Turn the Page

And so it begins.

I have a few dishes, a mattress, 4-5 potted plants, toiletries, and basic cleaning supplies left in my apartment. It was the first place I ever lived alone--mostly; I reluctantly had a roommate for about six months. Now, I have my first house on my own.

I'm terrified.

After 26 years of working and riding the cycle of abuse, I left my husband. We still have some financial entanglements and a minor child, so that's not the end of it. But, it's a new beginning.

Did I mention that I'm terrified?

Forgive me if these first few posts are stilted and stifled. That's where I am. A writer by vocation, this should be easier.

Quick, ask me about philosophy, theology, gender and sexuality studies, hookah smoking, food, wine, film, musical direction, or heuristics. I can do that. This? Like so many other women, I've been silenced so long that it may take a minute to find my voice.

I mean my real one. Not the one that covered for him; not the one that smiled and gritted my teeth; not the one that wore thick bandages to cover fresh bruises so I could appear under stage lights as I made my director's speech before the summer musical, not the one that walked on eggshells in an effort to avoid conflict only to have  --BAM--  who even knows what triggered it. Really triggered it, not the thing he invented to place blame on me.

That voice.

It's terrifying.

I'm excited to see what I'll say.

And terrified.

If you found me, it's because you were supposed to. Egg me on. Challenge me. Tell me your stories. Sing me your song. Lean on me. Hold me accountable to the absolute truth. Be magical.

But for now, I'm going to close up shop (literally, I own a small business), pee, and have a cigarette before I go cook my last meal in my first apartment alone.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Pure Love, Quarks, and 93,
-A

The White Flag

Sometimes it's just time to give up. To give in. To surrender.

The universe will sometimes tap you gently on the shoulder or whisper in your ear in order to bring you a subtle message, warning, or alert.  You know how it is, the same damn thing will pop up over and over in seemingly random manifestations.  If you don't listen to the subtle messages, the universe will punch you in the gut.  But the universe will only give you so many punches to the gut before tossing you, headlong, into the abyss.  (I like to imagine the universe as a David Carradine character.) 

The abyss is not a fun place.  I know.  I've been there. It's full of people who never listen and who have an ailing sense of humor. There's a lot of self-absorbed whining and monotonous kvetching in the abyss, and chocolate candies are rather thin on the ground.

Lately, I've gotten my share of abdominal Kung Fu.

Most of those center-punches have played out and have been sent neatly on the road to denouement.  A couple of them have not.

For instance, snakes.  Yes, snakes.  I've had my fill of Diamond-Back Rattlesnakes in Alabama for the month, thank you very much.  Until a few weeks ago, I had never seen one that didn't have a little biographical information plate and a thick pane of glass between it and me. Both daughters, mother, and sister-friend have all had close calls with rattlers in the past two weeks.  I'm listening.

Last week it was Billy Ray Cyrus.  I don't know what that was about but I'm paying attention so that I don't tell anyone's achy-breaky heart (not that I think it'd understand).

And then there's this blog.  I have a few friends who have their own blogs.  They each use them for different reasons and it seems to work for them.  But blogging is a vulnerable thing.  Any publication is, but blogging is more so.  It's so immediate and, sometimes, so intimate that there is no opportunity to revise or create personal distance from a blog.

I'm not that brave.

But I'm less afraid to blog than I am to get roundhoused into the abyss with the chocolateless miserables.

While I used to be "out there," unguarded, and ultimately ingenuous, over the last decade, my lack of chutzpah has caused me to become restrained, withdrawn, and confined. I'm terrified of losing my individual privacy - something I consider sacred.  I have folders full of fiction and poetry on my computer that, occasionally, I will share with one person or another. In the last five days, I've been told in several ways that this is a poor choice. 

One of these instances has been particularly wrenching.  I feel as if that universal martial artist punched through to my spirit and ripped it out only to look at it and say, "Meh, is that all you got?"

I got your message, Grasshopper, loud and clear. If I don't sacrifice my privacy to people who kinda like me, or at least find me interesting enough to open a new tab and read a blog, you will place me in the path of someone who will ravage my private thoughts and then use them against me. Kinda like a poetry workshop from hell.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I embark on my journey to "show you mine."  A journey which will (hopefully) not end in the abyss.

Here's how (I hope) it will work.  I will write.  Whatever I end up with will get displayed for your perusal, accompanied by a little (hopefully entertaining) preface.  Then I will humbly invite your critique, for which I will be grateful, and with which you (hopefully) will not fillet my soul. 

All parenthetical hopes considered, I think (hope) this will also be a bit of fun for us all.