a rant, is a rant, is a rant

in tucson arizona, in a room that is not mine. i've been discovering lately that very few things are mine. this, of course, upsets me a little, especially when one is desperately looking for a place to call one's own. of course, i'm talking about wolff's astute observation that every writer needs a room of her own. i would also like to add ms. wolff that any human being, not just the writer or the artist, needs a room, concrete or metaphorical, to call one's own.

i have also re-discovered (and i say re-discovered because this is a truth i already know but often times seem to forget) that i am a very fickle little artist. that is to say, my mind is not unlike a sacred budhist temple. this isn't to assume that my thoughts are somewhat holy, so please don't regard me as being so arrogant, rather, like a sacred temple (it doesn't have to be buddhist, i just know they have lots of temples and the asian thing is so in right now) my mind has much going on internally that does not manifest itself in noises, in the gutteral frequencies that we call speech, and it's so very fragile and tenuous really that any clamoring, yipping, yapping or otherwise presence of other human beings (i don't have problems with the other creatures...perhaps because i cannot tune in as easily to their conversations and therefore can often easily filter out their noises) can disrupt the gentle fabric of thoughts and the infrequent and delicate wisps of creativity that somehow drop into my brain.

ah, and so, i am in tucson arizona trying to find the balance between my solitary and somewhat grouchy and socially disagreeable writer self, and my all-observing, socially vibrant writer self (perhaps "socially vibrant" might be a stretch, but you get the picture). and so, like any writer, i'm turning my rant into a blog post, but i must put all revelations (often birthed by rants) onto the page so that i might reference them later. and so here is the bottom line, i am a fickle human being, moreover, i'm an extremely fickle writer. in fact, writing has become a sort of magic that can only be produced under the finest conditions such as having a quiet space with absolutely NO human voices, preferably in the morning with multiple cups of coffee at my disposal. now that i've written it, i realize i'm not really asking for the world. it just seems like it when you are traveling with five other people all the time in a van, going to places you've never been to, with spaces that aren't yours. i sit back and dream of my grandmother's house. how i cannot wait to sit and write in silence and coffee, write, write, write, til death do us part.