I get nervous and I start babbling. And he starts babbling. And it's a babblefest.

Weave a story around this mixed proverb: "Silence is a great healer."

I don't feel like weaving a story around that mixed proverb but I do feel like writing about silence and communication. Who said these creative writing prompts are written in stone, anyway? They're not the boss of me. I'm the boss of me!

When people stop talking, they start communicating. Language can interfere with communication because language limits. As soon as you say something, you've eliminated every other possibility of what you might be talking about. We also use language to separate ourselves from other people. - Joss Whedon, 2008

Oh, Joss. You're so amazingly right about so many, many things.

I actually watched one of my favourite episodes, Hush, this past weekend and was reminded of its genius. Even with only about seventeen minutes of dialogue in the entire episode, it manages to speak volumes about communication. And at one point, Buffy suggests killing The Gentlemen by staking them but really ... well, you know what it looks like. The episode is worth it for the great .gif, alone.

In this episode, words get in everybody's way. Buffy and Riley (aka. The Character For Whom I Have Nothing But Irrational Hatred) talk but they don't communicate and can't manage to have their first kiss because they keep babbling. Anya has no idea what she means to Xander and Xander is either incapable or unwilling to articulate his feelings for her. We meet Tara, who clearly has things to say but is too shy and timid to say them. These are the things we're told in the beginning of the episode (where the dialogue is) but by the end, Buffy & Riley shut the hell up and start communicating (and kissing ... blech!), Xander demonstrates just how he feels about Anya when he pummels Spike for what he thought was his sinking his teeth into her,  Willow & Tara get a glimpse of just how powerful each other is when they touch their soon-to-be-lesbian-lover hands for the first time and move a friggin' soda machine with their minds (Bad. Ass!) and Tara tells Willow just what a powerful woman she is. It's only when the creepy-as-fuck Gentlemen come to town and steal everyone's ability to speak that they all truly start communicating with each other.

In regular ol' in-person conversation, I have a tendency to get all fucking jumbled up. It's not at all uncommon for me to ask several times, "does that make sense?" and it's rare that someone responds with, "yes, that makes complete sense." I'm much better at writing than I am speaking because I have much more control over what I am and am not putting out into the world. When I write, I can read and re-read and edit and I can make sure everything is cleaned up and put into a nice, tidy message that says just what I want it to say. In person, I can't do that. The minute I say something, it's out there and even if it may have sounded in my head like exactly what I wanted to say, it may not be perceived as such. Like The God of Geeks said, as soon as I say something, I've eliminated every other possibility of what I might be talking about. So, when it comes to face-to-face conversations, I'm almost always trying to make absolutely sure what I *am* talking about is crystal clear. Surely, you can see where I'm going with this ... often, the harder I try, the less clear I and the less sense I make.

Words are necessary, sure. In Hush, Riley needed them to operate the voice-activated elevator that took him down into The Initiative (and fuck you, Joss, for giving me a glimmer of hope that he would be killed off so early on in the season). In order to prevent Xander from wailing on him, Spike needed to say, "I bloody well did not suck the blood of your vengeance demon girlfriend, you sod!" but couldn't. And when Buffy needed to tell Riley to destroy the box that would release the voices of everyone in Sunnydale, she was unable to speak and had to show him and hope he understood what she was trying to say (which he didn't, at first). When he finally does understand what she wants him to do, he destroys the box, voices are restored, and Buffy screams her pretty little slayer head off, killing The Gentlemen. The episode ends with Riley & Buffy sitting across from each other, their demon slaying secrets now exposed.

Riley: Well, I guess we need to talk.
Buffy: I guess we do.

There are a few seconds of awkward and uncomfortable silence and ... scene.

I value words a great deal. But I'm also a firm believer that actions speak louder than words. You can tell me something until you're blue in the face but if your actions say otherwise, I'm going to belief those actions long before I believe those words. Because the way you act / don't act and the way you treat people / don't treat people ... it tells them all they really need to know. No need for "what's he thinking?" or "what's she really trying to say?" or "what the hell does he mean when he says that?" What the person is doing *is* what he / she is saying.

We need words and we need to be able to use them in a way that lets other people in on what's going on in our heads and the bits and pieces in there we want to share with others. But sometimes those words aren't nearly as useful as just shutting the hell up and trusting that once we stop trying to talk everything into making sense, things *will* start making sense.

Everything. Everyone. Everywhere. Ends.

When I die, I want to be cremated. Well, I kinda want to be sired and become a libidinous vampire walkin' around suckin' necks and living a life without consequences in a sexy little number similar to this.

But let's face it, vampires only exist in Sunnydale and in all honesty, I don't really want to kill people. I suppose it's the outfits and the whole 'satiating one's appetites without consequences' that I find appealing. But alas, I realize that can never happen; whether I'm alive or dead.

So, cremation it is. And after reading this article, Funeral Home Blocked From Performing Eco-Friendly "Liquid Cremation," I would like it done that way, please.

