I don't care.

hooooOOOOOOLy CrapThatFeelsAwesomeToSay.

It happened seemingly over night. I just stopped caring. About certain things. Certain situations. Certain relationships. I stopped fretting. Stopped over-thinking. Stopped trying so gosh-darn hard. It wasn't a conscious choice, which made it truly awesome. I got distracted by the rest of life, I guess. Time ran short for all the things previously filling my day and head, so natural selection ousted that caring part. Not about everything. Of course not. But about things I should've been smart enough to let go of a long time ago.

I would love to be more specific. But the trouble with a public blog is that the public can read it, and the public includes people I'd like to write about that probably would not take kindly to being written about, and although I've stopped caring about some things, I rather like having only a handful of people that hate me. More specifics inevitably means more people to hate me.

So I'll keep this short, shall I? (Too late.) Not caring, as callous and selfish as it sounds, is the best. Well, to be honest, it is callous and selfish to an extent, but that does not negate it's best-ness.


There's something about the music that Deb Talan and Steve Tannen make. Collectively they're known as The Weepies and, I don't know, maybe it's because I've listened to their songs too many times while getting over another rejection or another move or another life change, but I feel like their music—not necessarily them—gets me. Like somehow it's part of me.

I guess, in a way, it is. It's become part of my experience. Or experiences, really. The melodies and harmonies—especially the harmonies—have intertwined themselves with the ethereal matter of my memories. Right alongside the images of that one guy I liked so much and that one autumn when my hair was on point and that other thing that I can't quite remember but it's fused into my soul just the same—there, alongside all those things and more, is the music.

You know those times when you get a whiff of something and all of the sudden, like that scene from "Ratatouille", you're back in your childhood home and it's 1997 (or '87, or '67) and you're wearing that horrible purple corduroy dress you're mom forced on you? It's like that, with me and this music. But for some reason, instead of being transported to another time and place, an invisible pair of arms reaches through my ribs and wraps itself around my core. I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry or fall asleep.

Ah, man. Good stuff.


©2015 E.Gosney — Oklahoma City

Late Night Ramblings:

I live for the experience. Ah, but I have you fooled. I don't live for being in the moment. No, not for that part of the experience. I live for the afterward. For the time I can reflect and look at the photos and write about the highlights and the frustrations and the never-want-to-forget-this moments. Maybe that's a bad thing. I can certainly see people saying that. Well, I guess they HAVE said it. That life is about the journey, not the destination. That we should live in the now, and live like there's no tomorrow and on and on. But hey, in my experience, there actually is a tomorrow. And it's full of journal entries and blog essays and conversations with those who weren't on that trip or in that museum or driving down Route 66 with you. So I guess those live-in-the-now people could be right, but just not right for me. I soak in the images and tastes and feelings and I use them for fuel in the days to come. To give me something to create from. To relive. And not just for reliving the good parts. On the contrary, I often depend on the crappy parts of existence for my most satisfying pieces. Reflecting on those heartaches and angry outbursts reminds me how to feel. How I have felt. How things compare to one another and how rich and incredible this life is. So yeah, I plan and I anticipate, and I seemingly plow through those mapped-out days so that I can get to the other side, where the recording takes place and the storytelling can begin. Because, for me, that's what I live for. The stories. The remembering. And the looking forward to when more fodder will come for more stories, more remembering, more writing, more life.


You know those people — mostly women, I'm thinking about my competition here — who are incapable of taking a bad picture? For realzies, they're all like, "Ugh, I guess I have to use THIS photo to document day 17 of my yearly trip to Europe. I know, it's just so horrible." And you're like, "Ba--Faaa--jiggida--whaaa?" because it looks like they just got splashed with Fountain of Youth water and hit with sparkles from a vampire's body and their "messy hair" is like a unicorn's main.

Anyway, you know those women? I'm not one of them.

And so I have a way of thwarting anyone who would dare critique my baby-fat-that-just-won't-seem-to-leave-my-face-like-ever, or my hair-that's-been-struck-by-lighting-with-17-rats-nesting-inside-it. I just make myself TOO easy of a target, so then people think, "Why bother? She's gotsta know there's something wrong." You can't make fun of what I've already made fun of for you, suckas! Take that, Miss-Pegasus-Goddess-of-Perfect-Skin-and-Yoga-Pants! Sincerely, Ogre-Legs-with-the-surface-of-Mars-face.


There I was
thinking it was something
worth hanging onto.
That it was something
worth even a second thought.

Now, ten thousand selves onward,
I see the lies from all angles.
And I see how those lies
began with me.

I compromised
and rationalized
and believed
what was not actually there.

Imagining an ideal,
Conjuring a fantasy,
because it was better
than waiting for reality
to quicken its death march.

So there I was,
and, well, here I am.
The same, but not at all.

Because today I allowed the truth.
I permitted it into my view.
And I looked into what I had
so expertly been avoiding.

It had become too obvious
to ignore.

I'm ashamed of my past selves
for allowing such deception.
For creating it.
What a fool!

And yet, a fool still.
But at least—
at least—
this fool can release what was—
what never really was—
worth hanging onto.

