Coming Soon!

Coming soon!

A life in verse....

Scheduled release date:
November 2, 2010

Me?

Outside, the sun is shining. Its piercing light and radiant warmth--even in these earliest morning hours--slices through the gloom and chill of the last three days. As I gaze at the pale, autumnal greens of the trees and grasses beneath me, I struggle to tap into some emotion, some reaction that will link me mentally, sensually, emotionally to the still, almost somnolent view below.

Recently, it has become more and apparent that my latest "ordeal" has wrought certain changes within me. Far more often than not, I feel as though beneath this skin, deep within these bones lies a different person altogether. Priorities have changed. My outlook on life is drastically altered.



I sometimes wonder if some part of myself has been lost and lies irretrievable, just out of reach....

I absolutely, positively hate to write!






This, naturally, is a development I never expected. The changes in appetite, sleeping patterns, and musical tastes were alarming enough. And, I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to the inability to sit long enough to enjoy a good book. Forgetting minor things, sending the wrong e-mails to the wrong people and staring at text messages (mid-word) because I cannot recall what I had intended to say, to whom, or why: this two has nearly reduced me to a quivering mass of paranoid indecision.










Yet, to find myself unable to write, to find little (if any) enjoyment.in the crafting of sentences or the process of transforming thoughts into first syllables then sentences, imagery: such a thing is, even now, beyond comprehension. Obviously, I can force the issue. With a tremendous amount of concentration, I can muddle through the process; however, to do so is hard: the act itself mechanical: the results, lackluster. I don not know what to make of it all. Everything still feels so very foreign--no thought, no feeling, no action quite my own. This detachment from everyone and everything , moreover, no longer strikes me as out-of-place or strange. The sensations have become a normal part of my everyday existence, incorporated into my every routine. I chew without tasting, move without thinking, walk without seeing, read without retaining...

And write without enjoying.


Again, I find myself sitting here wondering if anything will ever return to normal. Will I ever in any way resemble the person I was. And, if not, if that "Chanctetinyea" is forever lost, will I ever make peace with the woman who has sprung forth to take her place?

You Think Too Much!

"You think too much!"

How many times have I heard that one?

(Or, its sister assertion, "You're too smart for your own good!")

Perhaps I have fallen into the trap of over-analyzing anything and everything that dares cross my path. And, even though that tendency to mentally disassemble the many, varied sections of life to understand all that lies around me feeds the creative beast within, there is something to be said for setting free the more impulsive aspects of one's nature in order to absorb life. How easy it is to forget that particular sensation!

At the moments, my thoughts are directed towards the future. And the future need not be a bleak one. Not long ago, in the throes of disillusionment, I found myself dwelling on the negatives life had to offer. Its failures seemed far more significant that any promises it might hold. Failing health, disappointments in relationships, the demise of childhood dreams: these loomed above me as the bleakest yet most concrete of all actualities...

Yet, with time and clarity have come renewed optimism. It is true, I have been ill; however the recovery which was deemed irrefutably impossible now lies within reach. Granted, financial instability is a daunting presence in my current life; but, in this economy, quite a few individuals can easily say the same. One dollar lost is identical to any future dollar gained, while the true treasures of life--joy, fulfillment, contentment, achievement, peace, satisfaction, love--are truly unique: ever-changing and irreplaceable from moment to moment. Yes, I have recently experienced heartbreak; however even this came as a result of one of the deepest, truest glimpses of friendship and kindness one could ever experience. As always, the pain of loss subsides, giving way to remembered laughter, shared confidences, and images of true happiness, all of which remind me that it certainly is better to have loved and lost to have never known that particular moment of loving at all. And, I must admit, even the desire to write--though not completely restored to me--cowers in hidden corners, daring to lift a tentative glance towards the light of inspiration.

The time has come to stop over-analyzing, to stop trying to arrange my life into neat or perfect columns and rows.

I think to much.

It is time I remembered how to again simply BE.

Updated Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Additional Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Poetry

Unpainted Canvas

ISBN: 978-0-557-63112-4

(ID #9272461): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/unpainted-canvas/9272461

When the Sun Shines in Winter

ISBN: 978-0-557-63113-1

(ID #9272496): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/when-the-sun-shines-in-winter/9272496

(Coming Soon)

Poems Past: Collected Poems from Years Gone By

Literary Fiction

The Stick Woman

ISBN: 978-0-557-64209-0

(ID #9294338): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-stick-woman/9294338

Exile!!!!

ISBN: 978-0-557-63107-0

(ID #9272431): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/exile/9272431

Children’s

(Coming Soon)

As Far as the Mind Can Fathom: Fairy Tales for a New Generation

Arrogance

One of the accusations I most treasure is this one: "You are arrogant!"

Why?

Because usually, it means one has spoken sense.

All my life, I have admired The Greats. Why? Because they did not fancy themselves special in any way. They did not focus on the future acclaim they would (but had not yet) earned. For the most part, those writers, thinkers, philosophers, and artists who most completely changed the scope and depth of reality as we know it...did so out of the simple need to record all that echoed in and around them. And it is they I hope to in some way emulate.

Anyone can write or paint. Anyone can act, sing, dance, construct and design. Many will make a great deal of money from it for no other reason than that they are willing to do whatever it takes, whatever is asked of them in order to attain notoriety or commercial success. Perhaps that is enough for them. Maybe that should be enough for anyone.

Yet, I want more.

For myself and those who have true talent, I hunger for more.

In every discipline, in every area of life, there are those who have some fire burning within them--something far beyond themselves--which demands to be stoked, often whether they like it or not. For some, it is as simple as the drive to build sleek, functional structures that, although not flamboyant, will stand the ages. For others, the need to create from cloth and patterns the shapes and forms which will define an era can and will never be sated. I suppose, for many of us out there, we were born with some tiny, snarling demon inside determined to be set free. And those who do not have it do not understand its demands.

That, strangely enough, has never bothered me.

I would rather be the woman who never reaches that moment in life in which she feels worthy to call herself a writer than those who add to the thousands of worthless volumes which clutter the libraries.

Maybe I will never be A Writer.

Yes, my written words fill the pages of many a thesis and dissertation by academic powerhouses who lacked the love for or even the interest in the written word necessary to bring their ideas to life. And, maybe that should mean something to me. Perhaps it would mean a great deal to others.

But in my mind.

I will not be a writer until I have penned that which no one else could have conceived or written. Do I have it in me to achieve the goal? I would like to think so. One would like to think that her own insistent demon exists for that very purpose. Further, I would like to believe that had I not been somehow gifted with the capacity to reach that objective, the little devil never would have been entrusted to me in the first place. The truth of the matter is, even if I do somehow manage to take all that I am, all that I have learned, all that I am capable of being and somehow weave from those elements the one great work of a lifetime, I would probably not recognize it for what it truly was, even if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.

For me, it is just enough to know that the mere possibility exists, just as it has for others before me, for others who will live long after I am forgotten, and even a few magnificent souls who have wondered onto my pathway just long enough for me to play a small part in helping them accomplish what I have not--possibly will not.

If that constitutes arrogance,

"'Play on Macbreath'"!

Keep writing ya"ll!

Ultimately

Ultimately
The future--
Not the past--
Fades to black
Until all
That can be distinguished
Are the faintly-moving
Shadows
Of that
Which in a life
Was meant
To be.