I've been to a total of five funerals; the father of the boy who lived across the street from me growing up and my grandparents'. My paternal grandfather was my first experience with death and quite honestly, I don't remember much of it. I was in the 5th grade and my mom pulled me out of school so we could head up for the services, leaving me missing out on the class trip to the circus the next day. I remember being in my grandparents' house but I don't really remember the service or the burial. I wasn't terribly close with that grandfather and really, there's not an awful lot I remember about my last year of elementary school anyway. I was a bit older when the father of the boy who had lived across the street died but the only thing I remember about that was going to calling hours, giving him a hug and saying, "I wish you still lived across the street," and immediately thinking, "Christ, Janelle, what a fucking stupid thing to say. He hasn't lived across the street in years and you aren't even friends anymore and all he wishes right now is that his father wasn't dead."

My maternal grandmother was ... the big one. Her death was the first time I felt like the ground had just caved in underneath me and that the world would never be the same again. I've since learned that the world does, indeed continue to turn, but I was right that it would never be the same. I remember everything about that experience but one of the clearest memories is when it was time to go up to her casket and 'say goodbye' at the calling hours. They had dressed her in some outfit that was light blue and she looked creepily pale (for as far back as I can remember, she sucked down Tareyton 100s like they were going out of style and sat out in the sun every chance she got). I remember my mom holding my hand as I kissed my grandmother's forehead, thinking how ... hard she felt. Nothing like the hugs and kisses she had given me over the years that were soft and warm and comforting. It was at that moment that I knew I wasn't kissing my grandmother goodbye so much as I was just kissing a dead body.

And I knew right then that I don't ever want that. I understand funeral services and burials aren't for the dead but for the living. I get that they're a way for those who are left behind to attempt to get some closure after a loss and I'm okay with that. If, when I'm dead and gone, people want to get together and remember and celebrate the times we had together back when I was living, I want them to have that. Provided they don't put me in a casket and set me out on display.

But in addition to not wanting to the be the dead center of attention in a room full of mourners, I simply don't want to be stuck underground in a box. I hate when people try to put me in one while I'm living and I sure as hell don't want people putting me in one for all eternity. Provided I don't die of some horrible disease that eats away at my entire body, I'm also hoping to have a bunch of healthy parts left to give to someone.

Basically, once I bite the big one, if there are usable parts, I want someone to have them. Then I would like to be dissolved via the process mentioned above. Pour the 'liquid me' down the drain and give the 'crushed bones me' to whomever may be the appropriate person at that time in my life. Whomever that is, please take me to Portland, Maine and scatter me into the ocean.

And if, somewhere in the process, you could work the following song into the soundtrack of my death, I promise not to come back and haunt you.

.

misty, watercolour memories

Seeing as though I spend the majority of my workday playing Scrabble with a co-worker, reading my everyday blogs, and slacking off any way I can, it's no surprise that somewhere in my online travels, I stumbled across a site full of creative writing prompts.

Creative writing isn't my strong suit and I've always preferred to write about something someone tells me to write about. In college, I majored in English for two reasons: a. I wanted to read all the good stuff and b. I wanted professors to tell me, "write a paper about this" so I could "write a paper about that." I like direction. Order. Structure. I weigh the pros and cons of things. I analyze things until there's nothing left to analyze. Those traits don't lend themselves very well to just sitting down and writing about whatever pops into my head (or doesn't, which is often the case). Once I've been given something to start with, I can go to town. But when I'm tasked with coming up with that starting point, I'm often at a complete friggin' loss.

So, I've saved all 300-and-something of those creative writing prompts and am going to give some of them a shot whenever the mood strikes me. They're not all technically in the creative category but they are, at least, prompts. And really, the entire point is just to write. What better time than now, eh?

Write about a memory related to a holiday.

With my amazingly awesome family, I have tons of holiday memories; most of them just as awesome as the family that contributes to making them. Until recently, my favourite holiday memory was of a dress. My uncle has never been one to articulate his feelings with words or hugs but with material possessions. That's not to say he's not one of the most caring and generous men I know who loves his family dearly but I think it's just always been easier for me to show his affection in that way. One Christmas when I was maybe six or so, he gave me a dress. It was cream-coloured with a burgundy velvet sash around the waist and it was the most awesome dress I have ever owned. I don't remember a single thing about that Christmas other than that dress and I have no idea what year it was or if I really was six years old or not. But I remember standing in front of our fireplace and holding the dress up to show everyone. My mother has somewhere in her house a photo of me in the dress, which reminds me that I really need to ask her to find that.

But this past Christmas saw the bumping of that memory from my 'favourite' spot.

That same uncle isn't currently in the best of health. When I was a senior in high school, he had a liver transplant and this year, found out he needs another one but is no longer a candidate because of some lung issues he has. He's currently on oxygen and I imagine he will be until he's no longer around. He's tired all the time and doesn't go out much and even though he usually has on his big, comfy bathrobe, he curls up in blankets just about every chance he gets. For the past couple years, as his health has deteriorated, I think everyone has had in the back of their mind the knowledge that any Christmas could possibly be his last Christmas.

