I haven’t posted in days, but who’s counting?
It shouldn’t be suspicious to anyone who knows my schedule. This time of year, when I’m not busy being incarcerated, I’m usually unavailable for any deep thoughts…
but this year I am taking it easy, so really I have no excuse for blog silence except, my heart isn’t in it.
I don’t know why, and I don’t know why it would matter. I have 9 or so more stunning Sonders that don’t require my interaction or heart at all, but,
but but but
My heart isn’t in my space, or my written words, or in my spoken words. When my heart isn’t in something, I go silent.
I’ve gone life silent.
There are things going on. Things that make me feel like a victim. Things that make me feel angry. Things that make me feel unsafe, unworthy, untrusted.
But they are just things– passing, fixable things– and in the moments where those just-things can be pushed to the side by distraction or necessity, I am okay.
I am seeking a more permanent fix. I am seeking a new form of expression, one that can be added to this platform because writing a blog will always be first in my heart.
I tried doing other things, too. I tried to be a writer. I finished the pages to the book, and it’s just fine, something I might read, but there’s no commentary at the end of the chapter. There’s no readers folded into my words, or life stories that are paralleled to mine, or funny notations. My book is missing my Best Beloveds, and it is is a tangible loss to the intricacies of the stories I weave. It’s a dream catcher, without adornment; a simple circle of gathered knots, without the stretch outwards toward the big and beautiful world around us, above us, below us. It’s a story told, not a story started.
I think about you when I write the tale, because I thought about you when I lived it. How could I not?
I am a blogger, even when I go silent. This is my home, even if I don’t know how to count the size of it. You are written into the margins of every day, even the days surrounded by people who have never run into a blog in their life. Even on the days where you also play a part in the main story.
This sort of writing is my medium of choice.
It’s the environment where what I express is most closely linked to what I feel. It goes at my pace and rhythm. It forces me to box and dance in equal measure. Type like a butterfly, blog like a bee.
There is a worn, but tough, mat in the a center of this post, and if you stand close enough to me, you’ll see the rings and things that lock me in. Those just-things that pass by. With you, shoulder to my shoulder, I can see them more clearly and
it is them that are unworthy of me, of my life, of this home,
of our home.
I want to say that if we were having coffee, I could explain all this. I want to say that if you were sitting here, you’d understand my new found obsession with Vine, or YouTube, or podcasts, or doodling. A new form of expression that incorporates into this world because this isn’t enough as much as this is everything I’ve ever needed.
I want to say that I’d tell you the details of those just-things, so you could give me love and empathy, and an invisibility cloak. So you could tell me it’s okay that I disappeared from any concrete, conscious presence. So you could tell me that you’ll wait for the Sonders, as they come, and you’ll wait for me to survive the next life battles as they come.
But I know you’re in my corner– and since some days, it seems like the only thing I know for certain– I probably wouldn’t say anything at all.
I would sip my coffee– black, lately, all the time, because the days don’t seem to graduate to sweet nights anymore. And I would refill your drink of choice, and maybe we would watch the silent bindings of every what-if and every but-but-but. Maybe we could try to measure them somehow, or measure ourselves by them, or add them up or count them, as if the numbers of them mean anything at all.
You’ll sit on your stool, keeping the bandages in reach and the water refilled, and I never stop bouncing, because I can’t. I have to stay ready because some part of my brain can’t stop remembering the one time in my life when I got knocked straight out of the corner. I can’t stop remembering how the world looked, as I lay sprawled out in the center of the mat. It was the same ol’ spiral I saw my whole life, but I never saw it from that angle before. I’ve never had the purpose slammed out of my sting.
From that angle, the kindred souls written into my margins are smaller than I can read, and just-things are bigger than I knew they could be.
Size is relative, though. Time is relative. And the size of time is the most relative thing of all. No one can be expected to count those things or measure them in anyway.
I haven’t posted in a few days,
but I promise I’m still in your corner, with fresh bandages I hope you’ll never need, and confetti that I will use copiously to celebrate your successes.
You can count on it.
Thank you for your support of my guest bloggers, and for your patience in waiting for future sonders. There’s great ones coming, possum.
Give me a reason to throw some confetti around, tell me about something frightfully wondrous.
[This coffee-flavored offering is brought to you by the letters #WCS and my favorite one-time-peppered part-time Monster’s Weekend Coffee Share. Which is why you should read the title in Count Von Count’s voice, and why– if you do– you should give yourself a high five from me.]