Me facing my facts, now.

Finally, I have realised that writing and exposing me to the Internet is a stiff challenge to me. Not just joy. Often, I load myself with possibilities and alternate ways to act. I also load myself with a lot of collected material. I store it in bookshelves and on hard drives. It gives me the joy to be curious but also stress and tension. What should I do with all this written material and ways to go. I have to face the fact that my capacity to value, decide and pull through does not handle the present situation.

During most of my life, my mind has been open in many directions. I am a character with a lot of curiosity. A lot of material ignites my interest. With eager, I assure avoiding the point where I still could make decisions. The result is that I collect and store a lot. It is high time to test the opposite way, to value, select and throw away. I need to start this process before it is too late. I have to do it before my kids get all this stuff on their lot. But, where are my guts to do the job? I need far stronger decisions and decisiveness than I have ever mobilised before.

I start by reducing my field of interest to what I am up to, writing. I need to reduce my focus even further. How does writing influence me as a person? My mode when writing? The things about which I write? The style I follow?

One thing is that there is a massive inflow of stuff to which I believe I need to attend. When I follow that, there will be a lot of items written about and the following question: what is the point? But my challenge is to take a grip on myself and move from point A to point B.

Point A means me in the present situation. I have a broad mind and an attitude that is not discriminative. Point B is to act selective and specific. My old way would be to identify weak elements in my character. Followed by blaming myself for not being able to solve this. Which in so many words is nothing but to escape out the window?

Well, there it is. Once, 25 years ago and in a symbolic language, I did show myself this helicopter view of what I do. Instead of taking the fight I escape out the window. Out there I struggle to see things my way, and my way only.

In conclusion, I should have told my mother how I felt at that moment back in 1944. At that time she did not to listen to my story. This rejection hurt me hard. Through my present writing, I now know the story and have the guts to tell it. At the age of 91, my mother died in 2007. Thus I cannot reach her face to face. I have to settle for the second best which is to tell the story here.  My story goes as follows…