a soft personality.”

“I still can’t hear you.”

“You should be a kindergarten teacher!”

“…still can’t hear you. Whatever it is, I don’t want any.”

______________________

 

Today I went to work.

This isn’t anything new, I go to work quite a bit. It feels like I’m always at work. But today as I was walking towards the bathrooms I glanced down the hallway that leads to the breakroom I saw a familiar face. It was a coworker who had vanished to Hawaii a few months previous. Here, we will call her Vanny. Vanny’s hair is always flat-iron straight, and she always wears crazy hairbands. You get the sense that she’s a tough chick. This sense is correct.

Though, the toughness of a coworker doesn’t stop them from getting hug attacks.

And so Vanny got one, along with a “NO FREAKING WAY!” from me.

Vanny is back for good, it seems.

There’s only one downside, which is that Vanny hates another coworker who I’m a huge fan of. This other coworker will be called Adele, because she is Adele’s doppleganger.

Adele also gives you the sense that she is a tough chick.

Your sense is also correct, and this does not save Adele from hug attacks as well.

_________________________________

So, A Poetry Show is dead.

Well, dead-ish.

I left the project because I disliked the people. No one was in love with what we were doing, and I thought that I was going to work with people who were in love with something. And to be honest, I am lazy. Anything I do, sincerely, anything I do or get involved in, is something I am in love with. I won’t get out of bed otherwise.

And so the knowledge that what we were doing was very quickly a chore to those folks quickly frustrated me. And I felt that the ship would sink if I jumped, so I stayed, because I loved it for its potential. But my desperation for the project to become a success was not taken well by the group, because I was controlling and anxious. I wanted big plans, bigger plans, I wanted excitement from these people. And there was none.

I suddenly created one enemy, and then the next. The project made me anxious and I fumed at the laziness and carelessness of the people I worked with. DAG NABBIT, WHY CAN’T WE ALL BE IN LOVE, HERE? Why get involved if you’re not? If it’s such a drag, such a burden?

I left the project, knowing it would sink without me.

And I admit that when I realized it had died without me, I felt a burst of…gosh, I don’t know, pride? Smugness? It had confirmed that my love for the show was the thing that gave it life, that my love for a project could be the thing to mean life or death. It boosted my confidence in my ambition.

And then I realized that no one wanted any part of the project…the problem pieces, the people, were leaving.

Which left only the thing I had loved, the thing itself, the show itself. The idea as it was at square one.

Plans, dozens of them, started bursting into life in my brain. The things I can do. Will do. I never wanted it to be something that can be brushed off, or ignored for weeks. I wanted to build it, and make it grow and become huge. I wanted to expand.

The only problem, though, once I realized that I wanted to take A Poetry Show back, was that I remembered that I suck at poetry stuff. I appreciate it, I enjoy it, but I can’t write it or discuss it. I need people who know what they’re doing. And now I’m working that out. Overall it may take longer than expected to start up again, but I think it has too much potential to not be worked on by someone.

I’m also working on another project with a former Poetry Show-er. Someone who is pretty much a male version of myself from the Netherlands. A brilliant fellow who we’ll call Willam (pronounced vill-um.)

This one was Willam’s baby, the idea entirely his, and what a wonderful one it is. I’m not sure how much he’d be comfortable with me saying, but I’ll just say that I have huge hopes for this one. It’s an idea so weird that it has to be successful, even for just a wave of attention.

And then there are two more, one is a miniseries that will be filmed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, hopefully in 2015.

The last one is a project that is entirely mine. It has a very cozy, important place in my very INFP heart. It’s just going to be called The Honesty Project. Hopefully I can start that up by late 2014, I dearly want to do that the right way the first time.

And I just realized I’m tired and just felt like typing stuff. So I’m going to go now and sleep…unless I can’t, in which case I’ll just have to stay up and watch the new episode of Breaking Bad.

Goodnight, folks.

~Hannah-Elizabeth

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Murder Of A Future Once Certain

I think the impossible dilemma when dealing with time, is the unpredictability it contains. Not regarding spacetime curvature or the actual counting down of a giant glittering sphere on New Years Eve, but the curious, human pondering of the contents of the meaning of the evershifting hand dancing pleasantly inside our pocket watches. Time, and what it contains for the human being.

We use our minds for memories and planning; the wonderous cognitive, executive functions of the frontal lobe forever biased by the amygdala when it comes to our overall view of our futures. Such beautiful roadmaps we create using experience and ambition. Such plans, using the key players we are currently focused upon, like a child using the nearest dolls to formulate an improv fairy tale, in which there is always a damsel in distress, and always prince charming to save the day.

What a shock to the system it is, even for a moment, when we glance down at our plans, schemes, and future mapped out before us, and suddenly grip the paper in utter terror when we realize that the page is white as snow, without a mark or a timeline to be found. An impossible fork in the road, leading a million places at once, and nowhere to go, because we have obliterated our own compasses for the sake of the everchanging heart. The unreliable beat of the ripping and tearing drum of every step we take, until we fall through into a formerly acoustic hideaway, once comfortable and safe, is now unsure and dangerous.

But time has a way of gentle healing, just as it specializes in the act of murder of a future once certain.

-Classic