laying bare

I wonder sometimes about this place. My blog. Still sounds weird somehow to me that I have a blog. Not that the writing is new, just the public-ness of it (not that new either, I know).

I don't write often enough when I'm happy. I have a friend who's answering machine says: "Hi you've reached ____'s machine. I'm too busy enjoying my life right now to answer the phone...." And while I used to think this was kind of a funny/odd message, I've grown to like it. And I think that's why I don't write as much when I'm happy and things are going well. I don't write much in my non-public journal when I'm doing well either. Happy me has less to say, more to do, I guess.

Mostly I write to work through things, to purge, to vent....once in awhile if something's funny, I'll put that here too. Or if I feel the need to publically declare.... something...sometimes those are actually quite happy posts. I have put things here of great importance to me, some of the ones that mean the most may seem insignificant to the outside world - or maybe they're more perceptive than I think.

The trouble is - since I became aware of the people reading, I sometimes censor things, keep them for the paper pages at home. I'd like to stop doing that, I'd like to feel free to bare my soul here.

It's just that I'm not sure how attractive my soul is naked these days...

fiction....?

She closed her eyes as he ran his fingers through her hair. That spot, just behind her ear, not quite the back of her head. His fingers felt rough, working man's hands. His touch was always firm, decisive, never hesitant but just gentle enough. She sighed, almost a purr, wondering why this man, who - let's be honest - she didn't know that well, could somehow always make her feel relaxed and...loved? Did he really make her feel that or was it just wishful thinking? Safe. Maybe that was it, he made her feel safe.

She thought about it again, later, after they'd said goodbye for the night; after he'd kissed her. He surprised her with that kiss. She found herself thinking about him as she settled into bed, head still spinning from one too many beers and the whirlwind of the night's activities. She realized there had almost always been a man like him in her life. The one who made her feel safe. The one who touched her in that way, comforted her, but who wasn't quite a part of her world of artists with soft hands.

She realized how strange it was that she never let any of those men in; never embraced that feeling of safety; never allowed them any closer. The only calluses on the men she allowed to truly touch her were on their finger tips and on their hearts. Funny how she discounted those men who's hands were rough but who's hearts were open... maybe she didn't want to feel safe?

But he surprised her. That hadn't happened before with the safe ones... rarely did anything unpredictable happen with them.

But he surprised her.

My favorite stretch of sand.

I have been there with many people. In many seasons. It is my favorite stretch of white sand and waves. My favorite rocks to climb. My favorite view opening up into the endless horizon of Atlantic Ocean. It is a special place to me, a rite of passage, a homecoming, a tourist attraction and a rendezvous point.

I have been there with her many times. In spite of the fact that she now lives where the Atlantic is tropical, I know this place is special for her as well. For most of the same reasons...and of course some of her own.

We were there with them - on perhaps the most fun day-after-New-Year's-Eve I've ever had. They have drifted into oblivion now. I have no idea where they are or what they are doing. But for that moment, that walk along the shore, slide across the ice, hide in the trees, flirt with the frigid waves moment... we five were all that there was. And in spite of the likelihood that I'll never see those three again, I will always be grateful for that day's exploration.

I was there with him. Once. In many ways The rememberances of that time are both the clearest and the cloudiest. It's hazy - times with him often are. And it wasn't quite the same. We skipped the beach, instead walking and climbing the rocks at the point to sit and look out at the waves while we spoke, and then sat in silence. A most comfortable silence. I think I made him look at the place a bit differently, as we drove out there on that winding road. I'm glad he has been there. I'm glad to have a memory of someone that special to me in that spot with so many good memories. When I miss him, as I do now, I often think of that day. It makes me smile - partly wistful, but happy just the same.

the men in my life (part 2)

I adore that man today.

Whenever we contribute to a project, even if we're not in the same room for our respective contributions, whatever we come up with is something I'm incredibly proud of. He has been with me a couple of different times when I took the baby steps toward this odd career of mine. (I'm not sure that part qualifies as "career" per se but like I said - baby steps).

He can be wise, witty and has wonderful judgement of all things graphic. He can be the most calming influence in my life, particularly when we work on these things. (and yes, I am aware of how funny it is to point to his calming influence when he can also be so very infuriating). He's a rock star, although he doesn't always know it, and possesses one of my favorite voices - both in the literal sense -when he's singing and in the figurative sense more than once he has said exactly what I need to hear. Sometimes whether I like it or not.

I don't tell him enough. But I've figured out that I don't need to tell him. But for this once, I wanted to gush.

Sorry Nick, I know you'll hate it. ;-)

lines

I find myself wondering how many lines it actually takes to make a cube. Because I feel like lines have suddenly be drawn where I didn't see them before and to be honest I already feel boxed in. I am who I have always been and it seems parts of me must be stifled, amputated even, to keep the peace.

I am a big, loud, emotional person with very limited internal censors. I have always been thus. I speak my mind, I broach taboos subjects, I have very little use for the words "it's none of your business." I don't do well with limits. I tell people more than is appropriate. I speak often without being spoken to. I ask too many questions. I wonder too often, about things that may, indeed, be none of my business...but that doesn't stop me from wondering.

If that is not good enough, or if it is simply too much, I'm not sure I can apologize. I'm not sure I want to.

And I'm tired of having these lines drawn for me.


"And if you must put me in a box
Make sure it's a big box
With lots of windows
And a door to walk through
And a nice high chimney
So we can burn burn burn
Everything that we don't like
And watch the ashes
Fly up to Heaven..."

Dan Bern ~ Jerusalem

ps: if there is a note of passive aggression in this, I do apologize for that. I am venting. I am purging. I am trying to make sense of something I'm feeling. I am not trying to express any veiled anger. There is none. It's just that I have been feeling these limits placed on me from a number of directions and I don't know what to do with them. And so I vent, and this is the open book that is me.

Nonfiction

Alot of my fellow bloggers are writing and posting excerpts from the novels they're not writing right now. I'm not going to explain - Jess can explain it.

But I tried to do it. I tried to figure out an excerpt from something I'm not writing but all I could come up with was stuff from "The Book" (I think it's a book, I even think it might be finished...but I'm not sure yet) which I'm not ready to unveil just yet, and stuff that might be a new book, and stuff that's not quite fiction (which might be ok, except I'm not sure I want to go public with it either).

And on top of that, I think my blog is more my storage locker for vents and rants and emotions... not alot of room left after that for fiction. At least not in my current state of mind. Maybe later... someday.

So no excerpt from me. But the others are cool - you should go read them. (Jess has them all linked from The Milkcrate so I won't bother doing it again - sorry for the extra clicking necessary).

well, whaddaya know?!

Have you ever taken a roll of film to be developed thinking you knew what was on it but when you got it back it wasn't what you thought? And that twinge of disappointment because you really wanted those sexy men in scrubs pictures developed was eclipsed by the overwhelming feeling of missing people, of happy rememberances, of longing for that moment back...

That happened to me yesterday. I guess I have pictures of Mike and Paula after all. Bonfire pictures and Druid pictures... That makes me happy.

~~~~~~~~

Although....that's twice in two days when something visual has made me feel like someone kicked me.