Every year, I make something for my family and everyone opens it together on Christmas Eve. In addition to the gift, I always write up a little something that explains why I'm giving that particular gift. This year, everyone received personalized wooden boxes in which there were a bunch of little business card-size pieces of construction paper with some of my favourite quotes on them. I think it's unfortunately quite easy to forget what's really important in life and for me, the kind of reminder that often works the best is one in the form of words. As I said in the explanation for my gift:

I think they're important and powerful and for me, they're sometimes all I need to remember the things that are ... well, often hard to remember. So, whenever you feel like it ... take a card out of this box and remember. Remember there are basic principles we should strive to live by. There are basic ways we should treat people. And perhaps more importantly, there are basic ways we should be treating ourselves.

After my mom read the explanation, everyone started flipping through some of the quotes and we went around and read a few. When we got to my uncle, you could see he had tears in his eyes (it's almost become my main goal of the gift to see if I can get Big, Strong, Tough Uncle Win to let his guard down and shed a tear or two). In a shaky voice but with a smile on his face that was clearly saying, "amen to this quote," he read one of the first cards he had picked up:

Wake up. You're alive.

It was absolutely perfect. It's a memory I will always have and one that comforts me when I find myself thinking about the day he may not be around to help make new ones with us.

you want it all but you've got to give

This looks like a long post (and kind of is, really) but I promise it's not just a clip and lyrics of an awesome fucking song. You'll get the gist if you keep scrolling.

You dream a lot about yourself
And you dream harsh winds upon your friends
But you wanna kill the beast
That lives up in your head
And you wanna kill the beast
That lives to see you dead

You dream a lot about the beast
And you dream that it's never gonna last
So you wanna give your love to your sister and your friends 
And you wanna give your love to the one who's facing the end

You want it all but you've got to give
You want it all but you've got to forgive

Restore me, restore me now and make me sane
Restore me, restore me now I got to give up your ghost

You make me lonely

You want it all but you've got to give
You want it all but you've got to forgive

You dream a lot about the past
And you dream that it's never going to last

I've been thinking a lot lately about something a friend said to me not too long ago: You know what I realized? I talk about myself a lot but you don't really talk about you.

He was - and is - 100% right. Truth is, I'm a very guarded person. It's not that I don't know how to show emotions; I grew up in a house with parents and family who told me they loved me and more importantly (for me, at least), they backed those words up with their actions. I did the same for them and every time I've told them I love them, I've meant it. A couple Christmases ago, we were having a discussion about I have no idea what but at some point in the conversation, we got to talking about people who aren't terribly free with articulating their emotions. My father said to me, "you used to be like that a lot. Hide out in your room with your music or a book instead of telling people what you were feeling." And I did. It's not that I didn't enjoy being with my family or friends but I spent a fuckton of time hiding out in my room with my stereo or the book I was reading or jesus, one of a bazillion journals in which I was constantly writing. Because that's where I was comfortable. And the very first time I sat on my bed and opened my first journal was probably the first moment I realized how much easier it is to write words than it is to speak them. Paper doesn't disagree. It doesn't judge. It doesn't give knee-jerk reactions. It doesn't disappear if it doesn't like what's written on it. It doesn't decide, "hmm, maybe I don't care much what this chick's got to say."

People do.

My response to my friend's comment was, I tend to find other people far more fascinating than I find myself. It was an honest response but it wasn't a complete explanation as to why I'm not free with ... who I am in that friendship. That's an entirely different post but it boils down to the fact that the more I share, the greater the possibility "who I am" won't be ... accepted.

So I don't risk it. And I don't invest. And I don't trust. And it's fucking exhausting.

I do dream that nothing is ever gonna last. And I do want it all but I don't give even a tiny bit of it all. I make me lonely. And the only one capable of restoring me? Yeah. That's me.

I can easily hit the 'delete' button and erase keystrokes on a computer screen but there's no 'delete' button to conveniently erase thirty-two years of indulging in a habit which ... gets my nowhere. So, baby steps, it is. It's going to be fucking hard but that friend is going to hear the honest and complete response to his statement. Even though I'm most likely about to hit "publish post," immediately hit "new post," and write the piss out of what I might want to say, I'm not going to email him or direct him to this blog or memorize what I'm about to write in the hope that the 'real world' conversation will go swimmingly. I'm going to look him in the eyes and give him that response. I may wind up sounding like a blabbering, incoherent mess and I may not. It might be an uncomfortable conversation and it might not be. It's entirely possible it will come back to bite me in the ass and it's entirely possible it won't. And even though that friendship comes with a certain safety that makes my worries about the consequences of the conversation rather minimal, I'm still counting it as a step. A first one.

Actually, I suppose the first one is hitting the "publish post" button rather than the "kudos for articulating these feelings but you best keep them to yourself" button, huh?