©2015 e.gosney


I've been thinking a lot lately about what it'd be like to be a full-time writer. Well, I guess I am. But I mean a full-time writer of things I want to write. Not things I've been assigned. Not packaging copy or scripts for instructional videos. And I've been thinking about how liberating it would be, and then how overwhelming too. Liberating because no one's telling you what to write, but overwhelming because there's a looming expectation for greatness, and all the while no one's giving you a paycheck every two weeks, telling you that you're doing a fine job and "keep up the good work." No, that comes much later, if at all. (Big "if" there.) After you've somehow clawed your way through the mazes and caverns and caves and abysses and jungles and deserts and filled-to-the-rafters-closets of your mind and put it on paper and bound it together and given it to the cruel world to decide your worth and your paycheck and your fate (in that order).

I don't know if the financial straight jacket is the scariest part of being a full-time writer, or the judgment. From everyone. However unqualified or narrow-minded. Or, perhaps worse, the well-qualified and open-minded.

As it is, I have no plans to quit my day job to write the next Great American Novel. I might try to write it after 5 p.m. though, or at least write a melodramatic adventure book that teenagers and middle-aged women will love. That would be fun too.


A poem I wrote in 2010.

"2011 - Life"

Above all else, life is beautiful.
Above all, in spite of, and in the end — beautiful.
To whaling cheeks and tongue, milk is given.
From the fallen, bloodied knees, there is a rising.
Each broken heart is soothed and cookies three:
My father's edible hugs. The chocolate gushes out
Like the ocean basalt lava he studies and adores.
Laughter envelopes weeping, dissolving the sadness.
The sun yawns itself over the eastern mountains,
Unafraid of its ever-encroaching exit across the globe.
The moon comes next, smiling his sly, mystic grin,
Courting his starry-eyed women with every-changing face.
He blushes red as he sets, making way once more for the sun.
There is no end, only beginnings. And then, eternity.

©2015, e.gosney


Photo taken in Los Angeles, August 2012
©E.Gosney 2015

Each morning he picked his way through daylight and side streets to the city library. Entering through glass doors, he reverently removed his weather-worn hat, holding it between ten sure fingers and nodding a hello to the somber woman at the desk. Shuffling forward, his eyes brushed a wonderous gaze over the countless shelves of worlds trapped within paper and ink, seventy-eight cents tinkling out a greeting from his left pants pocket.

A gap appeared between neck and collar as he craned forward as if to win an imaginary race. Wrinkles 80 years in the making drew wandering streams through his skin, standing in unabashed contrast to his freshly pressed shirt. Turning down the third row to his right, he scanned the book bindings with deliberate ticks of his ever-sagging eyes.

It would be Hemingway today.

Popping off the shelf, the book's blue canvas cover resembled its holder: frayed and sprinkled with aged dust. The man tucked his new companion warmly between arm and rib cage, quickening his pace in anticipation of the story to come.

Around the cases and along the side wall, down he strode to the lone chair hidden away in the corner. As his bent frame sunk into the maroon cushions, chair became man and man became chair. A whispered sigh — not quite human, not quite chair — slipped out. Away it sailed, down the aisles, past the somber woman at the desk, through glass doors and out into daylight and city streets.


A few months ago, me and my sister Kelsey decided to join the YMCA. It's nearby, it's affordable, and it has a pool. So, naturally, I dusted off my Target bathing suit and 3-sizes-too-big soccer shorts and jumped in. I quickly discovered, however, that I don't know how to swim. Nor could I learn to do so by watching YouTube videos.

The first time I went, it was with the moral support and audience of Kelsey and Catherine. I doggy paddled, pushed off the wall underwater while pretending to be Ian Thorpe and the pot-smoking-American-Olympian-whose-name-I-can't-think-of-right-now. I tried freestyle a bit, going about 1.5 strokes before choking. The lifeguard, at one point, starting walking toward me to make sure I was OK.

The second time I went I was alone. I tried freestyle again, only to get 1/4 of the way down the half-lap-length-lane before having to flip over and do a back stroke. (To be honest I have no idea if what I'm doing is a true back stroke. I just appreciate having the ability breathe, so I don't care if I look like a moron ... clearly.) This time I caught the life guard actually walking beside my lane as I inched my way down. I was so startled and embarrassed I stopped; Found out she was watching a 6-year-old one lane over do a swim test.

The only ability I seem to have in the pool is producing an inordinate amount of snot and becoming incapacitated by charlie horses. Seriously, I thought I'd had a charlie horse before. FALSE. Now I know. They are a demon from hell ripping its way through your muscles. I couldn't walk for three days. I kid you not. And they always seem to come when I'm in the 8-foot-deep water and the middle lane. My muscles couldn't seize up when I'm in the shallow end next to a ladder. Noooo. That would be too kind.

Michael Phelps! I remembered the pot-smoker's name.


Happy New Year, blah blah blah. I saw this on Facebook the other day and was so enthralled by it. I mean, I couldn't tell you any details about most of the people on the list, but just seeing how people spend (or spent) their time is so simple, but so personal and fascinating. After going through the list of these creative people, I thought to myself, "Hey, I'm creative! I should add my routine to the list." So here you go.

Obviously I need to sleep less and quit my day job in order to become a famous creative. Anyone want to fund me? Mom?

(Seriously, did Mozart EVER sleep? How did he survive? And how did Darwin get so much done in those few hours of dedicated creative work? Or Strauss or Tchaikovsky for that matter?)

Original can be found here: http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2015/01/the-daily-routines-of-famous-creative-people/